The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs Collection

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  “Maybe,” Griff said, unconvinced.

  “Maybe he should live and work here, after all. His father didn’t think it wise, but now that he’s been here awhile, I can’t see any good reason he shouldn’t.”

  Griff considered the offer for a few moments. It might help Cleo if Sherwood was no longer at the ranch. If her affection for him hadn’t fully blossomed, maybe his absence would keep it from happening. And yet, sending the young man away felt wrong now that Griff completely understood the family dynamics. Never accepted. Never measuring up. Cast off by the man he called father. It seemed to Griff that Sherwood had been rejected enough for one lifetime.

  “No,” he answered at last. “I believe he should stay on at the ranch. Cleo is a grown woman. I can’t protect her from the hard things in life, as much as I might like to. She’ll have to make her own choices.” He sighed. “I’ll pray for her. I’ll pray for them both.”

  31 May, 1916

  Dearest Mother,

  How good it was to receive your letter with news of the family.

  Extend my heartiest congratulations to Marshall. Lady Margaret has exactly the right temperament to be his wife and

  mistress of his home. It’s a fine match. They should be quite happy at Chilton House.

  Tell Haywood that I am attending church services regularly now, along with my employer and his daughter and one of the cowboys who works at the ranch. I like to think that I’m changed for the better because of it.

  Langford is much on my mind. Even though the Americans are not fighting with the Allies, news of the war fills their newspapers, and it is hard for me to know that my brother continues to be in danger on the battlefields of France.

  You requested more details of my journey to Bethlehem Springs, and I will try to oblige. The ocean voyage was tense with passengers and crew always watching for signs of a German ship. Thankfully, we never encountered the enemy, and our ship arrived in New York City without misadventure. Once in America, I traveled by rail from New York City across what seemed to be a never-ending, constantly changing, land. We stopped frequently, a few times in large cities, but most often at stations in small towns in the middle of nowhere. The center of this nation is flat and sparsely populated. Then there are the Rocky Mountains, some mountain peaks remaining snow covered year round. Wildlife is abundant.

  The Arlington ranch, where I am employed, is quite different from any sort of enterprise I have seen in England, and the cowboys who work the ranch are a colorful lot. It was difficult for me at first to understand them, but it is not so hard for me now. Recently, the cowboys brought in the herd, where they separated out the young calves for branding and then sent some cattle to market to be sold. It was quite the thing to watch, I assure you.

  My health has improved, thanks in good part to Morgan McKinley. I have received care and therapy at his health spa. My leg has improved enough that I can now ride a horse. Not fast nor for long periods, but I do believe that time will come.

  My work has varied, and at present I am helping Mr. Arlington with his accounts and record keeping. I have also been reading books on animal husbandry and proper land management. Quite fascinating, actually.

  Tell Father that I have learned more in America than he, perhaps, might have expected. Do not worry about me, for I have found that I like this land and these people. In the end, it will be a year well spent.

  Your loving son,

  Sherwood

  Sherwood folded the letter and slipped it into the envelope. He was thankful he’d overcome the temptation to write about mucking out stalls. While it might have upset the duke, it wouldn’t bring Sherwood any satisfaction in the end—one more thing he’d learned since coming here.

  He placed the envelope in a wooden tray with two other items to be posted, then left the office and went outside. It was late morning, already warm and promising to grow more so before day was done. A couple of dogs lounged in the dirt in the shade of the barn. One of them—a large brown canine of questionable breed, with the name of Bear—rose and trotted across the yard and up the steps. Sherwood hadn’t been at the ranch very long before he learned that Bear would befriend anyone who gave him a pat on the head. He obliged by bending down and stroking the dog’s coat.

  A horse’s squeal of anger caused Sherwood to straighten and look toward the barn. He moved off the porch and headed in that direction. As he drew closer, he heard more sounds—snorting, stomping, grunting, another squeal of complaint—followed by Cleo’s voice.

  “Easy. Easy.”

  He circumvented the barn, and the third corral came into view. In it, as he’d expected, was Cleo and one of the mustangs. This one, a big black stallion with a rope around its neck, was determined not to cooperate. The horse bucked and reared and fought to get away from the slight woman on the opposite end of the rope. But Cleo had a firm grip, and her heels dug into the dirt in the center of the corral.

  How did she do it? How was she strong enough to fight that wild horse and win? And he had no doubt that she would win in the end. The determined set of her mouth told him she wouldn’t be the one to give up.

  Sherwood kept his distance. He didn’t want to distract Cleo or startle the horse. Instead he leaned his back against the side of the barn and continued to watch. He wasn’t sure how much time passed before the stallion began to show signs of tiring. Finally he stopped, body quivering, an untrusting gaze turned upon Cleo.

  “Easy there. Easy, boy.” She moved slowly but steadily toward the horse, and Sherwood could tell she was watchful for any sign the fight might begin again. Watchful and ready for it. But for now the stallion was done. He might fight again tomorrow, but not today.

  Cleo was finished as well. She seemed satisfied to stroke the horse two or three times on the neck before slipping the noose from over his head and setting him free in the nearest paddock.

  Sherwood moved forward. “You have a way with horses.”

