“I miss Gracie, too” was all Mary could think to say. No wonder Amy and Gracie had found each other. Chatterboxes, the both of them. Yet she quite liked their loquaciousness.
“When will she be home?” Amy pulled out a long stretch of squares and started working.
“Perhaps in a few weeks.” With Josie and Lou both suddenly appearing at the ranch, she hadn’t even thought about Gracie and Trevor’s return.
“Well, the sooner the better. Sometimes I’m afraid all the ranchers scooting out will leave us with a ghost town.”
Mary pricked her finger, despite the thimble she wore. “What do you mean, scooting out?” She sucked the pain from her finger and then returned to her sewing.
“Well, this weather and all. With the Indian summers gone, lots of ranches are up for sale. I heard some homesteaders are just leaving their places without even trying to sell.”
“You don’t say,” Mary murmured. How sad. The high desert of Oregon was a difficult soil for agriculture, though the land grew rich with herbs and roots. One had to know where to search.
“And did you hear of Mr. Baxley?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Oh, the poor thing was beaten horribly and died from his injuries. There was this good-looking man skulking about and I’ve heard gossip that he’s the murderer.”
Mary’s gaze snapped up. “Is he still in Burns?”
“Oh, no.” Amy’s head shook vigorously. “Our lawmen wouldn’t allow that. Though there’s no proof. Only conjecture.”
“Everything going well over here?” Miss Alma appeared in front of them. She wore an absurd hat laden with all sorts of funny little things that made Mary smile. They hovered above her happy face and bobbed with her movements. “Mary, dear, those snickerdoodles were wonderful. You must give me the recipe and bring something to the picnic tomorrow. Now, may I get you ladies anything?”
“We’re doing just dandy, Miss Alma. Thank you, though.” Amy flashed a broad grin, but the elderly lady was already swishing off to the next group of women in her crowded living room.
The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully, though Mary couldn’t shake the troublesome feeling nagging at her. Could she have done more to help Mr. Baxley? And how had the violet-eyed man escaped conviction so easily? Perhaps Lou would know.
At precisely three o’clock Miss Alma’s door swung open, and a broad-shouldered Lou Riley filled the door frame. Gasps and titters resounded through the room. A few of the younger girls gaped as Mary gathered her belongings and said goodbye to Miss Alma.
She turned to the door and then paused, her heart stuttering in her chest. No wonder the girls were catching flies. Lou lounged in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, his legs crossed at the ankles, hands pocketed in his blue jeans. His leather hat hugged his head at an angle that mimicked the smirk on his lips.
He swirled a toothpick lazily with his teeth as he surveyed the room. The sun slanted in from windows behind Mary, highlighting the mischievous sparkle that winked in his blue eyes.
The man knew the effect he was having, and she didn’t know whether to be amused or outraged.
Finally, he took out the toothpick and straightened. Not a woman stirred. He slid the hat off his head, gave Mary a slow wink that filled her with hot mortification and proceeded to dazzle the women with the kind of smile that turned a woman’s heart.
“Hello, ladies,” he drawled.
Chapter Nine
“I am not impressed.” Mary hoity-toitied her way to the Ford, posture so stiff Lou figured she could carry a basket on her head the way he’d seen women on the continent of Africa do. Or maybe just plain old books like the stuffy girls back East used to practice with.
“With what?” he called after her. He wasn’t going to bother trying to keep up while she threw the most abnormal fit he’d ever seen. Maybe this quilting thing had gone worse than he suspected. Though when he’d walked in, everyone had seemed peaceful enough. Miss Alma had even piled him down with cookies to take home, with clear instructions to send James out for a look at her pipes within the week.
“You know what,” Mary retorted.
He barely caught the words before they were followed by the solid thunk of the passenger door. No matter. He ambled down the driveway, marveling at how much better he felt. The slightest twinge in his shoulder was his only reminder of that bullet.
Soon enough he’d track his shooter down and get some answers.
But first things first.
He kept an eye on the passenger side as he rounded the front of the Ford. A bright sunny day like this called for good spirits and happiness. Instead, he found himself dealing with a grumpy woman who was going to get even grumpier when he talked to her on the way home.
After cranking up his tin lizzie, he yanked the driver’s door open and slid gingerly into his seat. Mary wouldn’t look at him, her lovely profile a stark reminder of the reality he’d been trying to avoid since the other day.
She was beautiful.
Beautiful.
The word could barely get past his brain. Just thinking it made him feel guilty, as if he might ruin her somehow. Because she’d been almost like a sister to him, or so he’d thought, but now as he gazed at her proud chin and clenched hands, he realized he knew nothing about this woman who’d been his housekeeper for so long.
Nothing except that she’d been thrown aside in the worst of ways before being mistreated at the hands of greedy, criminal men. He felt his mouth tighten as he pulled onto the road. Why would she want anything to do with men ever again? His good humor dissipated.
They drove in silence while he waited for her to speak. When it became obvious she was too stubborn to talk about what was bothering her, he cleared his throat.
“Do you...” He paused. Asking personal questions went against the grain. He’d never done it before. Had always given her the space he thought she needed. But now it seemed he should get involved somehow. Find out who this woman was. He tapped the steering wheel with the base of his thumbs. “Do you want to talk about your annoyance with me?”
“No.”
“You seemed upset back there.”
“I’m fine.”
Irritation crowded his throat. “Sometimes talking helps you feel better. Sharing your feelings.”
“I don’t have feelings to share,” she snapped. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her swivel toward him. “Why do you care, anyhow? A man who involves himself in nothing that requires emotional commitment? Those ladies are kind and giving. You shouldn’t toy with them.”
“I made their day exciting.”
She looked away.
“And you disapprove?” Yes, he’d complimented them. He’d looked at their needlework and asked questions. At no time had he been insincere, and yet there was censure in Mary’s tone. He stared sightlessly at the road, reminded again why he didn’t ask questions. Why he didn’t get involved.
“I don’t... I’m sorry, Lou.” Now her voice had softened. He glanced over and found her staring at him, eyes wide, the deep darkness of them stitching a surprising thread of awareness through him. “I had no call to speak to you in such a way. You’ve been nothing but kind to me from the moment I stepped foot into your home.”
He cleared his throat. “The things I said in there, I meant them. Those ladies are making incredible quilts any person would be honored to own. A woman needs to know she’s special, that she has something to offer....” He trailed off, thinking of his Sarah and the canvases she’d painted. She would never paint again.
“I’m happy you meant those things, Lou. I apologize again. Perhaps I’m on edge because of our situation.”
He focused on the road, wishing the forlorn quality of her voice didn’t bother him so badly. “No problem at all. I think this is the first time I’ve seen you frazzled in public
before.”
“I’ve never been frazzled, as you say.”
“Last year.”
“Excuse me?” Her voice rose, but he recognized humor creeping through.
“I recall a particular batch of dough that wouldn’t rise for you.”
She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. He fought back a smile.
“Mary, you’ve got nothing to apologize for. Besides, we have bigger things to discuss, and I don’t want my behavior today impacting any decisions we make.”
Her heavy sigh rested between them. “Do you mean Josie?”
“Yep. There was a telegram waiting for me today. From her mother.”
Mary said nothing, but the tension in the Ford felt thicker than churned-up cream.
“She wants Josie home as soon as possible,” he added. “Claimed she’s been ill and thought her daughter was visiting relatives. There’s no getting around this telegram.... If we’re not on a train within the week, she’ll press charges.”
“Her story is plausible,” Mary said quietly, and he heard the resignation in her voice.
He ached for her, a steady, unnerving pain beneath his sternum. He knew what it was like to lose loved ones. “This never could have lasted,” he said gently.
“It just felt so blissful, so perfect.” He felt her stare. “I’ve been...lonely, I suppose.”
“Since Gracie and Trevor left?”
“No.”
He glanced at her then pulled the wheel to the side to avoid a shrub growing in the middle of the rough desert road.
“For years now, I think,” she continued. “It took meeting Gracie to realize I was nothing but a shadow of a person. And now, seeing Trevor so happy and fulfilled, it’s as though a light has been cast on this deep, hollow well that’s my life.”
Lou frowned. She talked as if he and James meant nothing to her. “You might want to explain, because I’ve always liked having you at the ranch. James and I depend on you.”
“You’ve both been blessings. A sanctuary for my soul. But what you’ve liked hasn’t been me, it’s been good food and clean clothes.”
“That’s a bunch of hogwash.”
“Is it?”
He swerved to the side of the road and slammed on the brakes. “You better believe it.”
Her eyes widened and her lips parted. The Ford chugged, mindless of the emotional state of its passengers. Over the various odors associated with automobiles, he caught the clean whiff of Mary’s scent. That tantalizing, exotic flavor that had so tormented him when he’d been stuck in bed.
Scowling, he leaned toward her. “You haven’t been just a housekeeper in years, little lady, so get used to the fact that you mean more to us than some woman doing the laundry. You’re special. And you know you could’ve left at any time, but you didn’t. Why not?”
“I—I don’t know.” Her eyes never left his face, studying him as though she wanted to read the depths of him.
Deliberately he held her gaze. “You’ve been afraid.”
She broke the visual standoff. “Perhaps. Can we go home now?”
He slammed the clutch down, and the Ford jumped forward. “Holding things inside isn’t healthy.” It struck him how alone she’d been for the past twelve years, how unnatural that aloneness must be. “Don’t you want to move on with your life? Maybe not get married, but form relationships? Time slips away too fast and you’ll be old before you know it.”
“I find your comments ironic. While you’ve been traipsing all over the world, I’ve built the friendships I want. It is you who has been alone. As for secrets...” Her voice trailed off.
“What?” he said, more harshly than he’d intended.
“I see the way you look at Josie. There is something you hide from, perhaps run from.” She shifted, and he felt that probing gaze again, digging, searching.
