The Cowboy’s Bride Collection: 9 Historical Romances Form on Old West Ranches
Page 3
“Sure.”
Rilla gathered the things she needed and filled a basin with warm water then bent over the dog again. Bat held Woolly down with one hand and stroked his head with the other, murmuring, “It’s okay, boy. Good dog.”
Being so close to the cowboy set Rilla’s pulse tripping. Bat smelled of sunshine and grass and the open range. She could almost feel another poem forming in her head.
“What sort of name is Bat?” she asked.
“It’s short for… something else.”
She glanced up at him. “Bartholomew?”
His mouth twitched. “My sister was two when I was born. For her, it wasn’t much of a reach from Bart to Bat.”
She chuckled. “I won’t ask what you called her.”
“There,” she said when all the cuts were cleaned and salved. “Now let’s get you something to eat, Woolly. I saved a beef bone for you last night.” She looked at Bat. “I wondered why he didn’t come around this morning.”
Bat lifted Woolly down from the table. “I’d best get back to work.”
“Can’t you stay a minute? I’m taking a cake out of the oven in a few minutes.”
He smiled. “So that’s what smells so good. I’d love to, but I’m sure the foreman has something else for me to do.”
“Well, here.” Rilla opened the pottery cookie jar that looked like an overgrown bean pot and took out a handful of oatmeal cookies. “They’re not warm, but they’re edible. Thanks again for bringing him in.”
Bat looked down at the four cookies in his hand. “Thanks very much, ma’am. They’ll go down right nice.”
“You’re welcome. And I’ll send some cake over to the bunkhouse tonight for you boys.” She lingered in the doorway, watching him amble toward the bunkhouse while munching the cookies. Woolly pressed his nose against her calf and whined.
“Sorry, boy.” She shut the door. “Come on, I’ve got some leftover stew you can have with your beef bone.”
Chapter 3
Bat sat on a bench outside the bunkhouse with his feet propped on the veranda railing. His plate, bearing a large piece of cake, rested beside him, and on his lap he held a tablet and pencil.
The spaniel seeks his master, but old Hen is gone for good.
The pup wanders far from home and sniffs about the wood.
He frowned and leaned over to take a bite of the cake. Miss Rilla’s spice cake was even better than her oatmeal cookies, and they were terrific.
The cruel barbs dig into his fur, piercing through his skin.
The pup lies anguished all night long, far from the home of men.
He scowled at the words. This was a lot harder than he’d expected.
“Whatcha doin’?”
Bat looked up to find Cyrus standing on the step, leaning on a post that helped hold up the roof of the veranda.
“You won’t laugh, will you?”
“No, I won’t laugh.”
“I’m trying to write a poem.”
Cyrus guffawed.
Bat studied him. “You said you wouldn’t laugh.”
“Couldn’t help it.” Cyrus plunked down beside him. “Writing poetry is… is just plain funny.”
“No, it’s not. Poetry makes you think things you wouldn’t think otherwise, and feel things different.”
“Okay, let’s hear it.”
Bat eyed him dubiously. “Naw, I don’t think so.”
“Come on. And I promise not to laugh this time.”
“Yeah right.” With misgivings, Bat lifted his paper and cleared his throat. He read the four lines and then looked at Cyrus expectantly.
“We got no woods around here,” Cyrus said.
“I know that, but it had to rhyme with good. And he was in the brush. It’s what they call poetic license.”
“Oh, and you’ve got a license to write this stuff?”
Bat grimaced and turned away from him.
“Know what I think?” Cyrus said. “I think Miss Rilla’s got you dazzled.”
Bat whirled and glared at him. “What’s she got to do with it? This poem’s about Woolly.”
“She’s the one that glides around at sunset, writing verses.” Cyrus chuckled. “Yup, she’s definitely behind this sudden literary bent of yours. I’d say she’s inspired you. Although, I’m not sure how inspired that tripe is.”
Bat felt his cheeks grow warm and wished he had a beard to hide it. “Well, she might’ve given me the idea, but it’s not like I’m writing poetry for her.”
