Kitabı oku: «Rocky Mountain Homecoming», sayfa 2
Chapter Two
When Ivy glimpsed her father’s ranch anchoring the long and winding lane, she willed herself to relax. But her heart—it was beating right through her chest. She’d figured she’d be nervous returning home after all these years, but the trepidation that threatened to loosen her tightly wound control caught her completely off guard.
Especially after she’d discovered that her father’s health apparently wasn’t as tenuous as Violet had inferred. She didn’t think that the woman was given to telling tales, so why had the letter sounded so urgent? From the way Mrs. Duncan had reacted, it seemed that her father wasn’t heading to his grave, after all.
The thought of him suffering had nearly broken Ivy’s heart in New York. She’d rushed back to Boulder right away. But was she needed here after all?
Struggling to ward off the chill and raw emotion quivering her body, she clutched the wool blanket Zach had stubbornly insisted on wrapping around her shoulders.
While he steered the wagon down the lane, she inched her gaze over the broad expanse of well-maintained buildings and new barbed-wire fencing that hemmed in plentiful
acres of grazing land. The homestead looked good, probably better than she remembered.
Being here now and seeing the ranch, smelling the familiar scents of hay and cattle and the beginnings of fall, she could almost feel the memories struggling to escape from where she’d buried them deep inside her heart. Memories of a carefree childhood spent scampering behind her daddy as he took care of the chores, of learning to ride her first pony with him at her side, of swinging from the rope he’d looped around an enduring arm extending from one of the Ponderosa pines.
There’d been a time when she’d envisioned working alongside her father into his old age, but once her mama had taken ill, he’d changed. Her father’s adoring focus had shifted to a desperate, almost frantic search for some kind of medical help. The more time that ticked by without a cure, the more agitated he’d become. The ranch had been his only solace, and along with tending to her mama, he’d poured himself into making it the best and most respected in the region even when it seemed he could do nothing to help his wife.
Warding off the gloom of that memory, she dragged in a long breath of crisp late-September air, seasoned with the musky scent of drying foliage. She had a hard time believing that she was actually here, days away from New York, and years away from life as she’d known back east. Six years ago, she’d vowed never to return to Boulder—not after her father had sent her away with such cruel finality.
Her father had blamed her for her mama’s death—surely he’d never forgive her.
And she felt horribly responsible. Alone, she’d carried guilt’s heavy burden for the past six years, wondering if she’d ever be able to forgive herself. As desperate as she sometimes felt to climb to God’s open arms of love and acceptance, she felt stuck in a deep hole of guilt and shame.
When the wagon lurched to the side, she was jerked from her painful thoughts. She grabbed hold of the thick wood seat, steadying herself as Zach guided the team off the path to avoid a big tortoiseshell tomcat, intent on maintaining his sunny spot in the middle of the lane. Tortoiseshell cat …?
“Shakespeare?” She scrambled to peer over the side of the wagon. The big cat’s eyes squeezed shut and his ears twitched in her direction.
“That’s him,” Zach confirmed with a cluck of his tongue. “He thinks he owns the p-p-place.”
“Oh, my. He’s grown so much.” She wrenched around in her seat, tears stinging the backs of her eyes seeing how Shakespeare had grown into the noble looking tomcat he was now. “He was just an undernourished litter runt that Mama and I bottle fed. He was nowhere near this big when I left.”
After Zach eased the wagon to a stop just beyond the furry road block, he swung down from the seat and crossed to where the cat lay, content as could be. The delicate state of her heart grew even more fragile when Zach appeared a moment later, holding out the enormous cat for her.
“Shakespeare,” she cooed, pulling her arms from the blanket and hugging him close. She burrowed her face into his thick, sleek fur. “You’re absolutely enormous. What have they been feeding you?”
“An egg every d-d-day, beef fat—and Lord knows what else.” Zach pulled himself up to his seat, settled the blanket around her shoulders again then sent the wagon lurching forward. “Your father sees to Sh-Shakespeare’s feeding.”
Her father had never shown Shakespeare one bit of interest in the past. That he had obviously spoiled her kitty tugged at her heartstrings.
The cat’s loud purr and the way he stretched to touch the tip of his pink nose to hers was almost her undoing.
But she couldn’t afford to weaken. Not now. She was already over half unraveled and she hadn’t even set foot inside the house.
