“He was sitting on the porch, talking to Sherwood, and started feeling chilled. He thought it was the weather making him cold, but it wasn’t. He’s running a fever. A mighty high one.”
Cleo bolted up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Her father was never sick, certainly never sick enough to take to his bed in the middle of the day. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the doctor. Maybe as far back as when he broke a couple ribs after falling off a horse. She’d been about thirteen or fourteen at the time.
When she entered the bedroom, she saw that someone had closed the curtains over the window, covering the room in shadows. Her father lay in his bed, face turned toward her, eyes closed. He shivered beneath several blankets.
“Dad?” She moved to the side of the bed, leaned over, and placed her hand on his forehead. He was burning up. She looked over her shoulder. Woody stood in the doorway next to Cookie. “Send one of the boys for Doc Winston. And somebody better let Gwen know too.”
“I’ll go,” Woody volunteered.
“No, it’ll be faster on horseback, and you’re not up to that kind of ride. Send Stitch or Randall.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Cleo turned back to the bed and knelt on the floor. “Dad? Can I get you anything?”
He opened his eyes for a moment but didn’t answer. In truth, she wasn’t sure he saw her.
“Cookie, bring me a bowl of water and a cloth to put on his head.”
“Right away.”
She leaned closer, whispering, “It’s okay, Dad. We’ll have you right as rain in no time at all.”
Silently, she began to pray, asking God’s mercy for her father, praying for His healing touch. She told herself she worried for nothing. People caught colds and then were better in a few days. But her dad looked so pale and haggard. She couldn’t remember him looking this way before, not even when he’d broken those ribs and been in such pain.
Cookie returned with the bowl of water and several cloths. As he set the items on the stand next to the bed, he said, “I’ll warm a brick in the oven to put near his feet. Maybe that will stop the chills.”
“Yes, please do that.”
The cook’s hand alighted on her shoulder. “Don’t you go worryin’ now. Griff’s a tough old bird. He’ll shake this thing.”
Cleo nodded, but she wasn’t comforted. She wouldn’t be comforted until the doctor arrived and told her that her father’s illness was something minor.
Sherwood remained on the porch, watching the rain make large, muddy puddles in the yard. More than once he started to go into the house. Each time he stopped himself. He would wait here for Stitch’s return with the physician. Perhaps then he would have an opportunity to inquire about Griff.
Logically, he knew it wasn’t his fault that his employer was sick. Yet it felt as if he were to blame. If he’d noticed Griff’s gray pallor a little sooner, if he’d paid attention to the shaking of the older man’s hands as he’d lifted the mug to take a sip of coffee, if he’d returned to the bunkhouse as the temperature dropped lower so that Griff had gone inside earlier.
“Sherwood?”
He turned toward the doorway where Cookie stood.
“Cleo wants to see you. She’s still up with Griff.”
“How much longer before the doctor arrives?”
Cookie shrugged. “Hard to tell, but I don’t reckon it’ll be much sooner than an hour. Depends if Stitch found him in his office or if he was out on a call. Doc’s got a motorcar now, so he might get here faster than I expect.”
Sherwood pushed off the railing, went inside, and climbed the stairs as quickly as his right leg allowed. When he reached Griff’s bedroom, he stopped at the doorway. Cleo was kneeling beside the bed, holding a cloth on Griff’s forehead and speaking softly—too softly for him to make out the words.
He cleared his throat to draw her notice.
She looked over her shoulder. Were there tears in her eyes? He couldn’t be sure in the dim light.
She rose and came to him. “Can you tell me what happened? Cookie said you were with him when he started feeling ill.”
Granted, he hadn’t known Cleo Arlington for long. Only for a couple of weeks. But he would have given odds that she never showed fear, even if she felt it. He saw it now. Her vulnerability pierced his heart. It made him want to take her in his arms and promise that he would make sure everything was all right. Which would have been a lie. No one could promise her that. Not and be telling the truth. Look at him. Look at the world. There were no promises that life would turn out the way one wanted it to.
He cleared his throat a second time. “We were sitting on the veranda, having a warm drink. He seemed fine at first, asking me questions about my home and my future profession. I’m not sure when I noticed that his hands were shaking and that his color was bad. Then he said he wasn’t feeling well. He got up to go inside, and he fainted.”
“Fainted? Dad fainted?”
“Fortunately, he fell backward into the chair.”
She worried her lower lip between her teeth.
“Cookie and I got him up the stairs and into bed. I was on my way to the bunkhouse to send Randall or Allen to look for you when you returned.”
She looked toward her father again. “I’ve never seen him like this. His skin is hot to the touch, like he’s on fire, but he keeps shivering like he’s about to freeze to death.”
“You look cold yourself. You should go change out of those wet things. I can stay with Griff until you get back.”
“No,” she replied softly. “I don’t want to leave him.”
“Then at least sit down. You look unsteady on your feet.”
He carried a straight-backed chair from beneath the window to the side of the bed. Cleo sat upon it and immediately began tending to her father again, moistening the cloth, wringing it out, and placing it upon Griff’s forehead.
