Roxanne watched him stand at the door a moment longer. Then, he opened the door and left the kitchen, closing it behind him. Roxanne stood staring at the closed door while her mind grasped for understanding at Alex's parting words. “Memories are deceiving. Memories can fool a person.”
It sounded as if there was something other than his wife’s death that caused Alex to push his memories down deep?
Had something happened between Alex and his wife before she died? Roxanne knew very little about Alex's wife, not that it mattered, she admonished herself. Besides, Alex's life—and wife—were no concern of hers. Her job was to take care of his household and his daughter until she left for home in the fall. Until then, she didn't need to involve herself in Alex's affairs.
Roxanne busied herself with breakfast preparations for Jeremy and Grace, but her thoughts kept turning to Alex's words. What could have happened that would make a man want to leave his memories of the wife he loved so much in the past?
She pushed and pulled at every imaginable scenario in her mind while she fried eggs and bacon. Once the biscuits were golden brown and the fragrance of breakfast filled every nook and cranny of the cozy kitchen, she finally came to the only conclusion possible. Something happened to Alex’s wife—Grace’s mother.
In order for Roxanne to be better equipped to help the little girl deal with whatever that something was, she needed more information, and the only way to get it was to make inquiries into the matter. She truly wanted to help Grace, but underneath her altruistic desires to help the little girl, her motives were not so pure when it came to helping the little girl’s father.
The five-mile wagon ride into town hadn’t taken long and Alex arrived just a little after eight o'clock in the morning. He hoped to get his business taken care of quickly and get back to the ranch as soon as possible. He had a full day of stretching fence before that herd of horses arrived from Cheyenne next week.
Pulling his wagon to a stop in front of the mercantile store he noticed how quiet the streets were. Most of the citizens of Durango must still be asleep or finishing up breakfast. As if on cue, his stomach rumbled beneath his gun belt trying to tell him that’s what he should be doing too, but he had business to take care of and he couldn’t put off any longer. He grimaced and stepped into the store.
“Good morning, Mr. Harp. You’re up and at 'em early this morning. What can I do for you?” Mr. Collins, the store owner, called out to him from somewhere at the back of the store.
Alex looked around and saw the portly gentleman making his way toward him through tins of nails, bins of tools, and bolts of fabric and lace. “I need some fencing supplies, Mr. Collins.” Alex pulled his hat off his head and slapped it against his thigh to get rid of the dust.
Cecil Collins made his way to the counter and took out his ledger. “Got plenty of fencing supplies, Mr. Harp. How do ya want to pay for it?”
Alex was still waiting for his money from his bank in New Orleans. His father was supposed to have sent it weeks ago, but he had yet to see a penny of it. The money he brought with him from home was almost gone. He hated to ask for more credit, but—
“I’m waiting on funds from New Orleans, Mr. Collins. I was hoping you could see your way to extend me a little more credit... just until the money comes through.” He hated to stand here and grovel like he was some sort of charity case. He had money. Some people would call it a small fortune. He just didn't have it in his hand at the moment.
Mr. Collins scratched his head and studied his ledger again. “I don't know, Mr. Harp. You already owe me almost five hundred dollars. That's a lot of money to me and the missus. We got three growing boys to feed.”
“I know and I wouldn't be asking if my father had sent my money like he was supposed to. I'm going over to the telegraph office right after I leave here and find out why he hasn't. Believe me when I say, I do not want to impose on you, Mr. Collins. I have never had to beg before in my life, but I am now. If you could see your way clear to give me a little bit more credit, I swear to you, you won’t be sorry.”
Alex's pride took a beating, but he needed those fencing supplies and he would do whatever he had to do to get them. He couldn't handle any more horses in the current pastures, and with more horses on the way, he was in a hard spot.
Mr. Collins raised his head and stared at Alex for a moment. Then he nodded. “I understand your situation, Mr. Harp. I can go a bit longer on your credit. But you gotta promise me you’ll find a way to pay me back, whether the money comes from New Orleans or not.”
