Kitabı oku: «Mail Order Cowboy», sayfa 4

Chapter Six

After introductions were made, Milly mercifully excused Nick and sent him to get some sleep. He’d thought at first he’d never be able to fall into slumber on the thin ticking-covered straw mattress in the middle of the hot Texas day.

The next thing he knew, though, the creaking of the door opening woke him as Bobby clumped into the room and started rummaging in the crate at the foot of his bed.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t mean t’wake you, sir,” the youth apologized, straightening.

“No need to apologize,” he told the youth. “I never meant to sleep so long. And you’d probably better start calling me Nick, too,” he told the boy.

Bobby looked gratified but still a little uneasy. “How ’bout Mr. Nick? Uncle Josh says t’ be respectful to my elders.”

“Fair enough.” The angle of the shadows on the wall told Nick hours had passed even before he reached for the pocket watch he had left on the upended crate that served as bedside table and saw that it was four o’clock.

He’d slept the day away! Milly, her sister and Bobby had no doubt taken on tasks he should have been doing.

“What needs to be done?”

Bobby traced a half circle with the toe of one dusty boot, apparently also uncomfortable with the idea of giving an adult orders.

“I—I dunno, s—Mr. Nick. Mebbe you best ask Miss Milly.”

“All right, I’ll do that.”

He found Milly in the kitchen, shelling black-eyed peas into a bowl in her lap. Sarah, her back to the door, was kneading dough. The delicious odor of roasting ham wafted from the cookstove.

“Oh, hello, Nick,” Milly said. “Did you have a good sleep?”

“Too good,” Nick said. “I want to apologize for lying abed so long when there’s so much to be done.”

“Horsefeathers,” Milly Matthews responded with a smile. “You must have needed it.”

Her lack of censure only made him feel guiltier, somehow. “Did you get some rest, ma’am?”

She shook her head. “I’ll sleep tonight.”

“As I should have waited to do. I only meant to lie down for an hour. This won’t happen again, Miss Milly, Miss Sarah.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Nick,” Sarah admonished, looking over her shoulder.

“Thank you, but I intend to be more of a help from now on. What should I be doing now?”

Milly’s hands paused, clutching a handful of unshelled pods. “It’s a couple of hours ’til supper—not enough time to get started on any rebuilding projects…. It might be a good idea if you and Bobby were to saddle up and go for a ride around the ranch so you can get an idea of how far the property extends and make a survey of what needs to be done. Oh, and you’ll be passing the creek that runs just inside the northern edge. You and Bobby could take a quick dip and get cleaned up,” Milly added, eyeing his cheeks and chin.

“A dip sounds good.” Nick ran his fingers over the stubbly growth, imagining how scruffy he looked. He was glad he’d kept his razor in his saddlebag. He didn’t want to look unkempt around this lovely woman he was trying to impress.

“Take your pistol with you,” Milly called as he headed for the door. “You never know what you might meet out there in the brush.”

“Do you mean Indians?”

She nodded. “Or rattlesnakes. They like to sun themselves on the rocky ledges that line one side of the creek. There’s a little cave in those ledges. Sarah and I used to play there and pretend it was our cottage until we saw a snake at its entrance.”

“Then I’ll be sure and take my dip on the other side.” He’d had enough encounters with cobras in India to have a healthy respect for poisonous snakes of any kind.

“Don’t let Bobby dillydally in the creek,” she admonished. “Supper’s at six and Reverend Chadwick brought a big ham with him on behalf of the congregation.”

“If Bobby wants to stay in the creek, I shall eat his share of the meat,” he said with a wink.

Nick was as good as his word, riding into the yard with Bobby at quarter ’til the hour. By the time they’d unsaddled and turned the horses out in the corral, the grandfather clock in the parlor was chiming six times.

“Here we are, ma’am, right on schedule,” Nick said, pronouncing it in the British way—“shedule” instead of “schedule.” She watched him, noting the way his still-damp hair clung to his neck while he sniffed with obvious appreciation of the savory-smelling, covered iron pot she carried to the table with the aid of a thick dish towel.