Sitting a little straighter in her seat, she drew her focus toward the house as she gently raked her fingers through Shakespeare’s soft fur. Although this place had been home for the first seventeen years of her life, it could never be home again.
There’d been too many changes in her life. And likely too many changes in her father’s life, as well.
Like Zach being her father’s foreman …
When Zach slowed the wagon to a halt at the edge of the yard, she snagged a look at him from the corner of her vision. The sure way he handled the reins, his hands, large and work worn and yet so very gentle, had caught her attention off and on throughout the trip. The noticeable way his arm muscles bunched beneath his shirt as he swung down from the wagon captured her focus all the more. She didn’t know if she’d ever forget the warm feel of his comforting touch.
A million questions had streamed through Ivy’s mind during the silence-saturated wagon ride home. The foremost being, when had Zach changed into the solid and confident man he was now?
While he crossed in front of the horses, her focus flitted to his manly jawline. How was it that a feature so strong and sure looking could fumble so with the English language? She recalled the agonizing way he’d struggled through school, the relentless way the teacher had chastised him for refusing to stand and recite his lessons, the harsh way he’d been laughed at by some of the schoolchildren. And, to her shame, the cowardly way she’d giggled right along with them—at times.
Diverting her focus from his steadfast gaze as he approached her side of the wagon, she struggled to tug her composure back into place. But when he carefully lifted the cat down then circled her waist with his large and calloused hands, she couldn’t seem to maintain a coherent thought. His touch, the lingering feel of his hands around her waist, gave her a heady feeling, even after he set her feet on the ground. A very real and unwanted quiver worked its way straight up her spine.
She’d seen what sickness and death had done to her parents, and had decided that loving just wasn’t worth the pain. She’d been so careful to guard her heart when it came to men, but felt that resolve already slipping from her unrelenting grip. She didn’t need anything or anyone tying her down here in Boulder. Certainly not Zach Drake.
“Here we are,” he voiced, his words coming slow. His throat visibly convulsed as though he’d just swallowed one gigantic bug.
“Home….” Gathering in a steadying breath, she took in her surroundings.
“Has it ch-changed much?” He reached over the wagon bed and grabbed two of her four valises.
She tugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders, trying to keep from trembling as she slid her gaze around the homestead. “It looks better than I remember.”
When he set the back of his hand featherlight to her cheek, she nearly startled.
“You’re cold,” he said, his voice low, his gaze direct.
“I’m quite comfortable.” She turned her head from his debilitating touch. In truth, the weighted chill of mud drying on her garments had seeped clear though to her bones and she didn’t know if she’d ever warm up, but she wasn’t about to let this man direct her steps like she had no fortitude about her.
He gently pressed a hand to the middle of her back, guiding her to the front steps as he cleared his throat. “We need to get you inside so you c-can change into something warm and d-d-dry.”
Drawing her mouth into a grim line, she forced one foot in front of the other when all she really wanted to do was to dig her heels in deep, delaying going inside until she was good and ready. And not a minute before.
Being home after so long was far more difficult than she’d ever imagined, and the control she’d embraced as her nearest and dearest friend for the past six years had exacted an outright betrayal, leaving her stranded back at the mercantile.
Regardless of Zach’s tender show of good manners, she shrugged out of his reach, hurrying across the grass-sprinkled ground. She came to an abrupt stop, glancing at the second-story windows, suspended half-open, the same delicate white curtains she remembered her mama stitching years ago, hanging inside, whispering about in the breeze as though to welcome her home.
“Is something the matter?”
For a brief second, she almost wished that Zach would pull her into his arms and ease away her fears and uncertainties.
What was she thinking?
“No. Of course there’s nothing wrong.” Ivy hugged her arms to her chest, fracturing small chunks of dried mud from her garment, just like the crusty shell that had started breaking from her heart the moment she’d arrived in Boulder. “I’m just struggling to understand what, exactly, Violet meant by her desperate language regarding my father. Quite honestly, I was under the impression that he was very ill.”
“He’s not a mmmman to show weakness, but I have caught him feeling poorly a couple of t-t-times.” His jaw visibly tensed. “Maybe Violet has been witness to more.”
Stepping up to the yawning porch that stretched in a lazy fashion at the front of the house, she tentatively padded over to the corner where the old porch swing hung.