“Who’s it for then?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. For me, I guess. To see if I could do it.”
Cyrus laughed and got up. “Should. Could. Stood.”
“Huh?” Bat asked, frowning at him.
“Rhymes with good.”
Summer chores kept the men busy. They moved the herd, built more fence, and repaired all the outbuildings. Rilla cleaned the house, did laundry, cooked, and harvested the last of the spring garden. She didn’t see Bat to speak to for a whole week. She finally took Henry’s mare, Bluebell, out for a ride, but it was Zeke who caught and saddled the horse for her.
Even though she was disappointed, Rilla went about her work humming. Bat was out there, and now and then she caught a glimpse of him through the window over the sink, riding out toward the range or working around the corral.
She wasn’t sure when she started thinking of a future with him. The idea shocked her at first. Her parents would not approve—at least Pa wouldn’t. Mama had a softer nature, but she’d had the misfortune of marrying the least romantic man in Texas. She might approve a love match for her daughter, but she would not go against her husband.
The very notion of a love match with Bat Wilson made Rilla’s heart pound. What would the cowboy say if he knew she had linked them that way in her mind?
On a sultry Monday, Rolly came from town with a barrel of flour, a tin of saleratus, and the mail. He parked the buckboard near the kitchen door and knocked. Rilla tried to contain her excitement when she saw the name Canfield Magazine on one of the envelopes.
“Thanks, Rolly! Just roll that flour barrel into the pantry for me. I’ll make you boys some chicken and biscuits tonight.”
“Sounds good, Miss Rilla,” Rolly replied.
Her hands shook as she rolled out the biscuit dough. She wouldn’t open the envelope until Rolly was done and out of the house. At last he left the pantry and tipped his hat on the way through the kitchen. “All fixed, Miss Rilla.”
“Thank you kindly.”
As soon as the door closed, she plucked the envelope from on top of the pie safe and tore it open.
Dear Miss Lane,
We regret to inform you that your poem, “Texas Vista,” does not meet our current needs.
Rilla sighed, folded the letter, and put it back in the envelope. Being rejected by a magazine didn’t lessen her workload any. She still had supper to prepare and a load of clean clothes to bring in off the line. When the last batch of biscuits came out of the oven, she set them to cool, grabbed the wicker basket, and hurried out to the clothesline. She practically ripped the clean laundry off the line. Once it was folded neatly and the wooden clothes-pegs were safely stowed in their bag, she stooped to pick up the basket but hesitated. She didn’t feel like going back into the hot, close kitchen, and she didn’t feel like singing through her work.
Leaving the full basket on the ground below the clothesline, she strode down the creek path. The willow beckoned her, but she didn’t have the energy to climb onto the big branch. Instead, she crumpled to her knees by the creek bank and let the tears come.
“Lord, I know a poem isn’t significant in the grand scheme of things, but it hurts,” she whispered. “Is there some lesson You’re trying to teach me? Is my pride too big?” Maybe she needed to show Pa more honor and stop trying to sell her poems. He’d said once that her writing was just a way of trying to call attention to herself. That had smarted. Was vanity really what drove her to write?
How long she sat there sobbing she didn’t know, but she was jerked back to the real world when a yipping, wriggling Woolly danced up to her and tried to kiss her face.
Rilla laughed and pulled the little dog into her lap. “Oh, Woolly, you adorable little pest.”
He barked and resumed his attempts at face licking.
“Stop,” she told him. “Settle down.” She gave him the signal to lie down, and he sank onto his belly and laid his head on her lap. Rilla stroked his crown. “Good boy.”
“Woolly?” The call came from up the path, toward the house, and Woolly raised his head, wagged his tail, and gave a happy little woof, but stayed where he was.
A dart of anticipation shot through Rilla. She would know that voice anywhere. Before she could dig out a handkerchief and wipe her face, Bat sauntered out of the shade and into the dappled sunlight by the creek.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were here.”
“It’s all right.”
He was staring. Of course. Her face must be a mottled, tear-streaked mess.
“Is everything all right?” Bat asked, taking one step nearer.
“I’m fine.” She found the handkerchief and pulled it out. After a quick mopping job, she let out a little laugh. “It’s silly, really. I’m too self-indulgent.”
“What do you mean?” Bat walked closer and crouched, so that he was on her level.
“It’s nothing serious. My poem was turned down, that’s all.”
“The one for the contest?”
“No, it’s one I sent off to a magazine months ago. I had such high hopes for it, though.”
His brown eyes brimmed with sympathy. “I’m sorry. What magazine was it?”
She picked up the bedraggled envelope and handed it to him.
“Canfield?” His eyebrows shot up. “That’s a highbrow one, isn’t it?”
She gave a shaky laugh. “Yes, I’ve been rejected by the best.”
He smiled and she had to look away. Seeing his face, so close, and knowing he was in tune with her thoughts was almost worth the pain the letter had caused.
“There you go,” Bat said. “I imagine it was a good poem. You wouldn’t have sent it to them otherwise. I’d like to read it sometime.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No, I would like to. I’ve tried to write poems, and I know it’s hard to make a good one.”
Rilla gazed at him in amazement. “You write poetry?”
“No, I—well, I’ve made a couple of attempts. But they weren’t any good.”
“I guess mine aren’t much good either.”
“Don’t say that. I’ll bet you’re a fine writer.”
Rilla shrugged. “No one else seems to think so. Especially Pa.”
“He doesn’t like your poems?” Bat asked.
“I don’t think he’s ever read them. But he tells me to stop wasting time on them.” She gazed at him, hoping he would understand. “I haven’t let my writing interfere with my work, but he doesn’t see the value of it.”
Bat sat in silence for a moment, then said, “So, why did he send you back East to school?”
“I’ve wondered that very thing myself.” Rilla watched the shallow creek water ripple by. Of course her parents wanted her to have an education, but she had gotten all the basics at the local school, and that was enough for a ranch girl. Did Pa not want her to be a ranch girl? Maybe he just wanted to get her away from the ranch at the age when she would start noticing men. She felt a flush creep up her face. A ranch could be a lonely place for a young woman with no friends nearby. Was Pa trying to prevent her from forming attachments with the ranch hands—like Bat?
“Maybe your ma talked him into it,” he said.
She smiled, though the thought that it was all Mama’s doing made her a little sad. “I think you may be right. She knew I loved to read. She probably insisted I have the opportunity to learn more.” It was nicer than thinking Papa just wanted her out of the way.
She shifted, and Woolly stirred. “Up, Woolly. I need to get back and fix supper now.”
Bat stood and offered her his hand.
“Thank you.” She let him pull her up, trying not to think about how his strong, warm hand grasped hers. She smoothed down her skirts, not looking at him, but knowing her cheeks were scarlet. She put the letter in her pocket. “I’ll see you around, I guess.”
“Yeah.”
She walked toward the house. Woolly trotted along beside her, and she stifled the urge to look back.
Bat found himself a more private place that evening—not on the veranda. He took a small lantern with him to the feed room in the barn. Nobody would look in there after supper. He took out a couple of sheets of paper he had scrounged—the back of a handbill and a cut-open, used envelope—and settled down on a pile of full sacks of oats.
For some reason, he had a feeling this poetry business would help him understand Miss Rilla better. She’d seemed pleased that afternoon when he’d mentioned his attempts to write verse.
He wished he had a book of poetry so he’d have some examples to go by. He’d been forced to memorize a few poems as a child, during his years at the community school back in Louisiana. He couldn’t recall much of it now, though, and he’d only gone through grade seven. If he’d kept on until high school, he probably would have a nodding acquaintance with great poets by now.
He’d decided to forget about Woolly. Coming up with rhymes for bark and dog didn’t seem dignified. He sure wished he knew what Miss Rilla’s poems were about. Other than the discarded sheet he had found—lines she apparently disdained and threw away—he hadn’t seen any of her work. She had written about scenery, though, and how it made her feel inside. Something feral in me. Yup, he got that. Entirely. Not wild, but not tame either, not by a long shot. Some days when they loped up into the hills looking for stray steers, he just wanted to keep on going. Ride over the next ridge, and the next, and the next. Maybe all the way to Mexico.