“Your promptness is appreciated,” she said lightly, although what she was really appreciating was the strong, freshly shaved curve of his jaw. Nick Brookfield was compelling even when tired and rumpled; when rested and freshly bathed, he was a very handsome man, indeed. She wrenched her eyes away, lest he catch her staring. “You can sit over there, across from Bobby,” she said, pointing to a chair on the far side of the rectangular, rough-hewn table that had been laid with a checkered gingham cloth.

“How about Josh? Would you like me to take him his supper and help him eat first?”

“Oh, he’s already eaten,” Sarah said. “He’s not up to anything but a little soup yet, but he took that well at least. Maybe tomorrow he can eat a little more and even join us at the table.”

Milly was moved that Nick had thought of the injured old cowboy’s needs before his own. She watched now as he seated himself gracefully, then waited.

“Nick, since this is your first meal with us, would you like to say the blessing?” You could tell a lot about a man by the way he reacted to such a request, Pa always said.

Nick hesitated, but only for a moment. “I’d be honored,” he said, and bowed his head. “Lord, we’d like to thank You for this bountiful meal and the good people from the church who provided it, and the hands that prepared it. And we thank You for saving the house, and Josh, and please protect the ranch and those who live here from the Indians. Amen.”

“Thank you. That was very nice, wasn’t it, Milly?” Sarah asked.

“Uh-huh.” Milly thought Nick sounded like a man accustomed to speaking to his Lord, but Pa had also said sometimes folks could talk the talk, even if they didn’t walk the walk. “Here, Nick, take some ham,” she said, handing him the platter, while she passed a large bowl of black-eyed peas flavored with diced ham to Bobby. He took a couple of slices, then passed it down to Sarah.

“We always pass the meat to Bobby last, because there’ll be nothing left after he’s had a chance at it,” Sarah teased from her end of the table.

Bobby, who’d been watching the progress of the ham platter as it made its way down the table, just grinned.

“He’s still a growing lad, aren’t you, Bobby?” Nick said, smiling.

“I reckon I am,” Bobby agreed. “Uncle Josh says I got hollow legs. Look, Miss Milly, I think my arms have growed some.” After helping himself to a handful of biscuits, he extended an arm. The frayed cuff extended only a little past the middle of his forearm.

“Grown some,” Milly corrected automatically, taking a knifeful of butter and passing the butter dish. “I suppose I’ll have to buy some sturdy cloth at the mercantile next time I’m there and make you a couple of new ones. Josh probably needs a couple, too, though I know he’ll say just to patch the elbows.” She sighed. While making clothing was actually something she was good at, even better than Sarah, trying to find the cash to buy cloth or anything extra right now would be difficult. “Nick, what did you think of our land?” she said, deliberately changing the subject. She could fret about Bobby’s outgrown shirts later.

“It seems good ranch country, to my novice eyes,” he said, with a self-deprecating smile. “Much bigger than I thought. We didn’t even get to the western boundary, or we would have been late returning.”

“It’s actually one of the smaller ranches in San Saba County,” Milly said, but she appreciated how impressed he seemed.

“Is that right? Back in Sussex, you two would be prominent landowners. They’d have called your father ‘Squire.’ Most English country folk have very small plots and rent from the local noble or squire. I noticed there’s fence needing repair along your boundary with Mr. Waters’s land, by the way.”

Before she could stop herself, another sigh escaped. “Yes, he won’t repair it. He doesn’t think there should be fences—‘Just let the cattle run wild ’til the fall roundup, just like we always did,’” she said, deepening her voice to imitate the man. “I suspect he used to brand quite a few yearlings as his that were actually ours, before Pa put up his fence.”

“Has he always been a difficult man?”

Milly shrugged. “He isn’t really difficult, only set in his ways.” He hadn’t acted this way when Pa was alive, of course. And before the war he had cherished dreams of gaining the ranch by his son marrying Milly, or even Sarah. Milly supposed she couldn’t blame the man for wanting to enlarge his property by persuading her to sell out—and only time would tell if he had been right that a woman couldn’t manage a ranch.