“Your father sits there sometimes, after a long hard d-d-day.” His voice was low and laden with certain respect. “It’s a p-perfect place to see the sunset.”
Reaching from beneath the blanket, she ran her fingers over the weathered wood. Gave the swing a soft push. The familiar, faint creaking beckoned memories. She couldn’t even begin to count the times when her father would sit here and snuggle her close on crisp fall days. Like today.
“I’m surprised it’s still here, after all of these years,” she whispered, picturing her father sitting there reading to her from many a book or telling her a fascinating tale of honor, love, bravery. She’d developed a deep appreciation for literature because of him.
Zach cleared his throat, easing her from the memory. And for some very tangible reason, having him standing there, right beside her, gave her a solid sense of comfort.
“I d-d-did a little repair work on it a few months ago,” he forced out, the strained and determined way he worked to speak piercing her heart. “It’s as good as new.”
She swallowed past the emotion clogging her throat.
She’d wept a spring-flooded river of tears right on this swing when her father had announced that he was sending her to school in New York. Despite her protests and her insistence on staying, he’d stubbornly, almost angrily, ignored her request, saying that he knew what was best for her. The startling sting of that on the heels of her mama passing, and the blame he had cast Ivy’s way, had been indelibly written on her heart. No matter how much she’d prayed, it seemed the guilt only grew deeper and wider.
Pulling her hand from beneath the blanket, she willed herself to stay strong. She’d stick around for a while and make the best of the situation. When the time was right she’d return to New York, where she’d left behind friends, and the assistant editor position that was awaiting her at The Sentinel, and Neal—a gentleman she’d gone on several grand outings with.
“I’ll see you inside then g-get the rest of your things,” Zach said, easing her back to the moment. “Violet will have dinner ready shortly.”
She could do this. Surely after six years, her father would be pleased to see her.
Wouldn’t he?
The few letters he’d written over the years had been short and to the point, and after a time she’d found it easier to author the same kind of correspondence. He’d kept her bank account stuffed full, but he’d never once come to visit, nor had he suggested that she travel home for a stay.
She was very likely the last person he ever wanted to see.
At the moment, Ivy was grossly unsure of herself. She’d learned to live with her guilt, and had spent the past years abiding to every aspect of life with the tightest of reins. She’d been successful, and had flourished with strength and perseverance she didn’t even know she possessed. She couldn’t allow her fears and misgivings and guilt to override her good sense—not when she’d come so far.
“Let’s g-go inside, Ivy. Your father will want to see you.” When Zach gently grasped her arms and began directing her toward the front door, Ivy wrenched free from his touch, and from his misguided statement.
She pinned him with an admonishing glare, and from the way his brow creased in confusion, she knew she’d overreacted. But she was scared to death that if she softened to the comfort of his strong and sure presence, she’d crumble in the face of her guilt, losing the woman she’d become in order to survive.
Scared even more that, if she denied herself the comfort she yearned for, the comfort she found in his touch, she’d never make it through this homecoming.
Chapter Three
Zach had only just left Ivy in Violet’s care and stepped outside when a sharp whistle from the wide barn entrance caught his attention. “Zach!” Hugh Bagley, one of the ranch hands, yelled. “Come quick!”
Hugh didn’t worry about much, so the frantic way he was waving, his long arms flapping about like wind-whipped flags in the early evening, gave Zach pause.
Zach took the porch risers in one leap and raced out to the barn, each step a weighty reminder of the responsibility he carried on this ranch.
“What is it?” He pulled up beside the lanky man, scanning the solid structure, half expecting to find some horrible disaster awaiting him inside. “What happened?”
Hugh swiped a chambray sleeve across his mouth. “I was checking over the stalls when I found Mr. Harris down on all fours, heaving.” His thin lips grew rigid as he turned and stared down the long corridor.
Zach yanked the man that direction. “Where is he now?” The earthy scent of fresh hay and dank hard-packed ground filled his senses the moment they entered the barn.
“The last stall.” Hugh stopped midstride at the hub of the three rows of stalls, dimly lit by day’s waning light and several lanterns hung securely on rod-iron hooks. He blanched a sickly white, pointing down the row to the right. “I’m no good when it comes to others being sick, Zach. Honestly, I’ve never been able to handle that sort of thing. I’ll be down on all fours with Mr. Harris, if I stick around.”
