A tingling sensation had danced over her left shoulder—and did so again. The place Clay’s hand had rested when they stood in front of the hotel.
Had he been watching for her last night, or was it merely his uncanny sense of timing?
Rousing herself from such fanciful reflection, she found one of Mae Ann’s aprons, started the coffee, and stirred up a batch of biscuits. Then she remembered the smoke house. Surely Parker Land and Cattle had a side of beef hanging from which she could slice steaks. With a pie pan and a good-sized knife in hand, she went out the back and around the end of the house.
By the time she returned, Cade and Willy were at the sink washing their hands.
“I hope you men are hungry this morning.”
“They’re always hungry.”
Sophie turned at Mae Ann’s voice, sleep-edged and forcefully cheery.
“I’m surprised to see you up and around.” Worried more than surprised, Sophie tempered her concern. “How are you feeling?”
Mae Ann took the nearest chair and smoothed her skirt over her swollen belly. “Absolutely useless and hungry as a bear.”
Bear was good. “I’ll make you some chamomile tea.”
Willy climbed onto a chair next to his mama. “Tea.”
“Tea, please,” she said, leaning close to his tousled head.
Cade joined his family. “My guess is those are your ma’s preserves on the table.”
“And it’s your beef steaks I’ll be frying up with gravy for the biscuits. I helped myself to the smokehouse this morning.”
Mae Ann attempted to stand. “There are a few potatoes in the pantry—”
“Never you mind. You sit right there and I’ll take care of breakfast. If I’m going to go to the trouble of making you tea, the least you can do is savor it.”
“Tea!” Willy clapped his hands.
“Oh, but I could get used to this.” Mae Ann sighed, doing her best to smile.
Sophie heard the strain.
Willy jabbered on, and Cade took off on a parental oratory about the intelligence of his firstborn. The sounds of family swirled around Sophie—meat sizzling in the skillet, childish chatter, parents boasting. The front door opening.
Her pulse leaped into double time at boot steps crossing the great room on their way to the kitchen. Deacon? Clay? Neither should cause such a reaction, but the possibility of one certainly did. And she certainly best squelch it immediately.
“Smells mighty good in here.”
Turning a steak, she relaxed at Deacon’s crusty voice. No need to see him to know. But she’d have to turn around and set food on the table sooner or later. In the meantime, she retrieved potatoes from the pantry and sliced them into another skillet.
The tea kettle boiled over, and she grabbed it without thinking.
Wincing with pain, she gripped her wrist, angry for being so foolish. More heat closed in behind her and a long arm reached around with a hot pad and slid the kettle to a cooler spot.
Lord, may I melt into a puddle on the floor and evaporate.
The Lord did not accommodate her. She pressed her hand against her bodice and glanced into Clay’s questioning eyes. Not laughing, but close to smiling. And close to untying her as if she were a loose apron string.
He reached for her hand and, in spite of her resistance, turned it over, revealing a pink blotch sure to blister. Lifting the pump handle at the sink, he spoke to her in low tones as if they were the only two people in the room. “Hold your hand under the water for a few minutes.” Then he turned to Mae Ann. “Do you have any honey?”
“Yes.” Chair legs scraped the wooden floor.
“Stay right there,” he said. “Just tell me where it is. I can get it.”
Though Sophie felt ridiculous standing at the sink doing nothing, she did it. “Deacon, would you please transfer the steaks in the skillet to the platter I have on the counter, start two more, and stir the potatoes?”
“Consider it done.”
More chair legs scraped. Willy chattered like a jay. Cade took the coffee pot from the stove—with a hot pad—and filled the cups she’d set on the table earlier.
Clay returned with a crock of honey and shut off the water.
She lifted her apron to dry her hand, but he stopped her, and with a clean flour-sack from a drawer, gently pressed the palm of her hand dry. Using a fork to spear the hunk of honeycomb, he held it over her hand until it dripped like liquid amber onto the blister, then finished by tearing a strip from the toweling and wrapping her hand.
With a gentle press of his fingers and a warm smile, he broke through her flimsy self-consciousness.
