by Jo Noelle
Seffi gently pulled Vivian to her side. “Don't you worry none, dear. You'll be just right for him,” she said confidently. “You have lovely green eyes, a strong slender shape, naturally pink lips—what's not to love?” she said with a slight giggle. “The man would not be in his right mind to pass you up. I only hope that Waylon takes a few more days to get back, so we’ll have a little bit of time to get to know each other and get you acquainted with the ranch.”
Once inside the farmhouse, Seffi gave her a tour. They walked through the kitchen, a large room with an enormous black cookstove and a table surrounded by ten beautifully-carved chairs. Vivian followed Seffi through the rooms, each one more beautiful than the last—the kitchen, a small bedroom off the kitchen, parlor, library, office, and a large room for family gatherings. The walls were covered with rich brocade paper. The ceilings had layered moldings, painted in rich colors. The seats and davenport had thick cushions and looked to be freshly covered with new velvet material. Vivian was sure she’d never sat on any sofa as nice as these.
When they climbed the stairs, Waylon's mother pointed to the bedrooms, naming who lived in each one. “Boone and Holt, Waylon’s younger brothers, stay there when they want to, which isn’t much anymore. They’re men and prefer the bunkhouse in the summers. I suppose we’ll have to air it out and clean it up for them soon,” Seffi said as they passed by the first door. Then she swung the door across the hall wide open.
“This was your room last night and will continue to be until…,” Seffi giggled. “Well, for now. I’ll show you the other rooms, and then we can have a bite of supper.”
Again they stepped into the hallway. “This is my room, right next door to yours. If you need me, just come in.” Seffi nodded at her with a smile that said she’d welcome her anytime. “It must be hard to move to a new place, but don't you worry. Be patient—it’ll all work out.”
Finally, Seffi led her to the end of the hallway and opened large double doors. Inside was a bedroom larger than the workshop in New York where Vivian had made dresses. Obviously this was Waylon's room. Dark paneling covered the walls, and a four-poster bed sat in the middle with large, colorful rugs decorating the floor.
Seffi hugged Vivian’s arm. “Oh, my son might be upset if he knew I'm showing his room to someone, but with you two engaged, I don't think there's anything wrong with it.” Seffi’s voice sounded thick with emotion.
Vivian wondered if this had been her room while her husband was alive. Of course it had.
“Waylon’s a good man. He'll be a fine husband for you. I promise you that, or I'll take him over my knee and whip him. He's a big man, but believe you me, his mama can do it.” Seffi laughed at her own exaggeration. “He still respects his mama.”
Vivian giggled, imagining Seffi doing just that.
The women backed away from the room as Seffi pulled the doors closed. “This was his choice to bring you here, and though I had my doubts, I sure am glad that you came.” Seffi dodged into her room and back out with another nightdress on her arm for Vivian. “Get your coat put up, then come down to the kitchen. I’ll get us a bite to eat.”
Vivian folded her quilt and laid it along the foot of the bed. Then she put her new dresses and the coat in the clothespress. In just a few minutes, she walked back into the kitchen. After the women ate scrambled eggs, Vivian stood to pick up the dishes.
“No, you don’t. Today, you’re a guest. You rest a bit. I’ll put you to work in the morning. Holler if you need anything.”
That’s something she could do. She’d never been afraid to work hard. That’s how she’d fit in. “Goodnight and thank you.” She hugged Seffi this time. She was glad Seffi was a hugger.
The long journey and two very full days caught up with Vivian, and she slipped into the nightdress Seffi had given her the night before. She was safe. She wasn’t hungry, and she could see the possibility of a happy future. Family, friends, and a home—her fortunate circumstances warmed her.
Vivian knelt beside the bed. She poured out her heart with gratitude. “Thank you, Lord, for your countless blessings. The blessing of being an orphan with Mrs. Vaines, learning to rely on you. The blessing of bringing me to this country. The blessing of meeting Julia. The blessing of Seffi being on the platform yesterday just when I needed help.” Before she closed her prayer, she added, “Please watch over Waylon.”
