She arched a brow. The son of a duke, broke?
“Miss Arlington, I—”
“Cleo,” she interrupted.
“I assure you, it is the truth. My purse is empty. My father sent me to America to earn my way and chose not to provide much beyond the cost of my passage.”
The duke sounded like a hard sort. But wasn’t it also strange that a grown man like Woody hadn’t been earning his own way long before this? It seemed so to her. She’d been working for a wage since she’d finished her schooling. Things must be mighty different in England.
“My dad can advance you something against your first month’s wages. No way around it that I can see. You’ve got to have work clothes.” She pushed on the screen door. “I’ll go hitch up the buckboard. Be ready to go in about fifteen minutes.”
“I’m ready now. Would you like some help?”
She shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She strode toward the barn, not waiting to see if he followed.
Sherwood set out after Cleo as fast as his right leg would allow. Pain shot from his thigh into his hip, but he clenched his jaw and ignored it. England would fall into the sea before he complained to that female in pants. He wouldn’t let her see his discomfort if he could help it. Not ever.
She went into one of the corrals near the barn and led out two horses. After tying them both to a hitching post, she tossed a brush to Sherwood. “You take that one.” She pointed to the black gelding. “I’ll take this one.”
After they’d brushed away the dirt from the horses’ coats, Cleo brought out the harness. This time she didn’t ask for his help, and he didn’t offer. She moved with an easy rhythm, her hands often stroking the horses’ necks, backs, hips. She talked to them too—a constant stream of there you go, good boy, easy fella. That she was comfortable around horses was apparent. In fact, he suspected she was more comfortable around them than around people. And animals wouldn’t mind how fractious she could be.
Before she had both horses in the harness, she paused to glance over her shoulder. “Cookie’s got a list of supplies we’re to pick up while in town. Would you mind getting it?”
It sounded like a request, but it wasn’t. He set off for the house. When he entered the kitchen, he found Griff and Cookie seated at the table. Their conversation died when they saw him. “Cleo sent me for a list of supplies.”
Cookie held out a slip of paper. “Got it right here.”
“Thank you.” Sherwood took it, then looked at Griff and forced out the words, “I find myself rather short of funds, sir, and your daughter said you would advance what is needed to buy some appropriate work clothes.”
“Of course. Tell Cleo to have your purchases put on my account.”
Sherwood wondered if he should ask what sort of salary he was to be paid, but pride stopped him. His grasp of dollars to pounds and pounds to dollars was weak as of yet. He would ask later, when he and Griff were alone and he needn’t fear appearing the fool before others. It was bad enough that the Arlingtons knew he’d come to America without knowing where he would live and work.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Young man, you’d best call me ‘Griff’ the way everybody else around here does. You’re going to be with us for the next year. No point being so formal. We’re more like family on this ranch.”
Since when did being like family preclude formality? Sherwood tried to imagine someone his age calling his father “Dagwood” instead of “your grace.” Impossible! It would never happen.
Griff stood and clapped a hand against Sherwood’s back. “Give yourself time. You’ve only been here a couple of days. It’ll get easier. I promise.”
“Thank you, sir. I mean, Griff.” He gave the man a nod. “I had better go. Your daughter does not like to be kept waiting.”
Griff muffled a laugh while rubbing his jaw. “No, she sure doesn’t.”
With another nod, Sherwood turned and left the house. When he rounded the corner and the barn came into view, he saw Cleo already on the wagon seat, looking none too happy.
“Took you long enough,” she said when he drew near. “Have you got the list?”
“Yes, I have it.” He held up the paper. “Right here.” He gave it to her, then grabbed hold of the wagon seat and footboard and climbed up, silently cursing his bad leg for making him awkward.
The moment he settled onto the seat beside her, Cleo slapped the reins against the team’s backsides and the wagon jerked into motion. “Pay attention to where we’re going so you’ll be able to get to town and back on your own when the time comes.”