“You’ll be good as new in no time. Just keep it clean. No pitchin’ hay or roughhousing with the dogs.” His eyes snapped with the tease, and a corner of his mouth twitched against the laughter it held.
Why were there no other words waiting than the two she seemed to use over and over where Clay Ferguson was concerned? “Thank you.”
Looking her square in the eye, he dipped his head once and let go, then took a seat at the table.
No one had been listening and watching as she’d feared, and Clay joined a conversation she hadn’t been aware of.
“Yearling bulls?”
“I bought a couple last spring. They covered a few heifers, but I want you to take a look at them before I retire my old herd bull. Tell me if you think they were worth the investment.”
“You’ll have a pretty good idea after the first crop,” Clay said.
“We will. But Deacon says you’ve ‘got the eye.’”
Sophie could vouch for that, and she pushed straying hair into the loosening knot at her neck.
Deacon laid two more steaks on the platter and turned with a proud grin. At least she thought it was a grin, based on the spread of his mustache.
“Takes me back to my drovin’ days. Up from Texas with beeves as far as the eye could see.” He set the platter on the table and sat down.
Life goes on. But with family and the gentle touch of someone dear, it went more easily. She bunched her apron, opened the oven door, and with her left hand and a towel removed two pans of golden-topped biscuits.
Someone dear?
Where had that come from?
~
The smell of fried steak, fresh biscuits, and Sophie’s hair had Clay’s head swimming so fast he could hardly see his plate.
She’d tried to resist his help but eventually gave way. Like a skittish filly that didn’t know if it could trust a man. ’Course he’d not let on that he’d compared her to a horse.
“Thank you, Lord, for this food and the work You give us to do,” Parker said.
Caught unawares, Clay ducked his head—quick, like a bronc.
“And the people who help us do it. Amen.”
“'Men,” Deacon offered.
“Eat hardy. We’re bringing the horses down this morning. They’re in Echo Valley, so it won’t take us long to gather and drive ’em in.” Parker paused to chew a bite of steak and throw Sophie an appreciative glance.
She missed it. Sitting straight across from Clay, she watched her food like it might sprout legs and run off. She had no idea how becoming she was with that blush on her cheeks—either from the heat of the stove or something on her mind. He knew which one he hoped it was, but he best not get ahead of himself.
“We’ll run ’em in the barn corral, and you can each cut out your mounts. Deacon, take two saddle horses, plus what you need for the wagon. Clay, take two for now. The rest will stay here in one of the lower pastures. The other ranchers we’re workin’ with will have their own strings, and we’ll run ours in with the remuda once we meet up.”
From the head of the table, Parker angled a glance. “While you’re here, I provide your mounts and your food. Let me know if you need different tack, and I’ll see you get it. You’re expected to trim and shoe your own ponies, but I supply the shoes. Today you’ll carry the tools in case one of us throws a shoe before we get
home.”
A creased brow. “You can shoe a horse, can’t you?”
“I can.”
Silence settled over the table as everyone made light work of Sophie’s cooking.
Parker drained his coffee and pushed his plate back. “Tomorrow we leave before it breaks light. It’ll take all day and then some to get the cattle out of the hills and woods and down to the bunch ground. Deacon’ll have the chuck wagon.”
At mention of Deacon and the wagon, Sophie took a bundle from the counter and slipped it to him with a quiet word at his ear. From the look in the old codger’s eye, Clay would lay money it was more of Travine Price’s fritters.
Soon enough, Clay, Deacon, and Parker were sittin’ their saddles, riding around the barn to open range.
The horses were grazing in the valley, just as Parker predicted, a smaller bunch than the band of mares Clay had once helped drive down. The weather was warmer, and the horses weren’t as haired up as the mares had been, nor as free-spirited. Watching them bunch and travel, he picked two that looked like they’d be strong-hearted—a white-stockinged sorrel and a black.
By midday, they had the horses corralled and Parker rode the perimeter.
“Deacon, you throw first loop. Then Clay.”