Vivian pulled the calming weight of the heavy quilt up to her chin. Even if she wasn't lucky enough to have a husband who loved her—but only needed her—she was happy to have a mother-in-law who could be a true mother to her. She lay in bed, wondering what she could do to repay the kindness. Seffi seemed very sure that there would be a wedding very soon. Vivian wondered about it in her heart though. She thought that at least if it didn’t work out, she would have a friend in town if not a husband.
Sleep didn’t come. Her mind raced. What would she do if she and Waylon didn’t suit? She wondered if she could make her way as a seamstress. Even without a husband, she could probably support herself. She could make some simple dresses for every day and ask the dry goods store to accept them on consignment. To get started, she could buy a few lengths of fabric with the little money she had left.
The idea relaxed her, but only a bit. In a few days, she would meet Waylon. In a few more days, they would marry—or not. Seffi had been so welcoming and warm. If her son was anything like her, she thought this could work out.
Chapter 4
Waylon Morgan
Waylon and the ranch hands had been in the saddle for two solid days. He was about the business of recovering his livestock, but his mind often strayed back to the mystery woman.
The vaquero rode up beside Waylon. “You like yellow?” the man asked, a soft laugh under his breath.
The mere mention of the color brought the lady’s image to Waylon’s mind. Waylon suspected the vaquero was teasing him about the woman, but he couldn’t be sure.
A couple of hours later, the vaquero said, “Sorry to pull you away from your celebration.”
Waylon was too. Then he caught himself. No. He wasn’t sorry.
On the second day, they got close enough to the stolen cattle to see fresh tracks. They had tied their horses at the bottom of a hill and climbed to the top to get a better look at what to expect. The cows were pasturing in Chalk Creek Canyon between Mount Antero and Mount Princeton. Waylon had a good idea that this was where the rustlers held them until the train came through Buena Vista. But where did they ship them off to after that?
There were a lot more than the missing livestock from Waylon’s north pasture, three times at least. He’d have to get close enough to check the brands. The tracks they’d been following clearly lead to this spot, so these weren’t just cowboys bringing home their own herd. The rustlers kept the cows in a tight group up a little canyon. They were well protected from rescue and thievery, should any other criminals get ideas.
The new man on the ranch crawled up beside where Waylon was on his stomach looking over the ridge. “You want me to slip down there and take a closer look at the cattle, compa?”
Waylon looked up and down the small canyon. Men with rifles sat on each hillside, and several more guarded the opening. The only way in might be from the back, but the foothills were steep. They’d have a better chance of getting close at night, but that had extreme risks. If shooting started, as it most always did, you might shoot your own men in the chaos.
Waylon’s mind drifted back to the dance. This was why he wasn’t ever going to marry. He had to do things that might well get him killed. It wouldn’t be fair to leave a wife at home fretting about him. Bad enough that his ma did. It would be worse yet to leave one crying at a funeral.
“Nah. Too dangerous,” he finally replied. No sooner were the words out of Waylon’s mouth than he saw the vaquero walking down the hillside a hundred feet away from him. Not sneaking. Walking straight down, his red sash blowing in the wind.
The man was loco. And he was going
to give away their position. Waylon couldn’t call him back. Hopefully, the rustlers wouldn’t take notice of him, or he’d be a dead man.
Several tense minutes passed before the hired hand reached the meadow and started walking through the herd. It looked like he walked through the cows themselves. Waylon shook his head. That had to be a trick of the afternoon shadows, but it really looked that way from where he watched. The bandits didn’t notice when the man approached, walked past them, or wandered through the herd. Even the cattle were calmly grazing. Not a one shied away from him or bawled from being startled.
What in the world?
The vaquero took his time, checking the brands from the front of the herd to the back. As he made his way through the group he gathered up the ammunition and spare guns lying around, and it seemed that he also emptied the magazines on top of the rifles sitting right at the men’s sides—without their notice. The rustlers were unarmed and didn’t know it. It was impossible. Impossible. Someone must have seen him.
The man began his climb back up the hill. Waylon noticed his clothes—pristine and clean. They’d been together for three days on the trail and lying prone on this dusty hillside, yet the man was never dirty and never unshaven. Did he even sleep? Waylon didn’t think so. And how was this fellow able to climb back up the hill with the extra weight? And he did it in a hurry.
“Almost all those cows have the Quarter-Circle-V-Quarter-Circle brand,” the man said, dropping the ammunition in the dirt.
Waylon stared into the man’s eyes but didn’t find the answers to his questions.
The cowboy slapped him on the shoulder, then threw his thumb back, pointing over his shoulder. “About the herd—”
“Yeah. They’re mine.” That meant the other men who Waylon had sent out to the west sections were going to find cows missing, too. It was possible that every pasture was missing a couple dozen. Most likely, the rustlers hoped that by only taking a few from each pasture, they would go undetected.
Waylon looked at the vaquero. “How did you do that?”
The man’s gleaming smile increased beneath his well-trimmed mustache. “It’s a miracle. I’m an angel. You’re not crazy. Your soul is worth saving. And you don’t believe anything I’m saying.”
Even as the man was ticking off his list of reasons, Waylon’s mind countered. No. No. Maybe. No. Yes.
“You see, my friend...” The man pointed to the sky. “El Señor, He knows you.”
That might be the easiest thing to believe that the man had recently said. Waylon was sure the Lord knew him and knew what he’d done and maybe what he was about to do. His mother had surely taught him that you can’t hide from the Lord. You can hide things from people, but God sees you in your closet.
I can’t think about this right now. He shook his head. “Let’s get my livestock back.”
Both men sneaked back over the ridge and rejoined the other ranch hands waiting for them. Waylon related what the vaquero had discovered.
“They might still have a round in their rifles, and some or all of them might have a six-shooter, too. We’ll head down at sunrise tomorrow. Hopefully, we’ll be able to keep the cattle in that little side canyon.” Waylon laid out a plan and assigned each man to a location. His gut wrenched at the possibilities. He prayed that if there was shooting tomorrow, since he was already a killer, that he’d be the only one who had to kill, and the others would not become tainted.
The men moved back down the mountain. Then the group rode their horses around the bottom of the foothills, across the mouth of Chalk Creek Canyon, and along the opposite bank in a wooded area that offered them protection. In the morning, they’d cross over to get the herd.
It was no surprise to Waylon that the vaquero volunteered for the first watch. Although Waylon assigned out two more, he knew the cowboy would take watches the whole night as he’d been doing the past three nights on the trail. Waylon wondered if the man was an angel after all, then shook his head at his own foolishness and went to sleep.
He opened his eyes, startled to see the sun over the eastern ridge behind gray clouds, and jumped to his feet. He’d overslept. Full sunlight would give them less cover than the shadows of night would have as they made their move. He nudged the other men around him with the toe of his book, and each one lurched to his feet.
The vaquero sat on a boulder, polishing his gun. “Are you ready? Or do you want food first?”
Waylon didn’t answer. He had some questions of his own. “How long have you been up? And why did you let us sleep?”
“We start, then?” The cowboy didn’t answer the questions but pulled his sombrero from where it hung against the back of his shoulders and tugged it over his head. “Let’s get the cows now and go home.”
The men mounted their horses and rode toward their assigned spots, some to the east and a few more to the west. The vaquero rode with Waylon. Apparently, it was moving day for the herd, and the rustlers were prodding the cattle out of the canyon, leaving them without the guards they’d seen the day before. Waylon had hoped the cows would stay safely in the ravine as they got rid of the outlaws.
The clouds darkened, and the wind blew from behind them. Waylon checked the sky—a storm was quickly dropping down from over the western peaks. He whistled, signaling the cowboys to rush the rustlers. They were still a couple of hundred yards away when shots rang out, and Waylon saw Hiram, one of his hands on the western flank, blown from his saddle. The other men took cover as the robbers kicked their horses to a run and fled in a tight group through the opening that had been created, leaving the herd unattended.