Relief flooded through Alex's body and he let out the breath he had been holding in relief. “Thank you, Mr. Collins. I swear, I won’t let you down. Even if I have to sell every horse on my property to get you the money.”
“I don't think that will be necessary, Mr. Harp. I hear you have a nice herd of quality horseflesh. If you don't get the money, I’m sure we can trade some for your debt. If you're willin' that is.”
“I'd be willin’, but it won't be necessary. I have the money. I just have to get my hands on it,” Alex assured the owner.
Mr. Collins smiled and leaned across the counter. “Now, this little transaction is just between me and you, okay? I don't want folks around here to think I'm a pushover and all. Besides...” he leaned closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. “There's no sense gettin' the missus all worked up about it. She ain't as agreeable to credit as I am. I've been short on cash before and I know how it feels when someone takes a chance on ya.” The man nodded and made a notation in the ledger. “Gotcha down for fencing supplies, Mr. Harp. I can give you two more weeks and then I gotta have some money or my wife’s gonna give me what for and I'll tell, you don't want what for from that woman, no sir. You do not.”
“Thank you, Mr. Collins. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. I won't let ya down. That’s a promise.”
“Good to hear.” Mr. Collins came around the counter and stuck out his hand. Alex offered his in return.
“Thank you again.” Alex had never had anyone who wasn't family or friend to stick their neck out for him before. He'd bust a gut before he let Mr. Collins down.
“My friends call me Cecil.” He winked and Alex grinned.
“I'd be right proud to call you friend, Cecil, that is if you'll call me Alex.”
“Alex it is. Never can have too many friends, I say.” He gave Alex a good stout slap on his back. Alex nearly dropped his hat.
“Yep, a man can't have too many friends.”
“I'll have my son, Adam, pull your wagon around back and he and his brother, Eli, can start loading your supplies. Maybe go get yourself a bite o' breakfast over at the Lone Star Cafe. Food's not fancy, and it’s run by a couple of Texans, but it'll stick to your ribs.” He patted his round belly and slapped Alex on the back again. It stung and it was obvious the man didn't know his own strength.
“I think I'll do just that.” Alex left the mercantile store and headed to the cafe, then changed his mind. First, he was gonna send his father a telegram and find out where the hell his money was.
Chapter 7
The sun was high in the noon sky when Roxanne heard the rattle of the wagon returning to the ranch. Alex was back. Why on earth did that fact make her heart race? “Although he is charming—at times—he is certainly is not a prince,” she murmured.
“Who isn't a prince?” Grace asked from across the table covered in pastels.
“Um, no one, dear. I hear your father coming so perhaps we should clean up our mess and prepare something for lunch. My goodness, where did the morning go?” She had been so preoccupied trying to figure out how to broach the subject of Grace's mother without upsetting the little girl, the morning was all but gone. She thought perhaps if Grace were distracted by something fun, she would be open to sharing the unpleasant facts about her mother. That's when Roxanne thought of the pastels.
Grace had been overjoyed to experiment with the finger-size pieces of pigmented chalk, but when Roxanne suggested
she draw a picture of her mother, Grace's joy turned to sadness and her enthusiasm for the activity waned. Instead of drawing a picture, she swirled the different colors around and around on her paper, creating nothing but a very large mess of colored chalk dust.
Roxanne was more convinced than ever that something tragic had happened and that was the reason both Alex and Grace refused to talk about Kate. And the more Roxanne thought about it the more she came to believe that couldn’t be healthy for this little girl…or her father.
She heard the wagon rumble by the house toward the barn. She peeked outside the kitchen window just in time to see Alex roll by. He turned as if he sensed her presence. She ducked out of sight. Why had she done that? Why hadn't she just waved at him? Instead, she was skulking in the shadows like... like someone with something to hide. “Nonsense. There’s absolutely nothing to hide.” Why was she trying to convince herself?
“What's nonsense?” Grace was standing next to her.
“It’s nothing. Why don't you help me get the table cleaned off so we can eat lunch? You can place the pastels into the tin. But be sure to seal it up tight so the colors won't dry out.” She clapped her hands together in mock severity. “Now hurry. We don't want to keep your father waiting.”
“Can we color again tomorrow, Roxanne?” Grace asked.
“I think we can manage it, but only if you work really hard on your schoolwork. We shall have you reading and writing in no time at all.” A thought occurred to Roxanne. “Did your mother read to you when you lived in New Orleans?”
Grace shook her head. “No, Momma didn't like to read to me. She said it made her squint and squinting gave her wrinkles. Mrs. Haversham read to me after I had my bath. I miss Mrs. Haversham. She was funny. And nice. Like you.”
“Well, thank you very much for the compliment, Grace.” Roxanne busied herself with placing the cold roast beef and yesterday's baked bread on the table. Interesting. So Grace misses a member of the household staff, but not her mother. Does that mean Grace was raised by a nanny instead of her mother? And if that’s the case then Alex, or his family, must have been well off financially. Or perhaps it was Alex’s wife’s family that had the money.
Roxanne heard boots stomping on the wooden back steps. Alex is here. Perhaps she could strike up a conversation and get some answers she could use to help Grace—and Alex—to deal with their loss.
Alex stepped into the kitchen in socked feet. He nodded to her and held his arms out to Grace. The little girl ran into his opened arms and he hugged her tight against his chest. She was suddenly quite envious of the little girl.
“Good afternoon. Did your trip into town go as planned?” she asked as she poured cold water from the well into a glass.
“It did. I got the fencing supplies so I can start building the west pasture to hold the expectant mares separate from the colts and fillies.” He helped Grace into her chair and pushed it up to the table, then he took his own chair while Roxanne finished serving the food.
When everything was on the table, she took her own place at the table.
“Will Jeremy be joining us?”
“No. He said he’ll eat after he brings the hay up. I’ll take him something when we’re finished eating,” Alex said, digging his fork into the roast beef.
Everyone ate in silence for a few moments before Roxanne started up the conversation again.
“So, Grace. Tell your father what you have been learning this morning.”
“I've been learning to use pastels, Papa.”
“Pastels? As in paints?” Alex stuffed a bite of roast beef and bread his mouth.
“I suppose they are similar to paints, but no, not paints. They are more like colored chalk,” Roxanne answered.
“Colored chalk? What on earth would you be teaching my daughter with colored chalk?”
Roxanne sensed an objection in his tone, but what could he possibly be objecting to?
“Well, she has been learning her colors as well as learning to hold her hand steady in preparation for learning penmanship. Do you have an objection to your daughter enjoying the finer points of her education? I mean there is more to school than just reading, writing, and arithmetic.”
Alex's jaw set and he shook his head to the contrary. “Grace will grow up here on this ranch. There is no need for her to learn things she will never have a use for. Her life on this ranch will be worthwhile and productive. Things such as...such as painting, are useless here. That what pampered, privileged women use to justify their selfishness and I don’t want my daughter to be a—”
“A what, Mr. Harp? You think because a young woman learns a few pleasantries that help to soften the rough edges of life is what makes her selfish? I don't know what kind of women you associate with, but I can assure you that a little enjoyment is not indicative of—”
Alex pounded his fist on the table and jerked to his feet, knocking his chair over in his haste to stand. The sound ricocheted around the room at odds with the normally serene kitchen.
Stunned by his reaction, Roxanne sat motionless and waited for the full force of his anger to hit. She didn't have to wait long.
“The kind of women I associate with is none of your business, Roxanne. Your only concern, while employed by me, is cooking, cleaning, and teaching my daughter what she will need to get by in life and by that, I mean reading, writing and arithmetic. Sewing, cooking, and anything else that has to do with taking care of herself and her family. Is that perfectly clear, Miss Sheffield?”
Anger heated Roxanne's cheeks. “I think you've made your wishes quite clear, Mr. Harp.” She emphasized her use of his last name since it appeared they were no longer on an amicable first name basis. Although, she had no idea when things had changed between them. No idea at all. “My mistake. When you said you wanted me to teach your daughter to be a proper lady, I didn’t know what you really meant was to teach her how to be subservient to a man. That, I’m afraid I cannot do.”
She helped Grace down from the table and bundled her out of the kitchen and into the main room leaving the curmudgeon alone in the kitchen with his lunch.
She hoped he choked on it.
Alex felt like a huge ass when Roxanne took Grace by the hand and left him alone in the kitchen. What on earth had he been so upset about? They were coloring pictures for heaven's sake.
He knew where his objections came from. His frustration with his financial situation was at the top of his list, but he also wanted to make certain Grace did not grow up to be selfish and uncaring like her mother. It had nothing to do with coloring pictures and he was an ass to have reacted the way he did. He didn’t need to take his frustrations out on Roxanne. She wasn't like Kate. She was a hard worker, a kind person, and a gift he could ill afford to lose.
He saw how she nurtured Grace daily. In the two weeks she had been on the ranch, Grace had gone from the clingy insecure little girl to... well, what she was today. All laughter and happiness. It was a change that gave his heart so much joy to see. He needed to fix this.
He left the kitchen and headed for the barn. As soon as Grace was down for her afternoon nap, Alex would apologize to Roxanne for his outburst. Tell her he knew it was uncalled for and ask if they could start over. He owed a great deal of gratitude to this woman, and she didn’t deserve his rancor.
For the rest of the afternoon, he directed his energy to digging fence post holes deep into the ground. Thankfully, recent rains had softened the hard earth. But even with the Good Lord’s blessings, the work was hard and slow going.
Sweat trickled down his back and made him itch. He needed a break from the summer sun which burned hotter in the thin air of the higher altitude, so he pulled off his shirt and let the faint breeze cool his overheated skin. He rested in the shade on a large rock nearby until he was ready to go at it again.
Alex jabbed his post hole diggers into the ground, scrapped the edges of the hole, and removed the loose dirt. He repeated this process for two more hours, moving from the finished
hole and starting a new one. Lost in the endless task of fence building, he was startled by Roxanne’s voice.
“That looks like backbreaking work.”
He whirled around to see her standing next to the wagon with a basket in her hand and a jar of water. “I thought perhaps you could use a break about now. Unless of course, you aren't interested in a freshly baked apple pie and a cold drink of water.”
“No—I mean yes. I would love a break.”
She set the basket on the back of the wagon and pushed the cloth off the top to reveal the delicious looking apple pie. He wiped the sweat from his body with the rag in his hip pocket and grabbed his shirt off the fence post. Stuffing his arms into it, he buttoned it up, and stood at the wagon’s open tailgate next to Roxanne.
“Dang. That pie smells good enough to eat. You just bake this?”
He watched her cut into the thick pastry and scoop a piece onto a tin plate. She handed the plate to him with a fork. “Yes, it has barely had time to cool, but I thought you could use a piece about now.”
“Thank you,” he mumbled and stuffed a fork full of the delicious pastry into his mouth.
“I do hope it tastes as good as it looks. Grace and I thought we would do something more in line with your learning preferences. I was teaching her fractions and she used them to measure the ingredients for the pie. You know, one-half cup of this and two tablespoons of that. I hope my method meets with your approval, Mr. Harp.” She was teasing him.
He was glad to know she wasn’t one of those women who held a grudge forever and a day. And he did owe her an apology. He set the half empty plate down on the back of the wagon and turned to her. “Roxanne. About today. I... don't really know what to say except, I'm sorry. I wasn't angry at you. I was just mad at the world and I took it out on you, I guess.” He looked down at her and offered her a crooked smile full of remorse. “I’m not usually so short-tempered, but with all the work, and the—he almost told her about his money problems—“Anyway, I’m really sorry.”
The Debutante's Secret: Western Historical Romance (The Debutantes of Durango Book 2) Page 7