The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs Collection

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  Spring was Cleo’s favorite season. She loved the promise of new life—calves, colts, puppies, kittens, leaves budding, flowers blooming. She loved the lengthened days and the shortened nights.

  Spring was also the busiest part of the year on the Arlington ranch. Calves were branded and the herd culled. In previous years getting the selected cattle to market had meant almost a week on the trail, driving the herd south, out of the mountains and onto the high desert country of southern Idaho. Now that the railroad had brought a spur up to Bethlehem Springs, getting the cattle to market would be a much easier undertaking.

  Truth be told, Cleo was going to miss those days-long cattle drives. She’d always liked sleeping under the stars and the camaraderie of the cowboys. And there was something about food on the trail that just seemed to taste better. Maybe she’d been born a generation or two too late. It would have been great to take part in one of those old drives from Texas to Montana, one or two thousand cattle crossing the vast prairies, fording the rivers, ten to twelve hours in the saddle. But those days were long gone, never to be seen again.

  She gave her head a slow shake. Chances were if she’d been born a generation or two ago, she never would’ve been allowed to trail cattle anyway. She reckoned she was better off now, even if some folks around these parts did look at her like she was a two-headed calf.

  “Come on, Buddy. We’d best be getting back.” She turned the horse toward home and nudged him into a lope.

  Sherwood lay on his stomach, his head turned to the right, his eyes closed. Warm, moist air hovered around him while a therapist—Eduardo by name—massaged Sherwood’s right leg. More than once, he’d had to swallow a groan of complaint. But he would put up with anything if there was a chance it would make him more mobile. Imagine the satisfaction if he could return to England without a limp, his body healthy once more, no longer a broken man. Perhaps then the duke would find fewer reasons to dislike his youngest son.

  His thoughts drifted to the previous Sunday and the family gathered around the table in the McKinley home. What would his father think of these people? Sherwood was sure even Morgan McKinley would fall a notch or two in the duke’s estimation. Too informal, especially with those of the lower classes, and married to a woman without suitable family connections and proper breeding.

  But Sherwood liked them. All of them. Even, albeit somewhat reluctantly, Cleo. The McKinleys and Arlingtons had been kind to him without showing pity, an emotion he loathed. He didn’t want to be pitied. He’d felt enough of it for himself in those first days and weeks back from the trenches. Much of his wild behavior—the antics that had earned him the duke’s anger and his banishment to America—had been a desperate attempt to keep self-pity from returning. If he drank enough, gambled enough, womanized enough, caroused enough, then he wouldn’t consider how his life had changed. He wouldn’t think about his pain or the activities he could no longer do. He wouldn’t think about the friends who’d died in France while he’d been sent home to safety…

  “Mr. Statham,” Eduardo said, his voice soft in the dimly lit room, “let’s have you roll onto your back, please.”

  Sherwood groaned as he obeyed.

  “Now I’m going to help you with some stretching exercises. The more you move and use your leg, the more range of motion you will regain. When we’re finished here, we’ll have you relax in the tub.” Eduardo waited a moment, then lifted Sherwood’s right leg—one hand beneath his ankle, the other beneath his knee—and began to move it up and down.

  Sherwood squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, swallowing another groan. His fingers gripped the sides of the raised bed. If Eduardo noticed his discomfort, he didn’t let it stop him.

  “I say…I do hope you…know what…you’re doing.”

  Eduardo chuckled. “I assure you, Mr. Statham, I do. It will take time, but there will come a day when you thank me.”

  “I find that…hard to believe.” He drew in a deep breath and opened his eyes. “How long…have you been…torturing the lame and infirm?”

  The therapist grinned. “About six years now. After completing my medical training, I worked in a hospital in Boston where I grew up. But Mr. McKinley’s offer to work at New Hope was one I couldn’t refuse. He’s a man of vision, and I believe in what he wants to accomplish here.”