Suppertime passed pleasantly. Nick Brookfield had perfect table manners and ate like a man with a good appetite, although not with the same fervor that Bobby displayed, as if he thought every meal would be his last. When it was over, he thanked them for the delicious meal, especially Sarah for the lightness of her biscuits, which brought a grateful warmth to her sister’s eyes.

“Perhaps you should tell me what I should be doing tomorrow,” he said to Milly, as Sarah began to clear away the dishes.

“I think I’ll let Josh do that,” she said. “Why don’t you go visit with him now for a while? Bobby can see to the horses and the chickens.”

“I will.” He rose. “Would it be all right if sometime tomorrow I went into town? I need to pick up my valise at the boardinghouse, and let the proprietress know I won’t be needing the room.”

“Of course,” she said. So he had taken a room at the boardinghouse before coming to meet her and the rest of the ladies, she mused. He’d intended to spend some time getting to know her. “Actually, we need sugar from the general store, if you wouldn’t mind picking it up. Oh, and perhaps some tea? Don’t Englishmen prefer to drink that?” At least, she thought she had enough egg money in the old crockery jar to cover those two items. She was going to have to scrimp until they had enough eggs to spare from now on.

“Coffee is fine, Miss Milly. You needn’t buy anything specifically for me.”

An hour later, he found Milly ensconced in a cane back rocking chair on the porch, reading from a worn leather Bible on her lap.

“What part are you reading?” he said, looking down at it. “Ah, Psalm One—‘Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful,’” he quoted from memory.

Her hazel eyes widened. “Were you a preacher, as well as a soldier and occasional field surgeon?” she asked, gesturing toward the rocker next to her in an unspoken invitation to sit down.

He sat, smiling at her question. “No, but my second oldest brother is in holy orders, vicar of Westfield. They’ll probably make him a bishop one day. Any Scripture I know was pounded into my thick head by Richard when I was a lad.”

“And do you read the Bible now?” she asked.

He wished he could say he did. “I…I’m afraid I haven’t lately.”

He could see her filing the information away, but her eyes betrayed no judgment about the fact.

“And how did you find Josh? Does he need anything? Is he in pain?”

“He’s not in pain, no, but he needs a goodly dose of patience,” he said, appreciating the fine curve of Milly’s neck above the collar of her calico dress. “He’s restless, fretting over the need to lie there and be patient while he heals. But I think he’s reassured that I can help Bobby handle the ‘chores’—” he gave the word the old man’s drawling pronunciation, drawing a chuckle from her “—and keep this place from utter ruin until he can be up and around again. Oh, and he says there’s no need to sit up with him tonight, if you’ll let him borrow that little handbell of your mother’s he can just ring if he needs you.”

“Hmm. That sounds just like him. I’d better check on him a couple of times tonight at least. I can just picture him trying to reach the water pitcher and tearing open those wounds again. That old man would rather die than admit a weakness.”

Nick chuckled. “He said you’d say that, too.”

They were silent for a while. Nick appreciated the cool breeze and the deepening shadows as the fiery orange ball sank behind the purple hills off to their right.

“Nick, why did you leave India, and the army—if you don’t mind my asking, that is?” she added quickly.

She must have seen the reflexive stiffening of his frame and the involuntary clenching of his jaw.

“It’s getting late, and I’m keeping you from your reading,” he said, rising.

“I’m sorry, that was rude of me to pry. Please forgive me for asking,” she said, rising, too. Her face was dismayed.

“It’s all right,” he told her. “I’ll tell you about it sometime. But it’s a long story.” He’d known the question would come, but it was too soon. He wasn’t ready to shatter her illusions about him yet.

Chapter Seven

As Nick tied his bay at the hitching post outside the general store, he saw two men standing talking at the entrance, one with his hand on the door as if he meant to go inside. Nick recognized one of them as Bill Waters, the neighboring rancher who’d pressured Milly to sell out yesterday. He’d never seen the other one, the one with his hand on the door.

