by Jo Noelle
The ladies continued on with their chores. Vivian went back to the washing, and Seffi went back to feeding the animals. When they gathered for their midday meal, Vivian asked, “Tell me something more about Waylon. What’s he like?”
“He’s always been a good big brother to Holt and Boone. Sometimes too good. You know how boys can be.”
Vivian honestly wondered what she meant. Since the children’s home where she grew up only housed girls, she had no idea what boys were like. “Actually, I don’t. I didn’t have any brothers.”
“It’s like they’re set on making sure each other knows how to take and throw a punch. They’re all tough and tumble with bleeding lips and torn britches. But when it’s over, it’s over. There are never hard feelings, not like the squabbles I had with my sisters. We could go for weeks without saying a word to each other because some little thing hurt our feelings. I don’t know which is worse, but I didn’t have girls to raise.” Seffi patted Vivian’s hand. “Until now. But I was going to tell you about Waylon.
“The boys didn’t have enough work to do one day—never a good thing for boys. They’d raked all the hay into the barn and were waiting around for another wagonload to come. One thing led to another, and soon they were jumping from the loft into the mound of hay below. They had to stay where they landed, and the next would jump, seeing how close they could get without landing on each other.”
Vivian imagined how easily that could go wrong and listened closely. She loved the stories of Waylon that Seffi shared whenever they worked together.
“They tired of that game, too, so Waylon suggested that the younger boys fight to see who was strongest. They had to keep going until one of them gave up. Luckily, their will was stronger than their fists at that time, and though they punched each other repeatedly, there wasn’t too much damage.
“When they got back to the ranch house that night, arm-in-arm, both boys bragged about the shiners they’d given the other. Their dad talked to them, and Waylon was ashamed of himself. He didn’t eat, and he stayed up all night checking on the boys. From that day on, Waylon has been a peacekeeper. He has a strong sense of responsibility for taking care of those he’s supposed to. He takes it all on himself.” Seffi’s smile faded, and there was some sadness in her voice. “Maybe too much.”
“It sounds like you’ve raised a fine man,” Vivian said. She wondered at how the serious man his mother hinted at matched the man she’d danced with, whose deep laugh resonated in her memory and even now sent chills down her arms.
They washed their dishes and settled into the housework for the afternoon. When the chores were done, they went for a lesson. Vivian was a little more comfortable on the horse each day. Trotting was a jarring affair. Vivian wobbled around in the saddle.
Seffi yelled directions to her. “Remember to post. Post. Post,” She called in a rhythm with the horse’s gait.
Vivian tried pushing herself up out of the saddle to post, but her boot slipped in the stirrup as she bounced. Bit by bit, her body leaned and slid to the left. She tried to correct, but each bounce bobbed her more off center until she fell to the ground.
Vivian lay on the snow, laughing at herself. “That might have been the slowest fall I’ve ever taken.”
Seffi reached down to help her up. “That might have been my fault. