Betsy was pinning laundry on the clothesline and smiled when he walked around the end of a line of sheets.
“Come inside for coffee and pie. Maggie will be thrilled. Now that she’s feeling better, she’s been going on about the Fairfax ranch or farm or whatever it is. Sounds to me like it’s a little of everything. I’m not really clear, other than the woman is moving to her daughter’s in Denver.”
Maggie looked better than he’d seen her since he’d been back—still thin, though she’d never been much more than a rail.
“Oh, Clay, dear. You are just the person I hoped to see.” She took plates and cups from the cupboard and set the tea kettle on.
He thought of Willy.
Betsy slid the coffee pot to the back of the stove and handed Maggie a serving knife.
“My lands, but it’s good to see you.” She brought a napkin-covered pie pan from the counter. “They’re not fresh, mind you, but canned peaches fill a crust as well as anything, don’t you think?” She sliced off a quarter of the pie and passed him the plate with a fork. “I hope you like it.”
He would. He remembered Maggie Snowfield’s pie-making ability. The fat slice oozed all over the plate, and she sat down across from him watching as if he were judging an entry at the county fair.
“Can you stay for supper? We’d love to hear how things are going at the ranch.” She cut a glance to Betsy. “With Sophie and Mae Ann. How are they doing? And that stallion Betsy told me about.”
Maggie went on while he ate, and he wouldn’t have been able to get a word in edgewise anyway.
Betsy filled his cup with coffee and Maggie’s with tea.
“The Ladies Library Committee met this morning, and Bertha Fairfax announced her place is officially on the market. She’s moving in with her daughter in Denver, you know, and she wants to see that the farm is in good hands before she leaves.”
Maggie came up for air and a sip of tea.
“She also said her milk cow isn’t doing well, and she’d like for you to come check on it.”
Her avoidance of his eye said she’d also mentioned his interest in buying his own place.
“Depending on where it is, I might have time to stop by today before I head back.”
Maggie’s cheeks warmed to a deeper color and she braced her shoulders. “Wonderful.” She’d found something to sink her teeth into.
“Sophie and Mae Ann?” Betsy peered at him over the rim of her teacup, wheeling the conversation back on course.
“Doin’ well.” He stalled for the right words in present company. “There’s a new Parker on the place. A little girl, but I haven’t caught her name yet.” He hadn’t thought to ask since that question never surfaced in his line of work with livestock. He left out the part about Sophie’s mare and took the note from his vest pocket. “If you have a pencil, I’ll write down how to get to your friend’s place.”
Betsy rummaged through a drawer for a pencil stub, and he sketched out what Maggie described rather than write down her many words.
As stuffed as a scarecrow, he took his plate and cup to the sink. “Thank you, ladies, for the wonderful pie and coffee. It will see me on my rounds and home.”
Parker Land and Cattle wasn’t really home, but it felt right conversationally. “Make sure you don’t overdo.”
“Oh, posh.” Maggie brushed him off with her hankie-holding hand, and he squeezed her shoulder, confirming his observation on her thinning status. He sent Betsy a look with a tip of his head toward the door.
Good reader that she was, she followed him out to the clothesline, where she picked up a man’s shirt and snapped it out. “As you saw, she is better, but now she’ll sleep the rest of the day. Doc Weaver says it’s nothing out of the ordinary, considering her age and all.”
He coughed, stalling while he hunted the right words. “Sophie wants to know how Mrs. Eisner is doing.”
Not put off in the least by his query, Betsy said she’d been at their shop the day before. “Abigail was downstairs. Too thin, I thought, but up and around. From what I could tell without being completely nosy, all was well.”
Aware of her long-standing friendship with Sophie, told her about the mare as gently as possible.
She turned toward the line, where she pinned Garrett’s shirt, then wiped her eyes with her apron.
“I’ve got a nice horse from the saddle string that I want to give her after I try him and smooth off the rough edges. If he doesn’t work for her, I’ll find another. But don’t tell her.”
In typical Betsy fashion, she regrouped and fired. “And when am I going to see Sophie to tell her?”
Laughing, he climbed to the wagon seat. “When’s her birthday?”
The question earned him a bright-eyed answer. “June fourth.”
“All right. But keep it a secret.”
Swatting the air in his general direction, she huffed. “Oh, go on with you.”
He clucked the gray out to the road and headed north from town, the same direction that would take him to the fella whose horse wasn’t eating. He passed the church and library house with as much interest in one as the other.
The land was greening up. With storms like they got last night, it wouldn’t be long before the grass was thick and rich and hayfields were begging to be cut. Two miles out, he turned onto a side road that led to a rundown barn and house. A man was breaking ground with a plow and a mule that had seen better days.
The fella stopped and dropped the lines from his shoulders as Clay drove up near the barn and set the brake. He jumped down to be greeted by an old dog that fit right in with everything else.
“Afternoon. I’m Clay Ferguson, the veterinarian you asked about at the livery. I hear you have a horse that’s not eating.”
The man swung his gaze over the gray mare harnessed to the buckboard. “Ain’t exactly a horse.”
“I see.” Clay glanced at the mule a few paces out. “Why’d you say it was a horse?”
Folded arms and a quick huff set the fella on the defense. “Figured you wouldn’t come for a mule.”
“Let’s have a look at him.”
Surprised, the man hesitated long enough for Clay to walk out to the animal and eyeball the situation before looking inside its mouth. The mule’s saliva was excessive and pink, and it smelled foul. “When’d you last have his teeth floated?”
“Nigh on couple years.”
“Unhitch him and bring him to the barn.” Clay walked back to the buckboard for his saddle bags and met the man at the railing.
Most people with horses and mules knew the teeth wore unevenly as the animal chewed. And most people did something about it or called on someone who could. This man wasn’t most people.
“It’s going to take us both to get this done because he’s in pain. See that pink foam running around his mouth? He’s bleeding. Get a stout rope and tie him to the hitch rail, then grab his tongue and hold on.”
Clay didn’t want to throw the animal if he didn’t have to, but he would if its owner was faint-hearted. He hung his bags over the opposite end of the rail and pulled out his file. The farmer proved his salt, and the ordeal was over in a half-hour. Everyone was worn out, but the job was done.
Clay didn’t expect to be paid, but he expected the mule to feel better in a day or so.
“Appreciate you comin’ out.” The farmer fished a few coins from his dungarees’ pocket and handed them over.
Clay accepted them. “Leave word at the livery if he’s not better in a couple of days, and I’ll come back. Give him some soft mash until then and plenty of water.” He looked out at the field. “Maybe lay off the plow for a day or so.”
After washing at the pump, Clay threw his bags in the wagon and took the main road back toward town. The next turnoff wound west from the flatland and over a low saddle between two hills. The view stopped him cold.
Below lay a hidden park. More like a meadow, pristine and green, with a creek skirting the north edge and twenty or so cow-calf p
airs grazing along.
From a distance, the buildings looked kept up—a small frame house and barn. Sheds, a garden, privy, root cellar. He looked again at the sketch he’d drawn from Maggie’s description, hoping he hadn’t got it wrong, then clucked the gray down into the meadow, following a wagon trail that crossed the creek.
Up close, he could see the barn needed work, with the main door off its runner. Corral poles were missing or broken, and the calves didn’t look to be branded. They could have been run in with Parker’s bunch, and might be yet, depending on what happened in the next little while.
An older woman came out from the house, watching him like a hawk watches a squirrel hole.
Clay pulled up and set the brake but spoke to her from the wagon seat. “Afternoon, ma’am. I’m Clay Ferguson, the veterinarian. Maggie Snowfield told me you had a cow that needed to be looked at and asked me to stop by.”
The information loosened her stance, and she came down the front steps. “Yes, she mentioned you this morning at the library. Said you had a way with animals. I’m Mrs. Fairfax.”
He climbed down and doffed his hat. “Ma’am. A pleasure to meet you.”
“Follow me. The cow is in the barn.”
The cow was in perfect health—aside from being dry as a duck in the desert and blind in her left eye.
He’d expected as much, knowing how Maggie might finagle things to get him out there.
The brindle shorthorn watched him with her one big brown eye, chewing her cud and occasionally swishing her tail at flies.
“When did she freshen last?”
Mrs. Fairfax rubbed the knuckles on her right hand. “To tell you the truth, it’s been a year. I sold that calf to the Bittmans. My hands ache too much to milk and I can’t keep up with all this work. Nor can I get any help to stay on. Not enough to do, in their opinion. They want to break horses, and all I have is my buggy mare.”
“I’ve got something that might help your hands, if you have a small crock or canning jar.”
While she went to the house, he returned to his wagon and removed a bottle of liniment from his saddlebags.
The screen door slapped behind her, and she handed him a quart jar. He poured in some of the pungent mixture, and her nose wrinkled.
“Rub a little of this into your hands each morning.”
She fanned the air and made a face. “Mercy, what is it?”
“Just a little, mind you. It doesn’t smell the best, but it should keep your joints from aching quite as much.”
“Are you going to charge me for this?”
He schooled his face and swallowed a laugh. “No, ma’am. I’m just passing on what might be a remedy for you. But don’t use too much at one time or the library ladies won’t want you sitting by them.”
She tilted her head back and looked down her nose at him even though he topped her by at least a foot.
“I heard you might be wanting to sell.”
She gave him a stone-faced answer. “Possibly. Why? Are you interested?”
“What are you asking?”
“What are you offering?”
The woman could make a killing at poker.
“I’ll have to get back to you on that. If it’s for sale, I’d like a friend of mine to see it and get their opinion.”
She sniffed and looked off toward the cattle, turning the jar in her bent fingers.
“Would you be interested in selling the milk cow?”
Her sharp eyes shot back to his.
He made an offer, and she accepted.
After tying the cow to the back of the wagon, he bid Mrs. Fairfax good-day, climbed to the seat, and turned around in front of the house.
She was rubbing liniment into her hand and holding her head to the side, but stepped out to him, her countenance uncertain, almost sad.
“My daughter has asked me to come live with her in Denver.” Resignation edged her tone. “She and her husband have a large house and two children. I’ve never lived in the city.” It was almost a confession. “I’m not sure I’ll be happy there.”
Reading between the lines on her face, he recognized doubt and loneliness. “You’ll be with your grandchildren. Your family.” The words bruised a spot inside him, but she needed to hear them as much as she needed the horse liniment he’d given her. “Can you wait a couple weeks before you sell?”
She looked square into the middle of him—a female Deacon Jewett to be sure—and flexed the fingers of her right hand. “For you, young man, yes. But only two weeks.”
He tipped his hat and drove out of the small barnyard, one milk cow in tow.
Not exactly a profitable day. He’d spent more money than he’d made, and more than likely would be committing the stake hidden in his saddlebags if Sophie liked the place.
Dadgummit, he needed to know if Sophie liked him before he asked her about a home. His gut told him she did, but he had to hear it from her, see it in her eyes.
Now he had two weeks to find out.
Chapter 15
With Willy down for an afternoon nap in his own bed and Mae Ann and the baby sleeping, Sophie walked out to cottonwood trees and settled on the bench. Cougar came to her with a hang-dog look.
“You miss her, don’t you?” The dog laid his yellow chin on her knee and plopped on his haunches, tail sweeping an arc in the dirt.
“I miss someone too, so I know how you feel, though my association isn’t as long-standing as yours.”
She was talking to a dog.
She was pathetic.
A soft breeze whispered through the trees, their leaves yet small and delicate.
“He comforts me but won’t let me do the same for him. Instead, he pulls away, closes up, and walks off. Something pains him terribly.”