“Hank, I’m tellin’ you, the problem’s gettin’ bad around here,” Waters was saying, “what with them roamin’ the roads beggin’ fer handouts and such. Why, a friend a’ mine over in Sloan found half a dozen of ’em sleepin’ in his barn when he went out one mornin’. He got his shotgun and they skedaddled away like their clothes was on fire.”

The other man guffawed.

“We got t’nip it in the bud, before they try movin’ in around Simpson Creek. That’s why I’m revivin’ the Circle. Bunch of us are meetin’ at my ranch tomorrow night. Can you make it?”

Nick wondered idly who the men were talking about. Beggars of some sort—out-of-work soldiers from the recent war? Certainly not the warlike Comanche. Poor Mexicans? And what was the “circle” Waters referred to?

“Excuse me,” he said, when the men seemed oblivious of his desire to enter the store.

The unknown man glared at the interruption before taking his hand off the door and moving aside just enough for Nick to squeeze past. “I’ll be there,” the man said to Waters. “We kin blame Lincoln for this, curse his interferin’ Yankee hide. I just wish I could shoot him all over again.”

Nick nodded at Waters as he walked past him, but the man looked right through him.

“Good morning, Mr. Patterson,” Nick said to the man behind the counter in the general store, recognizing him as one of the men of the posse. “Miss Matthews sent me for five pounds of sugar.”

“That’ll be thirty-five cents, please,” said Mr. Patterson, measuring out the amount into a thin drawstring bag and wrapping it in brown paper.

Nick counted out the coins, glad he’d become comfortable with American currency before coming to Simpson Creek.

“Nicholas Brookfield, isn’t it?” the shopkeeper asked. “How are you getting along out there? And how are the Matthews girls? And old Josh, is he recovering?”

“Nick,” Nick insisted, pleased at Mr. Patterson’s warm reception after the way Bill Waters had acted. He extended his hand and the other took it. “I’m well, thank you, and Miss Milly and Miss Sarah are doing fine. Josh is feeling better, though he’s still in pain from his wounds, of course. I’ll tell them you asked about them.”

“You do that,” the other said. He looked up, and raised his voice to carry to the far end of the store, where two older men were bent over a game of checkers. “Hey, Reverend—here’s Nick Brookfield, that English fellow who’s helping out at the Matthews ranch. Maybe he could tell you what you were wantin’ t’know.”

The white-haired minister who had come out to the ranch yesterday looked up, then rose and bustled over to him. “Mr. Brookfield, hello,” he said, extending his hand.

“Nick,” he insisted again. “I know Miss Milly and Miss Sarah would want me to thank you again for that very tasty ham.”

“Oh, that was little enough. We were happy to do it,” the old man said, beaming.

“What is it I may tell you, Reverend?”

“I was hoping,” the preacher said, “that you might be able to suggest what else we—as a town, that is—could do for Milly and Sarah. I’ve known those two young ladies since they were babies, and I’m troubled about the situation they’ve been left in, especially after the Indian attack two days ago. I asked Milly, but I’m afraid she’s determined to be self-sufficient, and I wouldn’t want there to be something we could do to assist that she’s ashamed to ask for.”

Nick looked down for a moment, rubbing his chin. He wondered if he’d be overstepping his bounds to say what he really thought. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, he supposed. “I’d say their greatest need is for a new barn to replace the one the Comanches burned,” he said. “Would there be any men who’d be willing and able to help them build one?”

Now it was the other two men’s turn to be thoughtful. “Everyone would want to help, but they’re pretty busy keeping their own ranches or businesses going…”

“But we could have a barn raising and put it up in a day!” Reverend Chadwick countered, with rising excitement. “Everyone could afford one day away from their own places.”

“Yeah, we haven’t had a barn raisin’ in a coon’s age,” put in the man who’d been playing checkers with the preacher, who came forward now. Nick vaguely recognized the man who’d been introduced to him as the livery stable proprietor, although he couldn’t remember his name. “Let’s do it! Our ladies could provide the food, and we could all make a day of it.”