Zach struggled to hold his frustration in check at the way Hugh was nearly gagging just talking about it. “I’ll see to him. You go and fetch Ben. Just make sure you don’t let this slip to others, do you hear?”
Zach’s stutter was all but gone—at least now that he was nowhere near Ivy. Ever since he’d dragged her from the mud a good hour ago, he’d tried to reason that his broken speech was a coincidence appearing at the very same moment he set eyes on that little lady. But the fact that he was speaking clearly now screamed otherwise.
She was the cause of his stutter.
And the sooner he shoved her tempting image from his mind and grabbed hold of his flailing confidence, the better off he’d be.
That task would be manageable, too, if not for seeing the moisture that had rimmed her eyes when she’d held Shakespeare. Or the vulnerability etched into her gaze when he’d pulled the wagon into the yard.
“You sure you want me to get your brother?” Hugh angled a questioning glance up at Zach as the low moo of cattle sounded in the distance. “The boss probably won’t want a doctor involved. He was furious that I was going after you.”
“If he’s sick, then he needs to see a doctor,” Zach reasoned. Mr. Harris had to be worse off than he’d thought if he let a ranch hand see him in that condition.
Hugh draped his arms about his chest. Nudged up his chin. “Your call, boss,” he measured out in a that’s-not-what-I’d-do-if-I-were-foreman kind of way that stuck Zach like a big prickly burr.
“That’s right.” Zach held Hugh’s challenging gaze, unwilling to look weak in front of the man—not when Hugh had played a big part in the years of struggle Zach had faced when he was young. “This is my call.”
Mr. Harris was sure to object to the matter. The ranch owner was an unyielding strength on this spread and abhorred looking weak in front of anyone. But as foreman, it was Zach’s responsibility to make sure Mr. Harris was taken care of. Zach had been humbled when the responsibility of foreman had been handed to him after only a year of employment as a hired hand. He wasn’t going to let his employer down.
“Well, I don’t want the big boss throwing any blame my way when your brother shows up carting his black bag.” Hugh arched one blond eyebrow beneath his brown wide-brimmed cowboy hat.
“Just get Ben.” Zach shrugged off his impatience, turned and ate up the rest of the corridor with long resolute strides.
Slowing, he entered the dimly lit stall to find his boss hunkered down against the wall, his arms wrapped tight around his middle. “Mr. Harris? Are you all right?”
The man angled a glance up at Zach. “Never better.”
Zach knelt down next to him, his concern heightened at the way perspiration beaded the man’s pale face. “That’s not what Hugh seemed to think. And now that I’ve seen you—”
“Hugh should learn to keep his observations to himself, and that flap of a mouth he has shut.” Mr. Harris tipped up his black Stetson, his squared jaw set in that steadfast way of his. “It’s nothing.”
“This appears to be more than just nothing,” Zach carefully challenged. To see how gaunt, tired and out-of-sorts he looked made Zach almost feel guilty for noticing.
With an irritated huff, Mr. Harris yanked his hat from his head. “I told Hugh not to make a fuss about this.”
He stuck his boss with a narrowed gaze. “By the looks of you, it was a good thing he did.”
“I’ll be fine.” When Mr. Harris slowly inched himself up the wall to standing, Zach had to resist the urge to help. Despite the favorable working relationship he shared with the man, there were just some boundaries he knew not to cross. “Like I told Hugh, this is nothing more than a bad case of stomach cramps. That’s all.”
“This isn’t the first time this has happened, though, is it?” Zach stood face-to-face with his boss, noticing the frequency with which Mr. Harris swallowed, as though fighting off another bout of nausea. “If there’s something more going on with your health than what I’ve noticed up to now—”
“There’s been nothing to notice,” Mr. Harris defended in a nonnegotiable kind of way as he stuffed his hat back on his head. “Listen … if I thought it was something to be worried about I’d be the first one to let you know. Do you think I’d keep something like that from my foreman?”
Zach contemplated, snagging Mr. Harris’s pain-pinched gaze. “I’m worried. If you’re feeling—”
“Snap off that worrying branch, Zach! It brings out the worst in me.” Fishing in his back pocket, he pulled out a wrinkled white handkerchief. “It always has.”