Yet, on the outside, Miss Rilla was entirely tame. She certainly had domestic tendencies. Her cooking was about as good as it got, and she sure did a lot of washing and cleaning for someone who felt feral inside.
Bat raised his right leg and rested his boot top on his left knee for a desk. He found his pencil where it hid in a fold of cloth in his pocket, and bent over his paper. Frowning, he tried to think of his feelings when he rode the range. Nothing came, and it struck him that he would be copying Rilla if he wrote about that. Maybe he should write about something completely different, something that meant a lot to him, even if it had nothing to do with the ranch.
Miss Rilla.
The thought of writing a poem about her shocked him. He could never do her justice. But still, maybe if he put down his thoughts about her, he would be able to understand why every time he saw her he got all flustered.
She walks like an aristocrat, but she sounds like a Texas girl.
Her Sunday clothes might be designed in Paris, France,
But when she rides, there’s no lacy whirl.
She learned to minuet, but she’s best at a square dance.
He read it over with a critic’s frown. Something wasn’t right. Maybe it was the timing. He turned the paper over.
When she came back from the fancy school,
Everyone thought she’d act strange.
But though her mind’s in books of verse,
Her heart is still here on the range.
That seemed better. The shorter lines helped. Although the first and third lines didn’t rhyme this time. School, tool, rule, pool, fool…
“Bat, what you doin’ in here?” The foreman, Dwight Baker, stood in the doorway, peering in at him.
Cyrus moved in behind Dwight and focused on Bat with a laugh. “I’ll bet he’s writing more sonnets.”
“Am not.” Bat let his boot thud to the floor and stood, stiff from sitting so long on the grain sacks. He wasn’t quite sure what made a poem a sonnet, but he wasn’t going t
o admit to it, anyhow.
“What are you talking about?” Dwight asked. He grabbed the paper from Bat’s nerveless hand and turned it so the light from the lantern fell on it.
“That’s private,” Bat said.
“Aw, let the boss read it.” Cyrus gave him a fiendish grin.
The foreman cleared his throat. “‘When she came back from the fancy school, everyone thought she’d act strange. But though her mind’s in books of verse, her heart is still here on the range.’”
“Say, now, that’s better’n your ‘Dog in the Woods’ poem,” Cyrus said.
“Huh?” Dwight looked up at him, baffled.
“That was his last poem,” Cyrus explained. “Must be writin’ about Miss Rilla now. Big surprise.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Bat.
“Oh, yeah, I see it now,” Dwight said. “Huh. Not bad, Wilson.”
“Uh, boss…” Bat knew his face was flaming. He reached numbly for the paper. “You’re not gonna tell anyone about this are you?”
“What?” Dwight asked. “You mean anyone outside the bunkhouse?”
Cyrus guffawed. “Yeah, I think the boys would be enlightened to know that ‘her heart is still here on the range.’ Don’t you, boss?”
Dwight chuckled. “I’m sure some of them would be. Come on, Cy, let’s get those nags fed.”
“Nags?” Bat asked, hastily folding the paper and shoving it in his pocket.
“We got back late from fetching Mr. Lane’s new saddle horse,” Cyrus said. “Me and Dwight just want to feed our mounts and go get our own chow.” He walked over to the feed bin and filled a bucket with oats. He and the foreman went out together.
“Don’t leave that lantern going in here, will you, Bat?” Dwight called over his shoulder.
“Yeah, because you might forget, your heart being here on the range and all,” Cyrus said.
Bat sank down on the pile of oats and buried his head in his hands. He’d be the butt of every joke in the bunkhouse this week, once Cyrus broadcast his poem—or even the fact that he was trying to write one, especially one about Miss Rilla.
“Why did I even try?” He shook his head. “I must be all kinds of an idiot.”