  She looked over her shoulder, apparently unsurprised to find him standing there. “I should. I’ve been working with them since I was a kid.”

  “I’ve known others who have worked with horses since childhood, and none of the men of my acquaintance are like you. You have a gift.”

  She smiled as she wiped her forehead on her shirtsleeve. “Maybe so. I reckon God knew what He was doing when He formed me.”

  It was a sudden shift in conversation, going from horses to God, but not unforeseen. They were all like that—Cleo, Griff, Gwen, and Morgan. They spoke of the Almighty naturally, as if they knew Him. How could one know God? Knowing about Him, Sherwood understood. But this was different. This family was different.

  His eyes narrowed as a question repeated itself in his head. At last, he asked it. “Have you always believed in God in such a personal way?”

  “Yes.” She opened the gate and stepped out of the corral. “Don’t know any other way to believe in Him.”

  Sherwood envied her. He envied the assurance of her faith. He envied the unconditional love she shared with each member of her family. And for the first time he realized how difficult it would be to leave Cleo and the others when his year of exile was completed.

  NINETEEN

  Sherwood paused at the entrance to the men’s private bathing rooms and looked toward one of the two pools. In it, two young boys paddled through the water with the aid of attendants. The lads had polio, Sherwood knew, and both walked with greater difficulty than he did. The older of the two was from San Francisco, the younger from some place in the South. Boys from poor families, the both of them, guests of the resort as beneficiaries of the Danielle McKinley Foundation.

  Over his last few visits to the resort, Sherwood had learned these bits of information from his therapist and from the boys themselves. Because of it, his estimation of Morgan McKinley had climbed even higher than it had been before. And it made him ashamed. He, too, was a beneficiary of Morgan’s generosity; the difference was the Stathams weren’t poor. They could easily afford to p
ay for the treatment he’d received. But the duke had made it clear that Sherwood would have to work for everything while in America.

  He ran the fingers of one hand through his damp hair as he left the pools and walked toward the Arlington buggy. Another week and the therapist said he should be ready to ride his horse to New Hope. He would be glad for that day. His leg would never be perfect. The knee would never again bend as it should. He would always have an uneven gait. But it wasn’t as pronounced as it used to be, and for that he was grateful.

  “Lord Sherwood.”

  He turned at the sound of his name.

  Morgan strode toward him from the direction of the lodge. “How was your session?”

  “Rather good. It won’t be long before Eduardo is shed of me.”

  “I’m told you’ve made a lot of progress.”

  “Indeed. I’m deeply indebted to you, Morgan. More than I can express.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Sherwood shook his head. “It isn’t nonsense, and after I return to England I’ll make certain your foundation receives appropriate reimbursement.”

  Morgan merely smiled, then motioned toward the lodge. “Would you join me for a cool beverage before you start back to the ranch?”

  Something cool to drink sounded good to Sherwood, so he nodded.

  A number of guests sat in the chairs on the veranda that wrapped around the lodge, enjoying the shade and the pleasant breeze that blew through the compound. Morgan spoke to a few of them by name. “Afternoon, Henry.” “Enjoying your stay, Miss Margaret?” “Samuel, you look like you’re feeling better.” Then he and Sherwood went inside.

  Unlike the night of the grand opening, the entry and sitting room weren’t jammed with people. This afternoon, two women sat near the windows reading. Another sat on one of the sofas, needlework in her hands. Two gentlemen stood nearby, debating something to do with taxation. Morgan led the way into the dining room and motioned for Sherwood to sit at a table.

  A waiter appeared almost as soon as they sat down. “What may I bring you, sir?” he asked Morgan.

  “Lord Sherwood?”

  “I’m growing rather fond of that drink you Americans call root beer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Morgan said, “I’ll have the same.”

  “I’ll bring your beverages right out.” The waiter turned on his heel and headed for the kitchen.

  “When is the restaurant the busiest?” Sherwood asked, looking around at the many empty tables.

  “Our guests with children usually dine early. Those without tend to dine later. The restaurant stays fairly busy from about six o’clock until after ten.” Morgan’s eyes revealed his satisfaction. “We’re at about seventy percent capacity at present. Rather good, considering the short while we’ve been open. Word is spreading, thanks to those who came to stay during our opening weekend.”

  It occurred to Sherwood that another way he could repay Morgan’s kindness was by telling others about New Hope. There were wealthy people in England who felt inconvenienced by the war and an inability to travel to the Continent. They might like to see America and stay at a spa such as this one. Yes, when he returned to the ranch, he would write a few letters.

  Morgan broke into his thoughts. “Do you enjoy managing the business end of the ranch? Griff seems to think you’re well suited to it.”

  Sherwood chuckled. “I believe I’ve surprised us both.”

  “And Cleo? How are things between the two of you?”

  “Cleo?” The question came out of the blue. “We get along well.” He pictured her working with that black mustang, dusty from head to toe, that determined glint in her eye. “She’s unlike any woman I’ve known before.” A smile crept into the corners of his mouth. By comparison, the ladies of his previous acquaintance seemed staid and dull.