“Maybe you need to let someone worry over you now and then,” Zach encouraged, not at all surprised at the way the man drew his shoulders back in a stubborn show of pride.
Just like a certain young woman, cut of the same cloth.
“It’d be a good thing to have Ben come out and check you over, don’t you think?” He braced himself for a fight.
“Absolutely not. It’d be a waste of Ben’s time.” Mr. Harris jammed his hands at his hips and peered at Zach. “And just in case you already sent for him, I’ll tell you right now that he won’t be looking me over. You can have Violet send him home with a healthy dose of dessert for his trouble.”
With an uncharacteristically wobbly hand, the man drew the cloth over his forehead and neck. When he gave an abrasive cough then wiped his mouth, Zach noticed a small splotch of red.
His concern kicked up several notches. “Mr. Harris, is that blood?”
His boss glanced down at the cloth then stuffed it into his pocket. “I must’ve bit my lip.”
Zach studied the man. “Are you sure about that?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” his boss roared, taking Zach aback.
“All right.” He held up his hands as though surrendering. Silently, however, he vowed to keep a much closer eye on the man’s health—especially with Ivy being here now.
Zach’s chest tightened at the thought of her.
“I’ll decide when someone should worry.” Mr. Harris clenched his jaw. Gave the slightest wince. “Besides, Violet—as good as that woman is—is about to drive me half mad with the way she flutters about like I’m knocking on death’s door.”
“She obviously cares about you.”
“Well, Violet cares too much, then,” Mr. Harris dismissed,
as he straightened the worn suede collar of his dungaree jacket.
If his boss had a problem with Violet pampering him and fussing over him then surely he’d be mad as a snake that Ivy was back in town … and all because of his health.
“Now, tell me where things are with the stock,” his boss said, strategically shifting to another topic. “We need to make sure we put away plenty of feed and hay before winter comes nipping at our toes.”
“It’s done,” Zach assured, wondering how that monumental task had escaped the man’s keen attention. “We put the last of it away yesterday.”
“Good man.” He clapped Zach on the shoulder and stood a little straighter, his coloring still uncharacteristically pale.
“In fact, with the banner hay crop we brought in this year, we’ll have more than we’ll need.” Zach nodded up above at the sturdy loft floorboards where hundreds and hundreds of bales of dried hay had been stacked. “Unless it’s a long hard winter, that is.”
“Hopefully, we’ll be sitting just fine to help out if other ranchers run low.” Mr. Harris exited the stall and started down the long corridor in that purposeful, albeit slower, stride of his that closed a conversation.
“Mr. Harris,” Zach called, shoving his hands into his pockets as he stepped into the aisle. Zach felt it only right to tell the man about Ivy’s arrival. If there was tension in their relationship, then having some forewarning might help ease the shock.
The man turned around. “What is it, Zach?”
“I thought I better inform you … there’s someone who’ll be joining you for dinner tonight.” His heart beat a little faster just thinking about the young woman.
Mr. Harris reached out and grasped a thick beam as though to steady himself. “It’s not a good night for company, Zach. Tell them to come around another evening.”
A silence fell between them, and for some unexpected, hair-raising reason, Zach just knew that Ivy being here now was every bit as much providential design as it was Violet Stoddard’s.
“It’s not that easy,” he began, searching for the right words as he caught movement coming from near the center of the barn.
Mr. Harris’s jaw ticked. “Why in the world not? Who is it?”
“Father …” Ivy called, willing the tremor from her voice. She hugged Shakespeare tightly as she peered around the corner down the west-facing row of stalls.
When she spotted her father, halfway down the corridor, she had to will one shiny, booted foot in front of the other in his direction. She’d known it would be difficult returning home, but she’d had no idea just how unnerved she could be at the sight of her very own father.
Violet had tried to ease her distress minutes ago, but there was no dispelling Ivy’s apprehension. The day she’d left for the east coast six years ago had been a bitter taste of life, indeed.
He’d not so much as offered her a goodbye hug.
He turned to face her, his long legs braced in that familiar way that had always made Ivy think that he was ready to ride at any moment. His thick shoulders were every bit as broad as she remembered—and yet his dungaree coat seemed to hang bigger than usual.
Violet had hurried her through a hot bath and had laid out a fresh shirtwaist and silk taffeta skirt from one of Ivy’s valises. Though Ivy’s hair was still damp and her skin still pink from scrubbing, the woman had all but shooed her outside, as though she was a small child again, to surprise her father.
