Princess
had wanted the party to be a success. She was certain at this
moment that it was. A grand, glorious success. She was rightly
proud--and genuinely happy.
That happiness
turned to full-fledged perfection not more than an hour later,
when the sight of a man in a Rough Rider uniform changed Princess
forever. True love descended upon her like a dove from heaven.
She stood staring across the lawn, and then her heart stopped
in stunned recognition. She saw for the very first time the
only man she would ever love.
He was different
than she had imagined him. He was far more handsome. Being a
rather ordinary person, she had assumed that her true love would
be also. But this man was far from ordinary. Even at this distance
she could see that. Her heart was pounding. He was the
most handsome man that she had ever seen.
His hair,
a little long and showing from underneath his slouch hat, was
jet black and straight as a razor. His bearing was tall and
proud. And his uniform was tailored to fit him to perfection.
He had wide shoulders and narrow hips, and his legs were long
and muscular in the sturdy brown trousers that fit so snugly.
He had a stance that said power and confidence. And his eyes
. . . his eyes were compelling. They might be brown or green,
or even blue, she didn't yet know, but the color was inconsequential.
His eyes caught her,
pinned her, held her. She couldn't have run from him if she
had wanted to. And Princess Calhoun did not want to.
He was perfect,
in every way perfect. And he was hers, her own true love, of
that she was certain. And he was walking toward her.
Tom Walker
had first surveyed the house described to him as "the Calhoun
mansion" from the roof shade of the slapped-together barn
that served as a stable. It was not a fine house. To Tom's mind
it was only a middling house thrown together in such a way as
to be merely a caricature of the grand palace it had obviously
been meant to be. He'd only come here for the money.
There were
two things that Tom truly hated in this world. One was the smell
of manure. He'd spent nearly half his life shoveling horseshit.
And the
other was being poor.
Tom Walker
was born poor. He'd lived poor. And if something didn't happen
pretty soon, he was probably going to die poor. But then, he
doubted that anyone had ever expected any other fate for him.
He could
almost hear old Reverend McAfee proclaiming to a group of summer
visitors, "This unfortunate young man will be a contributing
member of the community rather than a blight upon it."
A contributing
member of the community. Tom snorted with disdain at the memory.
That was the other thing he hated. Being a contributing member
of a community created by the wealthy, for the wealthy. Hiscontribution
being service to the wealthy.
"Now
listen up, Rough Riders."
The man
who'd hired Tom two days before, when he was looking for work
in Guthrie, spoke to him and the others standing around. All
were dressed in the old slouch hats, blue flannel shirts, brown
trousers, and kerchiefs recognizable as the uniform of the U.S.V.
"You
aren't to have a drop to drink or cause any ruckus whatsoever,"
he said. "These people are having a party, but you're hired
hands for the day."
"What
exactly are we supposed to do?" a short, spindly-legged
cowboy asked.
"Just
look like what you are," he answered. "You're veterans
of our victory in Cuba. It's the Fourth of July. King Calhoun
wouldn't have a Fourth of July picnic without showing off some
veterans."
The half-dozen
men shrugged at each other and accepted the declaration. With
President Roosevelt still so popular, even out of the White
House, and his exploits in Cuba so well known, the American
people had become fascinated with the breed of men that had
made up the Rough Riders cavalry.
In the west
this was especially true. Because of congressional restrictions,
Roosevelt had been able to recruit his men only from the four
U.S. territories: Oklahoma, Arizona, New Mexico, and Indian.
Other than a few personal friends of Roosevelt and a handful
of Ivy League athletes, it was the hometown boys who'd gone
to war.
And the
people here in Indian Territory had a special sense of pride
in their victory.
"You
can eat all you want," the man continued. ''You can laugh
and joke and visit among yourselves. And if you don't cause
no troubles, you'll each be paid ten American dollars at the
end of the day."
"Easiest
money I ever made," a burly fellow with a handlebar mustache
commented.
''And if
you're interested in long-term work, there are jobs to be had
out on the drilling rigs. A man with mechanical experience can
bring home twelve dollars a week."
One of the
fellows whistled.
It sounded
pretty good to Tom, too.
"Don't
cause any embarrassment for Mr. Calhoun," the man continued.
"And
do whatever he or Miss Princess tell you, too."
"Miss
Princess?" The question was Tom's.
"King
Calhoun's daughter," the man answered.
Tom's brow
furrowed in amusement. "Princess? What kind of name is
Princess?"
The Calhoun
employee appeared personally of fended at the derision in Tom's
tone. "It's the kind a man who calls himself King Calhoun
would think up for his daughter," he answered disdainfully.
"Princess."
Tom shook his head. "It sounds more like a name for dog
than a woman."
The fellow
with the mustache spoke up. "You've seen Miss Calhoun then."
His words
brought hoots of laughter from the men in the wagon.
"She's
plain?" Tom asked.
"Oh
Lord, drag me screaming!" the mustached fellow exclaimed.
"Princess
Calhoun is not just plain, she's plain ugly!"
Tom laughed
with the rest.
"Oh,
she ain't so bad to look at," another piped in. "Better
than your wife, I'd say."
That provoked
a round of hoots and a few harsh words.
"She
ain't hard-out ugly," a young cowboy suggested. "Really
she's just built kind of like the rig named in her honor, narrow
at the top, wide at the bottom."
Tom glanced
at him in interest. "She's got a rig named after her."
The cowboy
nodded. ''It's one of those they're drilling out on the hill.
The P. Calhoun Number One, the latest exploration well of King
Calhoun's Royal Oil."
"A
working oil well is one dang purty sight," he continued.
"And Princess Calhoun ain't no dog."
"Oh
no?"
"To
an old ranch hand like myself, I'd describe her more as a little
brown heifer."
"A
heifer?"
"She's
a heifer all right," the mustached man said. "Guess
her name ought not to be Princess but Bossy!"
"She
sure knows how to tell a man what to do," another fellow
agreed. "I worked for her on this house, she about wore
my ears out with her ideas and orders."
"Bossy,
that's a good name for a heifer."
"But
what a heifer," the cowboy declared. "Worth one million
dollars on the hoof."
Beside him
a man whistled in awe.
"A
million dollars?"
Tom's throat
went dry at the thought.
"The
man who marries Princess Calhoun won't be breaking his back
on a damned old oil rig," the lanky cowboy said with certainty.
''And he won't be having to dress up in his old army uniform
to earn an extra ten dollars on his day off, neither."
"You
know, that gal ain't half so ugly as I was thinking!" the
burly fellow with the mustache exclaimed.
The rest
of the men laughed with him.
"Not
so plain, maybe," the mustached man agreed. "But what
kind of man would be wantin' to be told 'come here and sic 'em'
for the rest of his life."
Tom shook
his head. A million dollars. A woman worth a million dollars.
It was almost more than a man could get his thoughts around.
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