Deacon snagged a little dun that pretty much let him catch it, and on Clay’s first try, he dropped a hoolihan on the sorrel and led him to a separate pen.
Parker went for the black, but it ducked and the loop fell on another horse. Clay watched his face as he settled with the horse he’d collared and led it out. Boss or no, you rode what you caught.
Deacon tried for the black but not with his typical flair. The old man could rope the hair off a wolf without breaking a sweat, and Clay knew it.
He didn’t want to be gifted, though the horse had ducked. He built a loop, predicted the black’s dance routine and threw accordingly. When the loop snugged around its neck, it bogged its head and went to bucking.
Both men hollered and whooped and laid bets on whether Clay would get it saddled.
No gifting to it. He’d been set up.
Parker caught a third one in short order, and in another hour, everything was haltered, handled, and fed a can of oats. Clay was hungry enough to eat a handful himself, but he was counting on Sophie cooking up another storm like the one she’d served that morning.
He wasn’t disappointed—except to see that she wasn’t there.
Mae Ann said she was putting Willy down for a nap.
He swigged his coffee, afraid his frustration read like a wanted poster. Why else would she explain Sophie’s absence when no one had asked?
That afternoon he helped load the chuck wagon with sacks of flour, sugar, coffee, and beans. He checked all the horses’ hooves, mouthed them for ulcers and loose teeth, and made sure the team’s harness was in good repair. He also threw in a half-box of horseshoes and nails.
Deacon hung a can of axel grease under the wagon, tied a wrapped side of salt pork to the bed, and loaded his chuck box with canned milk, fruit, baking soda, and other fixin’s to feed a crew. Clay hadn’t looked that hard in the pantry, but chances were he’d be making a trip to town based on the amount of food Deacon loaded.
The next morning, dawn split a cloud-bank on the eastern edge, sparking anticipation in man and beast alike. Though Parker wore a sober expression after kissing his wife and son good-bye, the send-off was anything but solemn. Deacon hollered at his team, the yellow dog howled from the stall where it was locked, and Blue yipped and bounced like a pup, anxious to leave.
Sophie ran out of the house with a covered basket and handed it up to Deacon. Must have been what she’d baked the previous night, for the aroma had lingered in the kitchen this morning—cinnamon and sugar—and she sure enough hadn’t served it alongside her eggs and hotcakes.
With a sharp whistle, Parker waved his hat. Deacon slapped the reins on his team, and the chuck wagon rolled ahead, complaining all the way. Clay swung the corral gate wide, and a half dozen horses ran out in a cloud of dust. Parker loped alongside the small herd, Blue close behind.
The thrill of it almost made Clay want to go with them, but he had his own work and plenty of it.
He closed the gate and slid the bar, then leaned back against the poles, surveying his responsibilities. A hot-blooded stallion on the mend, livestock and fences to tend, and a place of his own to find.
Plus two women and a child to look after, with another one about to hatch any day.
And to think—less than a week ago he’d been a man with nothing but his horse, a saddle, and a dream.
Part of that dream stood over by a long bench set back under a cluster of cottonwood trees, arm around Parker’s wife, who was wiping her eyes as the parade clamored past.
With a casual turn of her head, Sophie looked over her shoulder toward the outbuildings and barn, the corral and hitch rail, then settled on him.
From the look on her face, he’d lay good money that she could read his intentions, even from a distance.
Chapter 11
Against all counsel, Mae Ann had refused to stay abed that morning, nor would she be dissuaded from seeing her husband off. Sophie kept a close eye, attentive to the slightest change or halting step.
More restful after the grand departure, Mae Ann settled at the kitchen table with a cup of chamomile tea while Sophie let the chickens out and gathered eggs. Clay was nowhere to be seen. Curious, since he’d been standing by the corral when Deacon and Cade headed out. Looking right at her.
She shook off what she’d read in his eyes but nearly dropped the egg basket when she returned to the house and the door opened right in front of her.
Clay steadied her, one hand on her arm and the other on the basket until he let it go and ran both hands slowly down her arms, settling them at her waist.
Unable to breathe, she merely blinked.