“You’d all come out and put up a barn for them?” Nick was frankly floored that his tentative request for labor help was meeting with such an enthusiastic response. No wonder Americans had won their independence against the mighty British army—and maintained it in another war just a score of years later, if they always seized the initiative this way.

“Sure,” Patterson said with a grin. “It’s hard work, but at the end of the day there’d be a barn standing there, by gum. The ladies always have a great time visiting with each other at these things, and the children run around with each other and play, then nap like puppies in the shade. Usually the day ends with some fiddlin’ music and a big supper.”

“But what about the lumber needed?” Nick asked. “Miss Milly and Miss Sarah don’t have much in the way of ready cash…”

“Not many do, these days,” Patterson said. “You may have heard Texas was on the losing side in the recent war.”

Nick figured it would be impolitic to do more than nod his acknowledgment.

“We’re gonna need lumber,” the livery owner went on, thinking aloud.

“Maybe Mr. Dayton could be persuaded to donate it,” Reverend Chadwick suggested. “Or at least offer it at a discount.”

“Hank Dayton give something away?” snorted Patterson. “That’d be something new.” Hank Dayton. Had that been the man who had just been outside, talking to Waters? Nick had to agree—he didn’t seem like the generous type.

“You never know. The good Lord still works miracles,” Chadwick said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll ask him. Failing that, perhaps he would at least extend credit ’til the Matthews ladies could pay him back, or we could hold a fundraising party…”

“When are we gonna have this barn raisin’?” Patterson asked. “The ladies’ll need some time to organize the food and so forth.”

“Shall we say a week from Saturday? When do you think would be good for Miss Milly and Miss Sarah, Nick?”

Nick shrugged. It wasn’t as if Milly and her sister had a complicated social schedule of balls and dinner parties to work around. “The sooner the better, probably. Will you be coming out to tell her about it, sir?”

“No, I’ll let you bring the good news, Nick. Just let us know if that date won’t be convenient.”

The proprietress of the boardinghouse hadn’t been surprised that he would no longer need the room, having already heard of his new, temporary job—there certainly were no secrets in a small town. She’d probably already rented out his room. He gave her a quarter for keeping his valise for him, though, prompting a surprised thanks from the woman.

He couldn’t help feeling a certain pleased anticipation as he drove the buckboard back to the ranch. Milly was going to be so surprised that the ranch would soon have a proper barn again! He was glad the preacher had left it up to him to bring the news.

On impulse, he stopped the wagon on the road home when he spotted a cluster of daisylike yellow flowers with brown centers growing alongside the road and picked a bouquet-sized handful for Milly. He wondered if this was violating his offer not to press her with courting gestures during their time of hardship. Yet had she ever actually said she would hold him strictly to that? He couldn’t actually remember her saying it in so many words, so surely this small cheerful bunch of flowers would cause no offense.

It didn’t. After unharnessing the horse and turning him out into the corral, he found Milly in the grove of pecan trees that stood next to the house. She wore a calico dress that had seen better days and was bent over a washboard set in a bucket of water, scrubbing stains from an old shirt. Wet garments hung to dry from low branches and across bushes. In spite of the shade, she looked hot and tired. Beads of sweat pearled on her forehead. He strode over, holding the brown paper parcel of sugar in one hand and keeping the hand holding the bouquet behind his back.

Swiping one damp hand over her forehead to push an errant lock of black hair out of her eyes, she caught sight of him and stopped. She looked as if she felt embarrassed to be caught thus, but she smiled and said, “Oh, the sugar! Thanks so much for getting that for us, Nick. Were you able to pick up your things?”

“Yes,” he said, putting the sack of sugar down on the table at a safe distance from the tub of water, “and I brought you these.” He brought his other hand from around his back and offered them to her. “They looked so cheerful and appealing, I wanted you to have them.”

Her eyes focused on the flowers, then locked with his, and the color rose on her already-pink cheeks.