“They have no bullets. They can’t stay to fight,” the vaquero yelled.
The cattle were still moving east toward Buena Vista. Suddenly, the heavens opened, and lightning flashed behind the herd as they moved at a much quicker speed. There was a stampede brewing. No sooner had that thought crossed Waylon’s mind than the herd broke into a run. Dirt kicked up behind the mass. Waylon worried for the men he’d sent that direction. Hopefully, they could turn the cattle or stay clear and be safe.
“Heeyah!” The vaquero spurred his horse and rode hard beside Waylon along the edge of the running cows. It didn’t seem possible to gain the distance they were as they galloped past the frightened animals. In moments, they were alongside the lead animals. Together they turned them to the right. The herd followed as they began to churn into a pinwheel, tightening the mass, slowing the animals. Soon the other cowhands arrived, and the herd was settled—not a rustler in sight.
Waylon counted the men. Nine. Hiram’s sleeve showed blood running down it where his kerchief was tied around, but they were all there. No one died that day. And he didn’t kill anyone. He sent the cowboys to the front and sides of the herd to guide them back home. He and the vaquero rode drag in case any of the rustlers decided to come back and make a grab for the cattle.
“You gonna tell me about yourself?” Waylon asked.
“You gonna believe me?” the vaquero replied.
Waylon knew that if he said yes, he had to admit the Lord might care a speck about him. Then again, if he said no, he knew he’d be lying to God. “You’re an angel, aren’t you?” He pondered on that. The man’s admission didn’t matter much since Waylon already knew it was true.
The man smiled and nodded. “Sí. And I was sent here to see about you. The Lord would give you a gift if you would receive it.” Then he focused on the herd ahead of them without another word.
What did he mean by gift?
Chapter 5
Vivian Leete
“Catch that chicken,” Seffi yelled.
Vivian put down the empty washtub she was carrying and ran toward her friend. As she rounded the corner of the house, she saw that it wasn’t just one chicken on the loose but at least a dozen. They were completely unpredictable, running in crooked lines, some few trying miserably to fly straight at her.
She threw her hands in front of her face and screamed. Vivian loathed birds, and
they reciprocated. When she had tried to collect eggs, the hens squawked and pecked at her hands and arms. Whenever she had tried to cross the yard to feed the pigs, the geese would chase her. And she didn’t even try to move when the big tom turkey began spreading his feathers out. Get hold of yourself. If you’re going to live on a ranch, you’ll have to deal with the chickens. And geese. And turkeys.
Vivian threw her arms out to the sides and flapped. Some of the chickens turned back. She knew better than to chase directly behind the little monsters, so she veered to the left and circled around, sending the birds toward the back porch. She took a deep breath and scooped up a hen by the leg, then another. She dropped them both into the washtub she’d abandoned and covered it with her apron. Then she and Seffi collected the rest and were able to get them all back into the henhouse.
They sat together on the back stoop and looked at each other. Vivian could only imagine what Seffi saw, but if it was anything like what she was looking at… Vivian began to giggle, causing Seffi’s eyes to sparkle. Then she chuckled, too, which made Vivian snort. There was no stopping them until both women had laughed it out. Seffi reached into Vivian’s disheveled hair and began pulling out white chicken feathers.
“What exactly happened?” Vivian asked. Even working with Seffi made Vivian happy.
“I only opened the door for a moment, just to spread a little feed in their trough, when the devil that’s our rooster—”
“Satan.” Vivian hissed their nickname for the beast as Seffi did.
“Yes, he dove at me. I shrieked. The chickens scattered. And you saw the rest. I’m going to buy us another and make dumplings to go with this one.”
“I’ll help you.” Vivian was thankful to have Seffi in her life. Small lines around the woman’s mouth and near the corners of her eyes were evidence of how often her friend laughed. Just being around her lightened Vivian’s heart.