Well, he didn’t look surprised—at least not in the way that made a heart glad.
One look at the taut expression on his face and her heart sank.
She should’ve stayed put in New York where she belonged. Her mama had wanted her to spread her wings in the big city, where culture and opportunity hung like big ornate doorways into another world, and Ivy had promised she would do just that. There were so many reasons why she should’ve stayed.
But her father …
“Ivy?” He yanked his black hat from his head as she neared. Six years of life had scattered shards of silvery gray through his dark hair.
“Hello, Father,” she breathed, trailing her fingertips down the cat’s broad back, thankful to be holding something warm and soft and receptive to her love. Struggling to drag a tenuous smile to her face, she met her father’s unreadable gaze.
Haunting dark patches shadowed his brown eyes. “You’re home….”
“I was about to tell you, sir,” Zach put in as he stepped out from the shadows. Her father had always appeared larger than life, but seeing Zach standing beside him now, she realized that this new foreman was even brawnier than her father.
For a brief moment, she found herself suffering with an unexplainable yearning to have Zach wrap her in his strong arms. She gave a small sigh, shoving that stray thought away as though it threatened her very existence. Setting her focus on her father, she struggled to steady herself.
“I didn’t realize you had plans to visit.” He wore indifference like some stage mask.
“It was a last-minute decision,” she responded, carefully choosing her words as Violet had instructed.
The housekeeper had cautioned her to skirt the real reason for her visit. She’d said it would anger her father to no end if he were to find out Ivy had come all the way here because of his health.
“Everything’s all right, isn’t it?” He turned his hat in his big, work-worn and slightly trembling hands. Hands that had comforted her when she’d been sick. Steadied her when she’d learned to ride her pony. Smoothed the hair from her face as she’d buried her nose in a compelling book. Pushed her away in those last days, darkened by blame and grief.
The idea that she’d lost his trust and his love had cut her to the very core. And as much as she had tried to ignore the wounding effects of his blame, she couldn’t deny her longing to have his love once again.
She scrambled away from the memories as though they threatened to eat her alive. “Everything is fine.”
“You have enough money, don’t you?” Reaching to the side, he grasped the top rung of a stall door, his knuckles blanching white. He dragged in a long slow breath.
“Of course. You’ve been very generous.” She was saddened at the way he was trying to maintain his strong, virile image. And saddened, too, that he would think her only reason for returning would be due to a lack of funds.
Besides, she’d done well for herself, and had not so much as touched the account for over two years now.
Clearing his throat, he peered just over her shoulder. “The job is going well?”
“Yes,” she answered as Shakespeare pressed his big paws against her chest in an effort to get down. “In fact, when I return they are going to be promoting me to the assistant editor position at The Sentinel.”
He coughed, his focus falling to the hard-packed dirt floor. “Your mother would be proud.”
Ivy nearly choked on emotion. Her mama would’ve been thrilled to know how well she’d done in New York.
But her father … was he proud?
He withdrew a handkerchief from his back pocket, then wiped at the perspiration beading his upper lip. The evident way his hand trembled tugged a tear to Ivy’s eye, but she quickly blinked it away, determined to stay strong.
Setting Shakespeare down, she watched for a moment as her cat darted off after something he’d spied in that familiar, playful way of his.
Some things never changed. Like her room, where nothing—not one thing—had been moved from where she’d left it six years ago.
Violet had said that sometimes, right before she’d retire to her quarters at the backside of the house, she’d find Ivy’s father standing inside the door to Ivy’s bedroom. Seemingly unaware of Violet’s presence, he’d stay there for the longest time, his arms folded at his chest, his head bent low, and the barest whisper of a prayer wafting to her hearing.
That small bit of knowledge had nearly uncapped the well of tears and pain Ivy had hidden away.
But crying wouldn’t change a thing. It hadn’t six years ago, and it wouldn’t now. She had only to keep her head about her as she tiptoed into the depths of her past.
And somehow, she’d have to find it within herself to smooth over the rough edges with her father because the idea of returning to New York without some kind of closure was more than she could bear. He was sick. That was more than apparent. And, by the obvious way he was struggling to appear strong, Ivy would have her hands full trying to offer him comfort and care.