He gripped the wheel. “So we both have issues. I’m just worried you’ll never have a normal life. You’re young, smart and talented. You should use your skills to create a better life.” This was the moment he needed to tell her the truth. Why did he feel so badly over it?
“I’m selling the ranch,” he said quickly.
There was a sharp intake of breath as she absorbed that information.
“I’m going to make sure you’re well cared for,” he rushed on. His face felt so hot he could light a wildfire with his cheeks. “You could work for the new owners of the ranch. I noticed a small store for rent in town. Maybe you’d like to open a shop or something.” He chanced a look at her and his stomach flopped at the look on her face.
Expressionless and pale.
Why did she hold everything in? This was all his fault.
Jaw tight, he stared forward. “You hear me?”
“I hear you. I’ll pray and see what God wants me to do.”
“God? Really? And you think He’ll answer you?”
“You think He won’t?” she countered, and a new strength had entered her voice, challenging him, battling the belief that had helped him survive the loss of his wife and child.
“Experience has proved that when a man needs God, He doesn’t show up.”
“Perhaps you’ve measured God by the wrong experiences.”
His teeth ground. Sharp pain shot through his chest. Suddenly he was overwhelmingly angry, so enraged he wanted to spill everything that had happened, show her just how faithful this God of hers was. But a man didn’t talk about things like his wife and daughter dying in his arms. It didn’t feel right to share, even though the words pulsated on his tongue, straining to rip free of the cage he’d put them in.
“Lou,” she said quietly, “I don’t know what happened in your past, but you’re not the only one to have suffered pain.” A small catch in her voice caught on the word pain, leaving it hanging between them, a shattered sound in the noisy automobile.
In that moment, the anger drained out of him, leaving him tired and empty. He opened his mouth, rotating his jaw, trying to loosen what felt tighter than his trigger finger on a loaded gun.
He wanted to explain to Mary, even though she was the type who never nagged for explanations. She was the kind of woman who waited patiently, who didn’t press for what she wanted. It was both her strength and her flaw.
The road stretched before them, long and windy, the jagged horizon only hinting at what lay beyond.
“Sometimes it’s easier to blame God,” he finally said. Because she didn’t seem to blame Him for the things that had happened to her, which made him wonder why he did.
“True.”
He made to look at her, but a figure ahead on the left grabbed his attention.
“Lou, there’s a woman walking on the road.”
“I see her.” He steered to the right, passing her safely and at a distance. The woman’s silver-laced black hair streamed behind her and she wore the traditional garb of a Paiute.
Mary twisted in the seat, peering behind them.
“Stop,” she said.
He looked at her. “Now?”
“Yes, stop the car!”
He slowed, but before he’d fully stopped, she opened her door and scrambled out.
* * *
Mary darted across the rough road, the sun in her eyes as she raced toward her mother. “Mother,” she shouted.
Rose shuffled along, ignoring Mary, even when she skidded to a stop in front of her. She placed her hands on her mother’s shoulders, mindful of the fragile frame beneath her fingers. “Where are you going?”
“You should not be here,” her mother whispered. Her gaze landed somewhere behind Mary. Wind raked up the dusty road.
Mary squinted against the debris. “Come with me, to my home. It isn’t safe for you to walk these roads alone.”
“No.”
“Please, I can take care of yo
u.”
“There is danger in these hills....” Rose’s voice trailed ominously.
A cold tremor shivered its way down Mary’s spine. Sometimes it seemed danger lurked everywhere. Running from it solved nothing.
And yet the vacancy of her mother’s gaze was alarming, to say the least. Frowning, Mary slid her hands away and tried to meet her mother’s eyes.
“Where are you going? I will take you.”
“He will find us.” Her mother’s shoulders began to shake, small ripples of movement almost lost in the dirt-laden breeze. Long strands of hair whipped over her features, lashing at her skin as if punishing her.
Mary didn’t want her mother to be punished. Not then and not now. She stepped forward and gathered Rose in a hug, inhaling her earthy scent.
“The ranch is secluded. No one shall find us there.” She smoothed hair from her mother’s brow. “The little girl, we must take her to her mother soon, but I need help in the meantime. Will you come?”
A sound cut through her words. Lou sidled up next to them, arms crossed, something near a scowl playing about the corners of his lips. “What’s going on?”
“Mother needs a place to stay.” She tilted her chin at Lou, daring him to defy her.
“She has a place.”
“Not now. Something’s happened.” She glanced at her mother, who still looked as though a wisp of wind might tilt her over.
He moved closer. He stepped in front of her mother, and his closeness urged Mary to move back. The aroma of his cologne penetrated her senses, dredging up good memories. Her first Christmas at the ranch, exotic gifts he’d brought her from his travels.
“Rose, why aren’t you at home?”
His deep voice brought Mary out of her musings. She focused on her mother, who stared blankly ahead. Refusing to answer. Stubborn. As she’d always been.
“Mother, answer him. We will help you, but we must know what we face.”
Rocky Mountain Dreams & Family on the Range Page 31