There was no doubt about it: Cleo Arlington was as prickly as a porcupine. She didn’t like him, and the feeling, he decided, was mutual. If forced to work under her supervision throughout his entire year of exile, he didn’t care to think what he might say to her before it was over. If she were a man…
He glanced in her direction.
Cleo sat with her boots on the footboard, her elbows resting on her knees, the reins held loosely between her gloved fingers. From beneath her hat, he saw the soft curls of her short, strawberry-blonde hair, cut about chin length. Her complexion was fair, with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheekbones that told him her hat didn’t always protect her from the sun’s rays.
She almost was a man in her dress, in her manner. And yet he had to confess there was something feminine about the fullness of her mouth and the shape of her eyes. Maybe if she wore a dress and did something with her mop of hair—and kept her mouth shut—she might be halfway attractive. Never the beauty her sister was, of course, but passable.
As those thoughts drifted through Sherwood’s mind, Cleo turned her head and found him looking at her. That made her straighten on the wagon seat, as if prodded from behind. “Doesn’t look like you’re paying attention to the road.”
“As this seems to be the only road we’ve seen since departing the ranch, I find it hard to believe I could get lost.”
“Shows what you know. We’re still on Arlington land.”
“Really? How large is the ranch?”
“Better than thirty-two thousand acres.”
“I say. I hadn’t imagined.” That meant the Arlington ranch was larger than Dunacombe Manor. “How do you manage with so few employees?” The manor had nearly thirty tenant farmers, let alone the vast number of servants it took to keep the house in running order.
“Dad hires on extra hands when it comes time for branding and when we take the cattle to market. But with the land fenced, it doesn’t take as many men to run a place like ours. Not the same as it was for ranchers thirty or forty years ago. No long cattle drives, thanks to the railroad.”
Sherwood thought she sounded slightly disappointed about the latter.
They fell into a period of silence, a quiet broken only by the rattle of the harness and wagon and the steady clip-clop of horses’ hooves. But when the road opened onto a bridge that would carry them over the river, Cleo pulled on the reins, stopping the team.
“That way’s north.” She pointed to the right as she spoke. “The road takes you up to New Hope. The other way’s south.” She pointed to the left. “The road takes you straight to Bethlehem Springs.”
“Leave the ranch, follow the road to the bridge, turn left, and keep going until you arrive in town. You must think me dim witted, Cleo, if you feared I would lose my way.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she met his gaze, color rising in her cheeks. “I reckon that’s what it sounded like.”
He thought she might apologize, but instead she slapped the reins against the horses, and the wagon resumed its journey.
Cleo felt small and petty, and she wasn’t any too keen on the feelings.
It was true. She had treated Woody as if he hadn’t any smarts—or, at the very least, as if he had no sense of direction. She could have let him drive himself to Bethlehem Springs in the buggy if it was so all-fired important for her to be working with those mustangs.
&nbs
p; Then again, neither Bert nor Helen Humphrey, owners of the mercantile, would have given a stranger credit against her father’s account on just his say so. So it seemed her presence was necessary after all.
She drew in a breath and released it on a silent sigh. Why was she so impatient with Woody? Her brother-in-law was every bit as rich and privileged as this English dude. Morgan wouldn’t know the first thing about running a cattle ranch, but she’d always liked him. She’d never given him a hard time. So why did she expect more from this greenhorn sitting beside her?
She liked to think of herself as easygoing, someone who could roll with life’s punches and come up smiling. She reckoned others thought of her that way too. But she wasn’t easygoing when it came to Woody. He could get her goat without even opening his mouth.
Her father’s words of advice echoed in her mind: Nobody can get your goat unless you’ve got a goat to get. The thought brought a smile to her lips. She needed to remember those words next time Woody started to get under her skin.
The wagon rounded a bend in the road, bringing the rooftops and church steeples of Bethlehem Springs into view. A few minutes later, they rolled into town. Once they reached the mercantile at the corner of Wallula and Idaho, Cleo brought the team to a stop.
“Here we are.” She set the brake. “You take care of buying your clothes. I’ll get the rest of the supplies Cookie wants, and we can be on our way in short order.”
