Western Man by Janet Dailey Read Free Book Online

first one to throw in his plate. There was no reason to think Ridge was any different.
    Her plate was filled and balanced on her knees as she sat on the running board of the van. She was chewing her first bite of steak when Ridge approached the edge of the circle. The camp kitchen was situated upwind from the pens, so the dust and smell would blow away from the food and the noise would also be carried away from them. He was leading a roan horse, instead of the liver-colored chestnut he’d been riding in the morning.
    “Hobbs, where did you pick up that unbranded yearling bull?” Ridge snapped the question at his lanky foreman. “How come you haven’t separated him into a pen away from those cows?”
    “Damned thing’s half-wild. We spent nearly anhour this morning trying to pen it, then finally decided it was easier to separate the cows from him,” the foreman Hobbs answered and immediately forked another mouthful of food.
    “Is the yearling one of ours?”
    Hobbs had to chew quickly to answer. “Yup. It sticks close to that half-shorthorn cow. I reckon she’s his momma. I think we had her listed last year as being barren. I figure she hid that calf from us all this time.”
    “Did you try penning her first?” There was a faintly sarcastic edge to Ridge’s voice. Sharon could almost see the foreman’s hackles rise at the insulting tone.
    “Nope. We didn’t do that,” he admitted.
    There was no comment from Ridge, but his look said it all. “I’ll pen her up myself.” He stepped into the stirrup and swung onto the saddle all in one motion.
    “If you wait a couple of minutes, I’ll give you a hand,” Hobbs protested.
    “I don’t need it.” Ridge set the roan horse on its haunches and pivoted it in a half-spin, pointing it toward the corrals.
    There were a few low mutters, but no one moved from their positions. Sharon was conscious that all were watching as Ridge rode his horse into the largest of the pens. After he had herded the mixed cattle to the far end, he came back and opened the gate to a small pen. He walked the roan horse back to the herd, picked out his quarry, and set about cutting it from the rest.
    A sudden movement caught her attention. She turned, spying her brother as he set his half-finished meal down and walked over to the horses, climbing aboard his afternoon mount. Secretly she was relieved that someone had gone to help Ridge, although she suspected he could have managed alone.
    With Scott on hand to turn back the cattle, Ridge made short work of separating the shorthorn cow and maneuvering her into the smaller pen. The yearling bull turned out to be a real test for horse and rider. Four times he escaped and rejoined the herd. The fifth time, Ridge threw a loop around his stubby horns and dragged him the length of the pen, shouting to Scott to open the gate.
    The sight of the lowing cow in the pen checked the struggles of the yearling bull. Ridge shook off the loop as the yearling trotted eagerly past him through the open gate. A murmur of approval began to flow through the watching riders at the efficient job Ridge had made of it.
    A moment later everything went wrong. The instant the yearling heard the squeak of the closing gate Scott had started to swing shut, it whirled and charged for that narrow gap of freedom. The cow followed her feral son.
    In a lightning move, Ridge was out of the saddle and lending his strength to Scott’s in an effort to latch the gate before the pair forced it open. For a second, it looked as if they were going to succeed. Sharon was on her feet, unconsciously holding her breath.
    The gate popped open. Scott was thrown to the side, but Ridge stumbled into the path of the yearling bull and the cow. He tried to dodge out of the way, but the wild-eyed bull hooked at him and drove him onto the ground with a butt of his head. Then both animals were trampling over him and running to rejoin the herd.
    For a paralyzed instant, Sharon stood there, staring at