  Another time, Sherwood might have asked questions about Morgan’s vision, but for the moment, it took all his reserves not to complain about the pain that shot through muscle and sinew and bone, from the toes clear into his back. He squeezed his eyes shut and pictured himself striding into the duke’s presence, whole and strong once again, and managed to swallow another groan.

  Cleo rode Buddy up to the corral and dismounted. She patted the horse’s neck once more before wrapping the reins around a rail.

  “How did he do?”

  She looked over her shoulder and saw her father’s approach. “He’s a natural.” Returning her attention to the saddle, she draped the left stirrup over the seat and began to loosen the cinch. “By the end of summer, he could be the best horse we’ve got on the ranch. Excepting Domino, of course.”

  “Of course.” Her father moved to stand near the gelding’s head. “Sherwood should have a horse to use while he’s with us.”

  She gave him a sharp look. “What for? He can’t ride with that bum leg.”

  “Not yet, but eventually he might be able to, God willing. Morgan said Sherwood was a fine horseman before he was injured in the war.”

  “Dad, have you seen how hard it is for him to get into the buggy or climb up onto the wagon? He can barely do the chores I’ve given him. No way could he get onto a saddle horse.”

  “We have reason to believe his sessions up at New Hope will make him more flexible and build up his strength.”

  Cleo dragged the saddle from Buddy’s back and willed herself not to say anything more about it.

  “Before he gets back from the resort,” her father continued, “choose two or three horses you think might suit him, and let him have his pick. I believe having a horse will give him something more to work toward.”

  “I’ll do it.” She turned on her heel. But I still think it’s a waste of time. With a shake of her head, she strode toward the barn.

  Inside, she dropped the saddle onto a saddletree and then took a moment to look around. It didn’t take long to ascertain that Woody had completed his chores before leaving for the resort. In fact, there hadn’t been a day when he’d slacked off. She had to give him that much credit. Even when he was obviously hurting, he hadn’t quit or complained. But getting up on a horse and riding with that bad leg? She didn’t see how that was possible. Still, if that’s what her dad wanted…

  After giving Buddy a good rub down and turning him out to graze, she made a survey of the horses she thought might be suitable for Woody.

  That big roan might be a good choice. The mare was sweet natured and easy going. Nothing startled or frightened her. But her height might be a problem. She was more than sixteen hands. It could be too much for Woody to mount her.

  The dun at the far end of the second paddock might be a better choice. Wilson—named in honor of the president because they shared the same December birthday—was closer to fifteen hands and had a lope as easy as a rocking chair. He required a firmer hand than the roan, but he responded well when checked.

  Lastly there was the bay gelding she’d bought at auction last fall. He was from thoroughbred stock and had the lines and look of a hunter. As it turned out, the bay wasn’t much good around cattle, but he’d be a fine mount for anybody riding for pleasure rather than work.

  She grabbed a rope from off a nearby post and went after the selected horses, bringing them one at a time into a corral. She’d just slipped the noose from the last one when she saw their buggy coming up the lane. Woody, back from New Hope. She moved away from the corral and awaited his arrival.

  When the buggy came to a halt, she stepped up to the horse, taking hold of the
reins. “So how was it? The spa, I mean.”

  “Delightful,” Woody answered, but his eyes and the tone of his voice told a different story. And when he got out of the buggy, so did the way he moved.

  “I’ll unhitch the horse. Why don’t you—”

  “Thank you, Cleo, but I can manage. I’m the one who used the buggy. I’ll be the one to take care of the horse.”

  “Suit yourself.” She took a step backward, out of his way.

  He nodded as he limped past her and began the process of freeing the horse from the traces.

  “Dad wants you to pick out a saddle horse for you to use while you’re here.”

  That made him look at her again.

  She shrugged. “He figures that when your leg gets better you’ll want to ride instead of traveling everywhere in the buggy or wagon.” She pointed toward the corral. “I’ve got three there for you to choose from.”

  His gaze followed her gesture. After a period of silence, he said, “I’ll look at them after I’m finished here.”