A slow smile lifted one side of his mouth and crinkled his eyes, then he touched his hat brim and strode off toward the barn.
If she didn’t get ahold of herself, she’d have no nerves or eggs left by the end of the branding.
In the kitchen, a bucket of milk waited on the sideboard.
Mae Ann sweetened her tea from the silver sugar bowl on the table. “Someone’s been busy already this morning.”
“Yes.” Sophie smothered the single word with as much indifference as possible, still searching for a deep, even breath. She had no desire to discuss someone she couldn’t get out of her thoughts. “Since you didn’t eat earlier, what is your preference—fried eggs and bacon? Hotcakes?”
“Can you poach an egg?”
She took stock of the mistress of Parker Land and Cattle. “Are you not feeling well?”
Mae Ann gave a half-laugh. “No. I mean yes. Physically, I’m fine. But something less greasy appeals to me right now. Like a plain slice of skillet-toasted bread and a boring, poached egg.”
“One boring egg and dry toast on the way.”
Sophie knew very well that fine was not what Mae Ann felt, physically or emotionally. This wasn’t the Parkers’ first roundup, nor would it be their last, Lord willing. Yet Mae Ann and Cade were like young lovers. Sophie hadn’t seen the like in all the people she knew. Not even Abigail and Hiram made eyes at each other like the Parkers, and Sophie suspected it had to do with Mae Ann’s tragic start as a mail-order widow.
Mama said the good Lord worked out that situation in a way only He could orchestrate, and for a while, Sophie had found hope in their unlikely story. But each year, that hope thinned a bit as birthdays ticked by like seconds on the mantel clock. And with each birthday, the hitch in the left side of her mouth seemed to grow more pronounced as well. Not the most encouraging combination.
“I wonder if he let Cougar out of his stall in the barn.”
“Who?” Sophie bit her tongue the moment the word escaped. She might have given herself away.
“Clay, of course. Who else?”
“He really wanted to go wit
h the others, didn’t he?”
“Who?”
Sophie turned away before rolling her eyes. Was Mae Ann mocking her? “Cougar. I heard him yowling from his prison.”
“I know, poor thing. But he’d be no help on a gathering and would probably change his mind halfway up the hills and head back here alone. I’d hate to see him attacked by a pack of coyotes or his name-bearer. Thankfully, Cade has gone to locking him in the barn any time he takes Blue along.”
“That’s very considerate.” Sophie flipped the toast over and removed the egg from its simmering bath.
“Clay seems to have that same characteristic, don’t you think?”
Sophie’s lack of reply echoed through the kitchen.
“You have to admit, that bucket of milk on the counter is rather considerate, especially since I didn’t mention milking the cow to anyone. He seems to just do what needs doing without being asked.”
Sophie did not want to agree, but ever since Clay had returned on the train, he’d done exactly that. She laid the toast on a floral-edged plate, topped it with the poached egg, and set it before the weary mother.
Eventually, the morning’s excitement caught up to Mae Ann, and she agreed to lie down in her room.
Sophie helped her up the stairs. Again, stairs—the bane of motherhood. What she wouldn’t give for a sofa by the fireplace instead of those two worn leather chairs.
Willy whimpered for his daddy, but she convinced him to nap with Mama, then hurried down to start a roast. Dinner would be late, but they still had to eat, as did someone else.
And they needed clean clothes. Sophie had seen the pile of laundry on the back porch by the wash tub, and immediately wondered who did Clay’s. She shivered at the disconcerting thought.
Halfway through peeling potatoes, she laid the paring knife aside and listened for a repetitive noise that had worked its way into her subconscious.
There it was again. Tapping. Over and over.
The window above the sink gave no indication of the source, merely a view of the garden, which also needed tending, and the mountains climbing in staggered peaks to the west.
She went to the great room and cracked open the front door. The yard was clear aside from the chickens. Her mare and Betsy’s Blanca grazed in the near pasture, and the rest of the horses appeared quiet and unalarmed farther out beyond the windmill.
An Impossible Price: Front Range Brides - Book 3 Page 9