She leaned toward the dog and laid her hand against her bodice. “I can feel it right here.”
Cougar sighed a not-so-sweet dog-breath sigh.
She coughed and straightened. “It’s something that concerns his mother. I know he had one or he wouldn’t be here, obviously. But he’s never mentioned her and slams tight as a cellar door at the subject. In fact, he’s never mentioned his family at all. I don’t want to pry, but I’d like to know.”
A sigh of her own slipped out. “The way he holds me—”
She gave Cougar a warning glare. “Don’t you repeat any of this, you hear?”
With a whine, the dog dropped to its belly but kept promise-filled eyes focused on her, ears attentive to her voice.
She gripped the sides of her arms and hunched her shoulders. “Last night in the storm—and this morning—make me think there is more than kindness in his gesture. And honestly, I want there to be more than kindness. I want—”
Cougar heard the wagon the same time Sophie did. He bounded away, barking at the wheels rolling to a stop at the house.
She stayed put, watching Clay. The ease with which he jumped down and stooped to pet the dog. The way he reset his hat and took stock of the yard, skimming the barn, cabin, and corral until his eyes rested on her.
Even from a distance, she saw his mouth tick up with a smile and her pulse ticked up right along with it. “A penny for your thoughts,” she wanted to say, but it would take a wagon-load of pennies to get him to talk.
Her breath stilled as she waited to see if he would join her or immediately start unloading. A kind of test, she admitted, hoping it would tell her more about him and his private thoughts.
He dropped the tailgate.
She dropped her heart.
Stupid test.
And stupid me for setting myself up in such a ridiculous manner.
She matched the corners of her apron point to point, smoothing out the edges and lining them up just so on her lap.
“Enjoying the sunshine?”
Startled, she looked up to see him coming toward her, his limp nearly imperceptible. Another mystery. Why did he limp? Did it have anything to do with those scars on his back?
She tucked her skirt aga
inst her leg in silent invitation. More silliness.
He sat down, not too close, and Cougar nuzzled in between them, giving Sophie room to breathe.
“Betsy said Mrs. Eisner is doing well. Thin, she thought, but up and around, helping out in the tailor shop.”
Thank God. Sophie fingered her opened collar, inviting air into her lungs.
“Maggie was stronger too, though she tires easily and is also too thin in my opinion.”
Afraid to look at him, Sophie nodded and smiled, relieved again.
“I gave her a cow.”
Her head shot up. “A cow? You think she’s strong enough to milk a cow?”
His throaty laugh sent a shiver through her insides. How would she ever be able to carry on a conversation with this man? Her sensitivity to his voice, his nearness, and the memory of his touch made her weak as a willow.
“The cow is dry. I bought it off the widow Fairfax, who’s moving to Denver.”
He took his hat off, scrubbed his hair, and put it back on. Palmed the back of his neck and tugged at his shirt.
“What?” Clearly, she wasn’t the only one who was nervous.
His look cut sideways at her, not straight on. He stretched his arms out and palmed his knees. “She’s got a real nice place. Not too far from town, but private, almost hidden away in the hills with a creek and pasture. A barn, house, and about twenty cow-calf pairs.”
Her heart sank. He was looking for a place of his own. As soon as Cade and Deacon got back, he’d be gone, and that could be as soon as tonight.
Cougar looked up at her with a dusty sweep of his tail.
Don’t cry. Not here. Not now.
“The barn and corral need work, and the calves need branding. Maybe run in with a bigger herd come fall.”
He stalled.
“I didn’t see inside the house, though, and I’d like another opinion on what I should be looking for.”
He reached down to pet the dog. “Would you ride out there with me and look the place over? Tell me what you think?”
Was he asking the dog?
She’d never liked see-saws as a child. The up-and-down made her queasy, and that was exactly how she felt now. Down—up—down.
An Impossible Price: Front Range Brides - Book 3 Page 13