  “Whenever you’re ready.” It was obvious to Cleo that he didn’t want her company. “When you’ve decided, turn them into that first paddock. Okay?”

  “Yes. I’ll see to it.”

  She turned and strode toward the house, leaving him to his work. Once inside, she went upstairs to wash off the dust of the day. Strange, the way she didn’t notice the dirt as long as she was outside with the horses, but the instant she entered the house, she couldn’t wait to be clean again.

  Fifteen minutes later, her face and hands washed, her hair tidied, and wearing clean clothes, she entered her father’s groundfloor office. He was seated at his desk as she’d expected him to be, a ledger book open before him.

  “Woody’s back,” she said as she stepped through the doorway. “I told him to look over the horses I put in the corral. He said he would.”

  Her father leaned back and swiveled his chair toward her. “How did his first treatment go?”

  “He didn’t say, but he looked like it must’ve been rough.”

  “Morgan warned him it wouldn’t be easy at first. You might want to give him a lighter workload for a week or two.”

  “Sure. Whatever you say.” She turned her head toward the kitchen and sniffed the air. “Something smells mighty good.”

  “Cookie’s got a ham in the oven.”

  “Mmm.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Her father swiveled back to his desk.

  “Is there anything I can help you with in here?” Not that she would have been of much help. Cleo and numbers didn’t mix well. She was an outdoor kind of gal and hated the idea of sitting down for hours to add, subtract, divide, or multiply. Having a tooth pulled sounded more fun to her.

  “Don’t think so. I’m trying to make up my mind about culling more cows than usual.”

  Now, culling the herd was something she understood, and his suggestion surprised her. “Really? Why?”

  “I think it might be a good idea. Don’t want to overgraze, you know.”

  She said nothing more, but instead took the time to study her father. It occurred to her that he looked tired, that he’d looked extra tired for some while now. Maybe it was nothing. All the same, concern took up residence in a corner of her mind.

  ELEVEN

  Black clouds rolled in from the northwest on Saturday afternoon. The smell of impending rain reminded Sherwood of England, and he felt another twinge of homesickness as he leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb of the bunkhouse and stared across the valley.

  What he wouldn’t give for a proper English breakfast or a good cup of tea or a glass of port with his dinner. He wouldn’t mind an evening at the theater or the opera either. Other than when he was in France and then the hospital, he couldn’t recall a period of time when he’d gone so long without attending one or the other. And he missed people. Lots and lots of people. It wasn’t uncommon for Dunacombe guests to come and stay for days or even weeks at a time. He wasn’t used to the solitude of this place.

  The yard was quiet and empty this afternoon. Randall and Allen had ridden into town after their work was done, and Stitch and Cleo hadn’t returned from mending fences.

  “Sherwood!”

  He looked toward the house to see Griff standing on the porch.

  “Come and join me.”

  With a glance toward the darkened sky, he pushed off the doorjamb and walked across the yard. By the time he got to the veranda, Griff was seated in one of the chairs, a mug of coffee in his left hand.

  “I asked Cookie to brew some tea for you. It should be ready about now.”

  “I say. That was kind of you. I’ll have a look.” He opened the door and went inside, the way to the kitchen familiar to him now. Once there, he saw Cookie setting a small teapot onto a tray. “Griff told me there’s tea to be found in here.”

  Cookie frowned. “Never understood anybody’s hankerin’ for that beverage. You’re welcome to it.”

  “And I’m thankful.” Sherwood took up the tray, complete with cup and a small pitcher of cream, and carried it out to the veranda.

  When Griff saw him, he said, “Looks like Cleo and Stitch are going to get wet before they make it back.” As if to prove his point, drops of rain began to spatter the ground, raising little clouds of dust wherever they hit. “Hope they took their slickers with them.”

  Sherwood set the tray on the low, small table between two chairs. Then he sat and poured tea into the cup.