  “Cleo’s one of a kind.” Morgan leaned his forearms on the table. “And no one who loves her wants to see her get hurt.”

  Sherwood heard a warning in the gently spoken words. Was it for him or someone else?

  Cleo elbowed the gelding in his ribs. “Get off me, you lazy brute.” He nickered but didn’t budge.

  This horse did the same thing every time she trimmed his hooves. As she balanced his leg and hoof between her knees, he would lean into her, forcing her to support some of his weight.

  She jabbed his side with a little more force. This time he shifted away from her. “That’s better.”

  With her pocketknife she trimmed old flakes from the sole. Then she took the nippers from her hind pocket and snipped the wall of the hoof, doing as much of the shaping as she could with the tool. She’d learned through the years that using the rasp was the hardest part of horseshoeing. That task came next.

  She had just finished preparing the hoof for the new shoe when the buggy rolled into the yard. She lowered the gelding’s leg to the ground, and as she straightened, she pressed her fingers against the small of her spine and arched backward. She’d be glad when this last horse was done. So would her back.

  Woody got out of the buggy, and she noticed that he did so with a new confidence, a new gracefulness of motion. She was glad for him, glad for all the folks who were being helped up at New Hope. A year ago, she never would have guessed how much good Morgan’s resort would do.

  Woody saw her looking his way and left the horse standing in its traces while he walked toward her. “I say. You were at that when I left. You must be weary.”

  Perspiration beaded her forehead and upper lip, and she felt the dampness of her shirt under her arms and along her spine. What a sight she must be. “This is the last one.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” He seemed to ask that a lot lately.

  “I reckon not. But thanks anyway.”

  “Well, let me know if you think of something.” He smiled.

  Something strange was going on inside her as she looked at him. It felt like a couple of tomcats fighting in a gunnysack. Not the best feeling in the world. Kind of made it hard to breathe.

  She turned and reached for the horseshoe. When she turned back again, he was walking away, returning to the horse and buggy. The fighting tomcats went away, too, replaced by an empty feeling that was almost worse.

  Must be coming down with something.

  She placed her hand on the gelding’s hip, then slid it down the leg to the fetlock. Without warning, the gelding jerked his leg forward and kicked out hard, knocking Cleo off balance and pitching her headlong into the side of the barn. Stars exploded in front of her eyes, and then the light faded into a blackness that wrapped itself around her. It was quiet and peaceful and—

  “Cleo.” The voice came from far away, as if through a tunnel or a cave. “Cleo.”

  She groaned.

  “Open your eyes.”

  She tried to obey, but her head had begun to hurt and the light made it worse. She closed them again.

  “Come on, Cleo. Look at me.”

  Releasing another groan, she forced her eyes open a second time. Woody’s image wavered above her.

  “That’s better.”

  What was better?

  “I’m afraid you’ll have a nasty knot.”

  What was he talking about?

  Woody leaned close, and she realized then that he cradled the back of her head in the palm of his hand. “Be still. You’re bleeding.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to the crown of her head.

  My word. His eyes were quite amazing up close like this. And his mouth—

  “We’d best get you into the house. That cut needs cleaning and may need stitches.” He took hold of her hand and placed it over the kerchief on her head. “Hold that there.” Then he slipped one arm beneath her neck and the other beneath her knees.

  How he managed to lift her with that bad leg of his, she couldn’t say, but it was evidence of strength she hadn’t known he possessed.

  “You don’t have to carry me,” she said softly.

  He ignored he
r.

  She was glad of it.

  “Griff! Cookie!” He carried her toward the kitchen. “Cleo’s hurt.”

  “Don’t bother them. Really, Woody. I’m okay. Put me down.”

  He still ignored her.

  This time, gladness was replaced by embarrassment. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t hit her head before. She’d taken more spills in her lifetime than she could remember. A little bump on the head was no cause for anyone to fuss. But apparently that wasn’t up to her. By the time Woody carried her into the kitchen, both her father and Cookie had come running.

  “What happened?” her father demanded.

  Woody answered, “I heard her cry out and when I turned around, she was lying on the ground unconscious.”

  “I’m all right, Dad. A horse just knocked me against the barn is all.”

  Woody set her down on a kitchen chair. “That wound on her head may need stitches.”

  Cookie brought disinfectant to the table, along with some soft cloths.

  “Ow!” She jerked away as her father began cleaning the wound.

  “Sit still, Cleo.”

  “Let me take care of it myself.”

  “Not until I have a look.”

  At least she could be thankful none of the boys were around to witness her humiliation. Bad enough to get knocked unconscious by a horse. Worse yet to be carried into the house like some swooning female in a dime novel. Her dad, Woody, and Cookie better not breathe a word of this or she would have their hides.

  “It’s not that bad,” her father said. “No stitches needed.”

  “I could have told you that,” she replied.

  Her dad leaned forward and looked her in the eyes. “No, you couldn’t have. You’ve got a lump the size of an egg up there. You should take it easy the rest of the day.”

  “I’ve got to finish shoeing that horse.” Shoe him or shoot him.

  “I’ll see that it gets done.” Her father’s tone brooked no argument.

  Cleo acquiesced with a nod. “Has the bleeding stopped?”