She jumped down from the wagon seat and moved onto the sidewalk. From the corner of her eye, she saw Woody’s descent. She could tell it wasn’t easy for him, and she sensed that he hated he couldn’t drop to the ground as easily as she had. It made her wonder what sort of man he’d been before the war. For that matter, she wondered what he’d done after the war to make his father send him to America the way he had, without money or even any notion what he’d be doing when he got there.
Not that it mattered to her. She was merely curious.
The interior of the store made Sherwood feel somewhat claustrophobic. The aisles were narrow, the shelves and tabletops crammed with merchandise of all kinds. A quick look around helped him locate the dry-goods section.
As he glanced through the shirts, a gentleman approached. “Cleo said you might be needin’ some help.” He stuck out a hand. “I’m Bert Humphrey, the proprietor.”
“How do you do.” He shook the man’s hand. “Sherwood Statham.”
“Pleased to meet you. What can I help you find?”
Sherwood told him the clothing items he needed, then lowered his voice. “And if you have any decent liquor—perhaps a fine port or a good brandy—I would be obliged.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Statham, but you’re in a dry state.”
“A dry state?”
“We’ve got Prohibition hereabouts. Can’t make, buy, sell, or consume liquor anywhere in Idaho.”
Sherwood felt his eyes widen in disbelief. “Not anywhere?”
“No, sir. Not anywhere.” Bert Humphrey shrugged. “‘Less, of course, you find yourself a bootlegger who’ll sell you a bottle of hooch, and I wouldn’t recommend it. Stuff’ll make you go blind. Besides, our mayor’s a stickler about keeping the law. You wouldn’t want to find yourself visiting our local jail.”
He couldn’t believe his bad luck. He’d decided not to drink as much as had become his custom since his release from the hospital, but he hadn’t thought he would have to go without so much as a glass of wine with supper for an entire year.
No liquor and putting up with Cleo Arlington. This was an uncivilized land.
Sherwood had no reason to change his opinion when, four hours later, he stood in the last of the horse stalls, pitchfork in hand, shoveling manure, hay, and straw into a wheelbarrow. Sweat ringed the armpits of his new shirt and dirt smudged the legs of his new denim trousers. The boots he’d purchased in town already looked a month old.
“When you’re done here,” Cleo had said after assigning him the task, “come look for me, and we’ll see what else you can do.”
Sherwood’s biceps and the muscles across his shoulders screamed for a rest, and the pain in his leg was reaching the unbearable point. But he wasn’t about to stop until he finished. Yesterday he’d told Cleo he wasn’t afraid of hard work. He’d meant it. He wasn’t afraid. He’d done harder things than this in the army. But that didn’t mean he had to like it. Nor did it mean it was easy for him. He hadn’t lifted anything much heavier than a deck of cards in recent months, and he was paying for it now.
He paused long enough to wipe his shirt sleeve across his forehead before the sweat could trickle into his eyes.
I won’t be beaten. I won’t be done in. By heaven, I won’t.
That’s what his father expected, of course. That he would fail here as he’d failed on the battlefield. As he’d failed at home. For a long time Sherwood hadn’t cared. Hadn’t cared if he failed. Hadn’t cared what his father thought of him. But for some reason he cared now. He would not fail with Cleo Arlington looking on.
Night fell over the ranch, and with it came a blanket of silence. Cookie and Cleo had long since retired to their rooms for the night, but Griff found he couldn’t sleep. Not an unusual circumstance. He often found it difficult to shut off his thoughts at the end of the day.
He stepped outside into the crisp night air. Bear, one of the cow dogs that lived on the ranch, came onto the porch. Griff leaned down to pat his head.
“How you doin’, boy?”
The dog wagged his tail in reply, then lay down with a groan near his master’s feet while Griff leaned a shoulder against a post and stared across the yard toward the darkened bunkhouse.