Sherwood’s presence had already been forgotten. Quietly, he left the room.
TWELVE
Sherwood heard that Gwen McKinley wanted to come to the ranch to help take care of their father as he recovered from the influenza, but Cleo and the doctor forbade her from doing so, lest she put her unborn child in danger. Sherwood also knew without asking that Cleo slept only a little each night. He saw the exhaustion in her face and in the way she moved—the few times he saw her at all.
It was a warm day in early May, ten days after Griff first fell ill, when he sent for Sherwood to come see him. Arriving at the bedroom, Sherwood rapped on the doorjamb. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
The older man sat in a chair by the window, his legs covered by a light blanket, his feet propped on a footstool. It looked as if he’d lost a significant amount of weight over the course of his illness. Since there hadn’t been any fat on the man to begin with, the difference in his appearance was startling.
Griff motioned for Sherwood to enter. “Come over here and sit down.” He pointed to a chair opposite him.
Sherwood obliged without hesitation.
“I wanted to thank you,” Griff said.
“For what, sir?”
Griff smiled, then began to cough, a hacking sound ripped from the lungs, and had to wait a short spell before he could speak again. “Sorry.” He drew a careful breath. “I…I thought we were through with that ‘sir’ business.”
Sherwood inclined his head in agreement.
“Good. Now, I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Of course. Whatever you need, Griff, if it’s in my power.”
“The doctor has confined me to my room for another ten days or so, and I need someone to take over the bookkeeping and manage my correspondence. I thought, with your education and legal training, you might be able to handle it. I assume you’re good with numbers.”
“Well…yes, sir. I believe I am. But I haven’t been in America very long, and I don’t know anything about operating a cattle ranch. Are you sure Cleo shouldn’t—”
“Cleo ha
s too much on her slender shoulders as it is, and I need my ranch hands doing the work they were hired to do. Roundup and branding isn’t that far off and Cleo can’t spend time pushing paper around when she’s needed out there working with the boys. Besides, she detests record keeping and being shut up in an office.”
Sherwood was different from Cleo in that regard. Adding numbers in columns sounded much more interesting to him than feeding horses, mucking out stalls, and cleaning tack. As a boy he’d sometimes helped Bottomley, the manor’s overseer, with his ledgers. This couldn’t be much different, could it?
Griff continued. “I’ll be right here in my room if you have questions. And after I’m back on my feet, at least I’d know there was someone who could fill in if something else happened to me. Being sick has reminded me that I’m not as young as I used to be.”
It had been a long time since anyone had been as kind to Sherwood as Griff Arlington, and there wasn’t any way he could turn down the request, even if he wanted to. And he didn’t want to.
“I shall be glad to help you, sir. Whatever you need and for as long as you need.”
“Wonderful.” Griff leaned forward in his chair and offered Sherwood his right hand.
He shook it and returned the older man’s grin.
“Dad,” Cleo said as she stepped into the room, “you’re supposed to be resting. What are you doing?”
“I’ve just hired Sherwood as ranch manager.”
Cleo’s eyes widened. So did Sherwood’s.
Ranch manager? Griff hadn’t used that term earlier. If he had, it might have given him pause. Was there more to this than bookkeeping and correspondence? But it was too late to change his mind. He’d already agreed to do whatever Griff needed.
Before either Sherwood or Cleo could say anything, Griff had another coughing spell, so hard this time it brought tears to his eyes and left him gasping for air at the end of it.
“You need to get back in bed, Dad. You’ve been up long enough.” Cleo looked at Sherwood, accusation in her eyes. “And you should go so he can rest.”
“Of course. I’ll—”
“Wait,” Griff interrupted in a hoarse whisper. “I want you to go downstairs to my office and acquaint yourself with my files and ledgers. Go through everything. Spend the day there. Tomorrow morning—” He looked pointedly at his daughter, stopping any objection before it could be spoken, then turned back to Sherwood. “—you and I can go over any questions you might have.”
Sherwood nodded, then glanced at Cleo, who stood with her arms crossed over her chest, looking less than pleased with the two men in the room. He decided to make a silent and hasty retreat.
“Ranch manager? Dad, what were you thinking? He doesn’t know anything about running a ranch. He’s so green we ought to keep him watered so he can sprout.”
Her father shook his head as he rose from the chair. “There’s a lot more to that young man than you give him credit for. He’s suited for the task, Cleo. Give him a chance and you’ll see.” He waved her away with his hand. “Now that’s the end of it. I’ve made my decision.”
She pressed her lips together, swallowing another protest. Her father’s voice told her that further argument would be futile. He’d made up his mind. And maybe it was just as well. It meant she wouldn’t be Woody’s boss any longer. She could go about her daily business without having to think about what the dude should be doing. That would be nice for a change.
Once her dad was in bed again, his back braced with several pillows, Cleo leaned down and kissed his forehead. “I don’t want your mind turning to anything about the ranch for the rest of the day.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled at her, relieving the sting of his earlier brusqueness.
She returned the smile. More than once since he’d taken sick, she’d wondered if he would make it. He still looked much too frail. Griff Arlington had always been a rock, strong and unbeatable. If she were to lose him…The prospect didn’t bear thinking about.
