The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs Collection

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  Most of the time, Cleo could think about her mother without feeling hurt. But two days ago, when she’d been with Woody in her dad’s office, his secret pain had reminded her of the old wound she kept hidden. Not that she was one to dwell on such thoughts. Her mother was what she was, and Cleo was what she was. And hadn’t God allowed her to be raised by a dad who loved her and wanted what was best for her?

  “Are you eating enough?” Gwen asked, drawing Cleo’s attention to the present.

  “I’m getting my appetite back.”

  Gwen glanced toward the doorway, and Cleo gave her the slightest of nods.

  “And enough sleep?”

  “That’s about all I do. And cough. Sleep and cough.”

  “But Doc Winston says you’re getting better?”

  “Yes, Gwen. I’m getting better, but staying in this bedroom night and day may drive me mad before too much longer. I’m not used to inactivity.”

  Cleo said, “Maybe, but if you do too much too soon, Doc says you could have a relapse. So right here’s where you’re gonna stay.”

  He gave her a scowl that had little punch to it. “My illness has created a tyrant.”

  “Better believe it.” Cleo pushed off the doorjamb. “I’ll leave you two to visit for a spell while I tend to some chores. Gwennie, I reckon you and I will eat lunch downstairs. Don’t want to wear Dad out with too long of a visit.”

  “No, of course not.”

  When Cleo reached the bottom of the stairs, her gaze moved toward the closed door of her father’s office. Woody was in there. She supposed he was working hard, although there was no way she could prove it. It felt strange, knowing he was in the house so much of the time, although she saw less of him now than when he’d helped her out around the barn and paddocks.

  She felt a strange sensation down deep in her belly, like the feeling she got riding a bronc—that moment when horse and rider fell toward the earth a split second after hanging suspended in air. She liked that feeling when breaking a wild horse. She didn’t much care for it now.

  She grabbed her hat from the chair where she’d dropped it a short while ago and slapped it onto her head. Then she went outside and headed for the nearest corral. Star, the sorrel mare whose leg she’d been doctoring for a number of weeks, was alone in the enclosure. When the horse saw Cleo’s approach, she gave her head a toss, as if to say, Go away.

  “Not today, girl. Today you get to work a bit.”

  She grabbed the lunge line from a fence post before entering the corral. The mare sidled away from her.

  “Easy, there.”

  Star turned first one way, then another, but there was nowhere for her to go, no way to escape Cleo. Soon enough, the rope was attached to the mare’s halter, and Cleo began walking her in a counter clockwise circle around the corral. No sign of a limp. Cleo hadn’t expected there would be. She let out the line as she stepped into the center of the corral.

  “Giddup there.” She clucked her tongue and swirled the end of the rope, urging the mare into a jog.

  They circled the corral a number of times before Cleo stopped the horse and changed to a clockwise direction. All the while she kept her gaze glued to the mare’s left hind leg.

  “I say. She’s looking topnotch.”

  At the sound of Woody’s voice, Cleo felt that falling sensation again. She didn’t allow herself to look his way. Nor did she reply.

  “You must be rather pleased with her progress.”

  How could she ignore that? “Yeah.”

  “Will you use her when you drive the cattle to market?”

  Cleo slowed Star to a walk and shortened the space between them. “No. I don’t want to take any chances with her that soon.”

  “When exactly will the drive take place?”

  What was with all his questions? Couldn’t he go back to his bookkeeping and leave her in peace?

  “It would help me, you see, as I try to budget the expenses and income. Should I ask your father? I didn’t wish to interrupt his visit with Mrs. McKinley but—”

  “In two weeks.” She turned to face him. “We have a roundup twice a year. Normally we sell our mature cattle in the fall after they’ve had a chance to fatten up. But Dad decided we needed to cull more of the herd this spring, have fewer cows grazing the land this summer. I guess he feels the herd’s grown too large.”

  “There does seem to be somewhat of a cash-flow problem at present.”