When he’d asked Cleo at supper how Sherwood was getting along, she’d said, “Fine,” and hadn’t elaborated beyond that. From what Griff had observed earlier in the day, he thought the Englishman was trying his best. After their return from town, Cleo had put Sherwood to work in the barn, mucking out stalls. Not the best job in the world. But if the young man had complained, Griff hadn’t heard him.
He tried to imagine either of his daughters doing something that would make him send them away. Impossible. Nothing they could do would make him want to put an ocean between him and his children. Not drinking. Not gambling. Not anything. Whatever Sherwood’s misadventures, was the best recourse to send a son halfway around the world? And besides all that, he wasn’t a boy, yet it seemed he was being treated like one.
Griff drew a deep breath as he lowered himself to sit on the top porch step. Bear immediately changed positions to press himself against Griff’s hip. This earned the dog a few more pats. But Griff’s thoughts remained on the new ranch hand. Sherwood Statham was hurt in more ways than just the injury to his leg and the scar on his face. Griff hoped the young man’s invisible wounds, as well as the visible, would find healing in the months he was with them.
If there’s something I can do, Lord, show me what it is.
SIX
Three days later, Sherwood once again stood in the barn, mucking out stalls, when he heard men shouting and the angry squeal of a horse. Curious, he walked toward the doors at the back of the barn. When he stepped through the opening, squinting into the light, he saw Cleo atop a buckskin, its back arched, all four hooves off the ground. When it landed, it hit with such force Sherwood heard grunts from both horse and rider. An instant later the animal was airborne again.
Outside the corral, the three cowboys who shared the bunkhouse with Sherwood—Stitch, Randall, and Allen—shouted encouragement, interspersed with whoops and hollers. Sherwood leaned the pitchfork against the wall of the barn and walked over to join them.
“Ride ’em, Cleo!”
“Yee-haw!”
“Hang on, girl!”
The horse came close to the corral fence, and Sherwood feared it would throw itself and its rider into the wood rails. But one look at Cleo told him she felt no fear. Her expression reminded him of the one worn by riders as they flew over hedges and streams during a fo
x hunt. Determination was written in the set of her lips, and the thrill of the challenge was written in her eyes.
“You a bettin’ man?” Stitch asked Sherwood.
“I’ve been known to make a wager now and then.”
“Then put your money on Cleo. That mustang may throw her a time or two, but she’ll beat him in the end.”
“Aren’t you concerned she’ll be injured?”
“Cleo? Nah. She’s been ridin’ horses since before she could walk.” Stitch pointed at the horse in the corral, airborne once again. “I keep tellin’ her she oughta turn professional cowgirl and compete in the rodeos. She’s good enough to ride most any bronc. Sticks to that saddle like she’s got glue on the seat of her britches.”
Sherwood could have differed with the cowboy. He’d seen light between Cleo’s behind and the saddle every time the horse threw itself into the air. Riding a wild horse was no occupation for a woman.
He wasn’t sure how much time passed before the buckskin gave up the fight. It seemed an eternity. The horse’s final bucks were halfhearted, its front legs barely leaving the ground. Finally, with a dejected grunt, it stood quivering in the center of the corral.
Cleo began talking to the mustang in a low voice while stroking its neck. The horse moved its ears forward and back.
Stitch leaned close to Sherwood. “It isn’t often she has to break one like that. She’s got a way with horses, even the wild ones out of the Owyhees like that bad boy. Coaxes them along and next thing you know they’re saddle horses.”
Sherwood felt his leg begin to throb and knew that when he turned and walked back to the barn there would be no disguising his awkward gait. He couldn’t sit a docile horse with assurance, let alone do what Cleo had done just now. He hated that, hated knowing that she knew it too.
“It seems the excitement is over,” he said.
“Reckon so.”
“Then I had best return to my work.”
With a nod, he headed back to the barn, grabbing the pitchfork from the place he’d left it. He didn’t waste time once he was inside. He finished mucking out the last stall, then checked to make sure the horses housed inside the barn had clean water in their buckets and hay in their stalls.
The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs Collection Page 26