“Cookie’s made chicken soup for lunch. I’ll bring you some soon.”
“Just a little. I don’t have much of an appetite yet.”
“And you never will if you don’t build up your strength.”
Her father gave her another smile.
She swallowed more admonitions and instead gave him good news. “The doctor says it’s safe for Gwen to come visit. She’ll be here on Thursday as usual. The waiting to see you has just about driven her mad.”
“I’ve missed her.” He closed his eyes and slid down a little ways in the bed. “Always miss my girls when they’re away.”
Cleo waited for him to say something more, but he appeared to have fallen asleep. She turned and silently left the bedroom.
Downstairs, she paused outside her father’s office. Ever since she was a little girl, she’d loved to visit her dad in this dark-paneled room with its big oak desk, filing cases, and shelves lined with books on animal husbandry, water management, veterinary practices, and more. The room had a unique smell—woodsy, leathery, dusty, all mixed together. And Dad always kept a sack of lemon drops in the lower right drawer of his desk. She loved those sweettart candies. They came with a lifetime of great memories.
She opened the door and looked in. Woody sat at her father’s desk, a ledger book open before him.
“Why did he ask you to do this?”
He looked up, but he didn’t answer her question.
She took two steps into the room. “Did you tell him you wanted to manage his books? What are you up to, anyway?”
At that, his mouth twisted. “Nothing. Cleo, I did not ask for this task. He offered it.”
“Why?”
“I believe he thinks my education and legal training will help me do it right.”
He could have asked me. Disappointment sluiced through Cleo. He should have asked me.
The thought surprised her. If her dad had asked her, she would have given him half a dozen reasons why she didn’t want the job and shouldn’t be the one to have it. She hated being shut up inside. She wasn’t good with figures. And she was much happier working with the horses than doing anything else.
Still, it felt wrong for the position to go to Woody, of all people.
As if reading her mind, he said, “Do you think me incapable of this too?”
“What? No.”
“Do you think I would steal from you or your father?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, you thought I was—how did you phrase it? Oh, yes, ‘Up to something.’ You must have meant something bad.”
She didn’t like the way his words made her feel. Because he was right. That was what she’d meant. She’d accused him of ulterior motives, although she hadn’t put it in quite those terms.
“Cleo.” Woody rose from the chair, his voice stiff. “Despite what you think of me, I won’t fail your father. I owe him for his many kindnesses to me. I know that I am not here because the ranch needed a new employee to clean the stalls in your barn. My father imposed me upon Morgan and Morgan sent me to you.”
She saw it then, the pain he tried so hard not to let others see. It was there for only a moment, but long enough for her to recognize it. Not the pain of his war wounds; that would have been bad enough. No, this was the pain brought on by his father’s rejection. She recognized it because she, too, had known the rejection of a parent. Her own mother had walked away from her when Cleo was two and hadn’t looked back.
Cleo looked at him, wordless. In an instant, her resentment faded, and instead she found herself wanting to offer…what? Comfort? Friendship born from a shared experience? It was more than pity, she realized. More than compassion. She felt something she couldn’t describe—and wasn’t sure she welcomed.
Woody’s gaze grew more intense, as if he too realized something was changing between them. The air in the room grew thick.
Cleo took a step backward. “I…I shouldn’t have questioned Dad’s judgment. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing
.” Feeling oddly unsteady, she spun around and left the office as fast as possible.
“Extraordinary.” Sherwood settled onto the chair.
He’d actually found himself wanting to kiss Cleo. That was more than extraordinary. It was preposterous. She was the last woman he would ever find attractive. He liked voluptuous females, women who looked like women—long hair and pretty dresses and dainty shoes and fashionable hats. Not to mention that he didn’t need any sort of involvement with his employer’s daughter. He was far from England and virtually penniless. Wasn’t that enough? Additional complications in his life were most unwelcome.
He raked the fingers of both hands through his hair, hoping at the same time to mentally rake the image of Cleo’s rosy, rather full lips, from his memory.
“Extraordinary, indeed.”
THIRTEEN
Gwen arrived at the ranch on Thursday before ten in the morning. After giving Cleo a quick hug, she hurried up the stairs to their father’s bedroom. Cleo followed right behind.
Gwen sat on the side of the bed and took their father’s left hand between both of hers. “I’ve been beside myself with worry, Dad, ever since I learned you were ill. It’s been dreadful, not being allowed to see you before this.”
“You did right not to come,” he answered. “You gotta take care of that baby you’re carrying.”
Cleo leaned her right shoulder against the doorjamb and observed her sister and their father. She took great pleasure in seeing the two of them together. She liked knowing they were so close and loving, despite all the years apart. Too bad the same couldn’t be said about the remaining two members of the Arlington family. Cleo and her mother were oil and water—too different to mix well. They’d found that out when Elizabeth Arlington came to Bethlehem Springs for Gwen’s wedding, then extended her visit for a number of months. Elizabeth had spent much of that time trying to change Cleo into a mirror image of her twin. Agony. Sheer agony.
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