“Of course, they were just growing wild by the road,” he added apologetically. “I don’t know what they are. But I didn’t see any roses…”

Wiping her wet hands hurriedly on her apron, she came around the table and took them from him, beaming. “They’re beautiful, Nick! Thank you. That was so nice of you! Brown-eyed Susans, we call them. The only one I know who can keep roses alive around here is Mrs. Detwiler, and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t share hers. I think she counts and names each one,” she added with a laugh. “Why don’t we take them inside and put them in some water? It’s almost dinnertime, and I’m ready for a break,” she added, rolling her eyes toward the pile of laundry that remained. “And I happen to know Sarah made some lemonade with the last of the old sugar. She’s inside cooking.”

He nodded his acceptance, happy that the flowers had pleased her. “Good. I have some news from town to tell both of you.”

Milly looked curious, but led the way inside.

Sarah looked up from the stove when they entered, and sent him an approving look as Milly reached for an empty Mason jar to use as a vase.

“Now, what’s this news?” Milly said, gesturing for him to sit while Sarah poured lemonade into glasses.

He told them about encountering Reverend Chadwick, Mr. Patterson and the livery store owner in the general store and about the conversation which had ensued.

Milly’s eyes went wide. “They want to hold a barn raising? Here?”

Sarah grinned. “Well, here is where one is needed,” she said wryly. “Everyone else around here who needs one has one. I think it’s wonderful news, Nick.”

“But Sarah, we don’t have any money to pay for the lumber and nails and so forth!” Milly pointed out, her voice rising. Worry furrowed her brow.

“Reverend Chadwick thought he might be able to persuade the lumber mill owner to donate the lumber for the roof and stalls, or give you a discount—”

Milly interrupted. “There’s about as much chance of that as a summer blizzard in San Saba County.”

“Failing that, he thought Mr. Dayton could be persuaded to extend credit until you could pay him back, or maybe the town could hold a fundraising party.” Nick was thinking of another option, too, that of offering her some money to help from his own funds, but he knew she would balk at that. “We’re not taking charity,” Milly said in a tone of finality and with a stubborn jut to her chin. “Papa never would have considered it, and he always said never to go into debt. I’m afraid we’ll have to tell them we can’t accept this. Not ’til we can pay for it.”

“But Milly…” Sarah began, looking distressed.

Milly Matthews was as proud as a duchess, Nick thought, but before he could say anything to try to persuade her, another voice spoke from the back hall.

“Your pa never planned on leavin’ you two girls alone on this ranch like he did neither,” said a voice from the hallway, and all three looked up to see Josh standing there, leaning heavily on a cane, his face pale with the effort it had taken to walk from his bedroom.

Milly sprang up, crying “Josh! What are you doing out of bed?” She rushed toward him, supporting him under the arm that wasn’t holding a cane.

“I told him he could have dinner with us,” Sarah muttered, going to his side, too. “Josh, you promised you’d wait ’til Nick came home, or Milly and I could help you!”

“Got tired a waitin’,” the old man said, as Nick gently pushed Sarah aside and began helping Josh to the nearest chair. “’Sides, I heard Miss Milly spoutin’ somethin’ that sounded suspiciously like false pride to me, and I thought I’d better come remind her ‘Pride goeth before a fall.’”

“You think we should allow the town to build us something we won’t be able to pay for ’til only God knows when?” Milly asked, still with spirit, but Nick heard the tiniest note of doubt creep into her voice. “We’d never live it down—Bill Waters would see to that!”

“Oh, what do you care what that feller says?” Josh retorted. “He always seems t’have the ammunition to shoot off his mouth, but when he needed your ma to help him take care a his sick wife, he was glad to let her do that, and your pa lent him his prize bull fer his heifers whenever he asked. Ever’body needs help sometime, Miss Milly. You git back on yer feet, you kin help somebody else.”

Milly sighed. “I…I suppose you’re right, as always, Josh. Thank you.”

“Anytime,” the old man said. “Is that beans and corn bread cookin’ on the stove, Miss Sarah? It’s ’bout time fer dinner, ain’t it?”

“Yes, and the beans are flavored with the last of the ham,” Sarah said. “Milly, would you please go ring the bell to call Bobby in? I think he was out there cleaning out the chicken coop.”