  “There is?” Cleo shook her head. “You must have figured wrong.”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  Woody had to be mistaken. If there were financial concerns, her father would have said something to her. Besides, Woody had only been studying the ranch accounts for a few days. He couldn’t begin to understand everything this soon.

  She slipped the halter from Star’s head. “I’ll talk to Dad about it later. I don’t want him bothered today. Not while Gwen’s here.”

  “As you wish.”

  She didn’t like the way he watched her, couldn’t seem to draw a breath while being studied by those bothersome green eyes of his, didn’t care for that funny sensation in her belly. Why had being around him begun to make her feel all odd and discombobulated? Just because she’d realized they had one little thing in common was no reason for her to go soft in the head when he was around.

  She liked it better when Woody made her madder than a rained-on rooster. She understood that. After all, any greenhorn from England who was underfoot would make a hard-working wrangler feel the same way. But this strange sensation in her belly? She didn’t know what to make of it, and she hoped it would go away. Soon.

  Sherwood wasn’t wrong about the financial condition of the Arlington ranch. Rich in land and livestock Griff might be, but at the moment, he was cash poor. It didn’t surprise Sherwood. In England, the landed gentry often had threadbare pockets. The Arlingtons weren’t in danger of losing their ranch—the situation wasn’t so serious as that—but he had no doubt Griff was culling the herd this spring for the money they would bring at market.

  Bottomley, who knew a thing or two about livestock management, had once explained to Sherwood that a man had to balance a need for cash against the future productivity of the livestock in question. Selling off too many cows, sheep, hogs, or chickens that could be used to replenish a farm’s livestock could permanently eliminate future income, bringing about even greater hardship at a later time.

  Seated at his employer’s desk again, Sherwood wished he could talk to Griff now, while his thoughts were fresh. He needed to know what bills to pay and what could wait until after the cattle were sold. But Cleo had made her wishes clear. He would have to wait.

  He heard a knock, and as he looked toward the office door, it opened to reveal Gwen McKinley.

  “Dad told me you’re handling the paperwork for him while he’s recovering. I’m glad to know he needn’t worry about it.”

  “I’m doing the best I can.” He rose from the chair.

  “And how is your leg? Is the therapy helping?”

  “Yes, I believe it is. At the very least, I’m not dreading the exercises quite as much as I did two weeks ago.”

  “I’m glad, Lord Sherwood.”

  “Gwennie,” Cleo called from another room, “come along. Your lunch is getting cold.”

  Gwen smiled at him. “I imagine that means your lunch is getting cold as well.”

  “I hadn’t realized it was that time.” He glanced toward the clock on the desk. Noon already.

  “Would you care to join us?”

  He shook his head. “That’s kind of you, Mrs. McKinley, but I believe I’ll eat with the other men in the kitchen.”

  She gave him a nod before disappearing from the doorway.

  Sherwood closed the open file folder on the desk and left the office. When he pushed open the door to the kitchen, he found the other ranch hands already at the table, plates of food in front of them. They welcomed him, and then resumed eating. For a time, the only s
ounds in the room were those of knives and forks scraping against plates. Sherwood was content to join them in silence while they ate.

  His thoughts settled on Cleo. He hoped her sister’s visit would cheer her and ease the worry she carried. It had seemed to Sherwood that her slight shoulders would buckle under the weight of it these past twelve days. He’d missed seeing her smile, missed the confident way she usually carried herself, even missed the times she’d treated him as if she thought he couldn’t tell the front end of a cow from the rear.

  He wished he hadn’t mentioned his concern about cash flow to her. The task of managing the financial affairs of the ranch had been given to him by her father. He shouldn’t have added to her worries. He should have guessed Griff hadn’t told her why he was culling more cows than was normal.

  While he couldn’t undo the mistake he’d made in telling her, he could make sure he found a way to stretch resources until the sale of the cattle brought in the needed reserves. He could make sure he didn’t add any more worries to those Cleo already carried. He would work around the clock if necessary to make certain Griff Arlington found the ranch accounts in a better state than they’d been when he fell ill.