  Griff released a sigh. “It’s good to see the rain. Been a dry spring. But I wish it wasn’t so blasted cold.” He shivered, drank some coffee, then looked at Sherwood. “What’s the weather like in the spring where you come from?”

  “As many rainy days as sunny ones, I’d say.”

  “Tell me about your home.”

  “My home.” Sherwood pondered the two words. He suspected they meant something different to Griff Arlington than they did to him. Dunacombe Manor had never seemed like home. Even as a boy he’d felt out of place there, despite wanting desperately to fit in.

  “You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to.”

  He looked over at Griff. “It isn’t that, sir. I was simply wondering how to describe it. Dunacombe Manor has been the seat of the Dukes of Dunacombe since the late sixteen hundreds. It’s large and drafty and has been remodeled numerous times over the past two hundred years.” He paused, remembering the last time he’d been there. How cold and dark and grim it had seemed. “The war has caused a shortage of coal, and the plants in the great conservatory have died for lack of warmth. In years past, however, they were my mother’s pride and joy.”

  “Gwen has a great appreciation for growing things too. You’ll see that for yourself this summer.” Griff held the coffee cup to his lips. “Go on. Tell me more. It must have been fun, growing up in such a large home. Lots of places to play hide-and-seek.”

  “That was probably true for my brothers. They are much closer in age to one another than to me. By the time I might have enjoyed such escapades, they were off to boarding school for much of the year, and when they were home, they didn’t want their younger brother tagging along with them.” He released a small chuckle. “I guess I did my share of hiding and seeking with different members of the household staff, just to spice things up. The estate maintains a staff of over thirty, and they all live in.”

  “More than thirty? That’s a lot of mouths to feed.”

  Sherwood nodded. “Indeed. Thankfully, as the youngest of four sons, I need never be responsible for the property or the people employed there.”

  “It doesn’t bother you that you can’t inherit a title and its estate?”

  “Not at all.”

  Griff watched him, as if weighing the truth of his words.

  Sherwood could have assured his employer that he meant what he said. At one time, he might have answered differently, but no more. There were benefits that came with being a son of the privileged class, of course, and he’d
never been afraid to take advantage of them. But now? Now he’d begun to believe there were more advantages to be found in being one’s own man, free from the dictates of the peerage. Griff Arlington was such a man. He worked right alongside the other ranch hands, as did his daughter.

  “So tell me, Sherwood. What do you plan to do when you return to England?”

  “I suppose I shall have to practice law. It’s what I’m trained for and what my father expects of me.”

  Griff rubbed his chin. “Not much enthusiasm there. A man ought to like the work he does, if at all possible.”

  “Ah, but things are different here in America, I believe.”

  “Are they?”

  Sherwood thought of Cleo in her mannish attire, and he smiled. “You can be sure of it, Griff. Things are very different, indeed.”

  The rain ran off Cleo’s hat brim, a steady sheet of water before her eyes. It hit the back of her neck and slid down her spine. Even the slicker couldn’t keep her completely dry—not when the wind drove the rain at an angle. Neither she nor Stitch tried to carry on a conversation. Both were focused on getting back to the ranch as quickly as they could. And it wouldn’t be fast enough to suit her.

  Half an hour later when they rode into the yard, Cleo saw Woody standing on the veranda. He called to her, but she didn’t stop. She wanted to get into the barn and take care of Domino. After that, she was going to soak in a hot bath until the chill left her bones.

  As soon as they were in the barn, she hopped down from the saddle, took off her hat, and shook it, then removed the slicker and laid it over a stall rail. “Stitch, why don’t you—”

  “Cleo.” Woody appeared in the barn doorway, even wetter than she after his dash across the yard. “You’re needed in the house.”

  “I’ve got to take care of Domino first.”

  “It’s your father. He’s fallen ill.”

  She let go of the cinch and whirled around. “Dad?” Not waiting for an answer, she dashed out of the barn and across the yard. Inside the house, she saw Cookie at the top of the stairs. “What is it? What’s wrong with Dad?”