  When the meal was done and the cowboys returned to their work outside, Sherwood went to the office at the other end of the house and renewed his efforts to balance cash on hand against expenses.

  Griff awakened to a room filled with shadows. How long had he slept? If he judged the light correctly, the dinner hour had come and gone. He scooted up in bed, resting his back against the pillows, making sure to keep his breathing shallow. Deep breaths could send him into a coughing fit in an instant.

  It worried him some, this lingering weakness and incessant cough. Not that he was a man unaware of his own mortality. Sickness came to almost everyone at some point, and death came to all without exception. Although he had no fear of dying—his faith was too strong for that—he didn’t care much for the idea that he might be less than productive in his waning years.

  But his illness had brought about even more concern for Cleo. He’d had plenty of time, lying here in this bed while recuperating, to think upon what would happen to his eldest daughter—the older twin by ten minutes—when the Lord called him home to heaven. Cleo was very much her own woman, something he’d encouraged in her, perhaps more than he should have. She was smart, even without a fancy education. She had horse sense, that one, and seldom in her life had anyone been able to pull the wool over her eyes. She was more than capable, mentally and physically, of running this ranch. All the same, he would feel better about the future if she were married to a good man. If she had the companionship of a husband who loved and cherished her, Griff would rest easier.

  Although she’d never said as much, he knew that King fellow had wounded Cleo’s heart. In some ways, Griff blamed himself for that. He should have judged the man’s character better. He should have sent him packing long before the cowboy got caught in a noose of his own making. Thankfully, Cleo seemed to have moved past her hurt. She might be ready to fall in love were she to have the opportunity, were she to meet the sort of man who could look past her trousers and independent thinking and see the woman inside.

  But where was such a man to be found? The men of Crow County were all blind as bats, every last man jack of them. Had to be if they couldn’t see the beauty in Cleo for themselves.

  Griff reached for the glass of water on the stand next to the bed and took several sips as his thoughts drifted to his other daughter. Gwen hadn’t wanted to marry and had expressed her negative feelings about matrimony on many occasions, both to him and to others. So everyone had been surprised—no one more so than Gwen herself—when she fell in love and married a newcomer to Bethlehem Springs. Since no eligible bachelor in the county had the good sense to woo and win Cleo in a similar manner, it seemed another newcomer was needed.

  A newcomer…hmm…Sherwood Statham was a newcomer.

  The thought made him laugh out loud. Cleo and Woody? He thought it more likely that pigs would learn to fly before those two could even see eye to eye, let alone fall in love. No, the man for Cleo had yet to be seen. Griff would have to pray God would bring him to Bethlehem Springs, and the sooner the better.

  FOURTEEN

  Sherwood was surprised when Griff asked him to continue with the ranch bookkeeping even after the older man left his sickbed and became more active. Surprised and pleased. He’d discovered he wasn’t merely good at working with figures. He enjoyed it. Enjoyed the challenge it presented. And with Griff’s insights and instruction, he was learning more every day about managing a ranch.

  He had to admit, however, that he was also glad to resume some of his former chores, especially as the weather warmed and the days lengthened. After a month of therapy at New Hope, his leg had improved far more than he’d thought possible. Far more than the physicians in England had given him reason to think attainable. The pain was tolerable now and the knee’s range of motion at least twenty-five percent better than when he’d begun treatment at the spa. Not as much as he might wish—he would never be completely free of a limp—but some change was better than nothing.

  Today he planned to test his recovery.

  Cleo and the cowboys, including a number of temporary hands, had ridden out this morning to begin the spring round up. Only Griff, Cookie, and Sherwood remained at the ranch house. This was the perfect time to see if he could mount a horse without help.

  He led the bay gelding out of the paddock and into the barn, desiring to be out of view. There, he brushed the horse’s coat clean before placing a blanket and saddle onto his back. After cinching the saddle, he checked the stirrups, lengthening the right one more than the left to accommodate the stiffness of his leg.

  The gelding tossed his head when Sherwood tried to slide the bit into its mouth, but with persistence, Sherwood prevailed. Now if only he could prevail in his quest to ride the animal.

  Gathering the reins in his left hand, he took hold of the left stirrup and placed his foot in it. The bay snorted, and for a moment, Sherwood feared the horse would move too far and cause him to topple. Better to make a quick attempt to mount up.

  It felt awkward, getting his right leg over the horse’s back, but all in all, it wasn’t as difficult as he’d feared. Even getting his right boot into the stirrup went without a hitch, although his leg complained with a couple of jolts of pain. Pain he ignored.

  “I say, old boy. It’s time you and I became acquainted.” He rode out of the barn and turned the gelding down the road toward town.

  By heavens! It was wonderful to be astride a horse again. Until this moment, he hadn’t known how much he’d missed it. While he’d remembered the thrill of taking a horse over a hedge or galloping across an open field, it had often seemed like the memories belonged to someone else. Now he knew for sure they were his.

  The gelding pranced and bobbed his head, anxious to have his rider ease up on the reins, asking to be allowed to run, but Sherwood wasn’t ready for that yet. He didn’t want his first attempt to sit a horse to end with him lying in the middle of the road.

  He glanced at his right leg while shifting slightly in the stock saddle. The seat was broader than the type of saddle he’d used in England and the stirrups felt strange, but he thought he would get used to the differences quickly enough. And if he began to lose his seat, the horn could prove quite useful to him.

  He kept a firm grip on the reins, holding the horse to a prancing walk for the better part of two miles. Then he turned back to the ranch. Perhaps tomorrow he would ride farther down the road. And maybe he would surprise everyone by riding his horse into town on Sunday, although it might be a trifle soon for that.

  Sweat trickled down the sides of Cleo’s face and dust coated her tongue as she trailed the herd toward the ranch house. But while today was hot and tiring, tomorrow would begin the hard work—branding the calves and separating out the cattle that would go to market. Those cows would be corralled in large p
ens south of the ranch house until it was time to drive them into Bethlehem Springs for shipment by cattle car to the stockyards.

  A yearling calf darted away from the herd, and Cleo went after it. Domino was the best reining horse she had trained over the past fifteen years—which was saying something—and it took next to nothing to steer the pinto one way or another. A touch of her heel, a shift in her weight, the reins upon his neck. The most important thing she could do was hang on because when the gelding changed direction, he did it on a dime.

  Her pulse raced by the time the renegade calf rejoined the herd, and she loved the feeling. There was nothing like the joy she experienced when riding a well-trained steed. No doubt about it. God had done His best work when He created the horse.

  She saw Stitch riding toward her and returned his grin.

  “Cleo, that horse of yours is something to behold when he’s workin’.”

  “I know.”

  “He’d bring a pretty penny if you ever wanted to sell him.”

  “I’ll never sell Domino, Stitch. You know that.”

  “Yeah. I know.” They rode in silence for a short while, then the cowboy asked, “How’s Griff doin’? I haven’t talked to him in a couple of days.”

  “He’s getting stronger. Doc Winston seemed pleased last time he was out to see him, but he told Dad he must continue to rest for another week or so.”

  “That can’t be sittin’ well with him.”

  Cleo laughed as she shook her head. “No, it isn’t.”

  “I can tell Griff’s taken a real liking to Sherwood. I would’ve sworn he’d be long gone by now. Glad I was wrong. Seems he’s been good for Griff. And I reckon you’re thankful your dad’s got help with his record keepin’ so he’s not tryin’ to do it all himself.” He scratched his grizzled chin. “Me and numbers don’t get on well together. Guess that’s why I never hankered to have a spread of my own. But Sherwood seems to like it.”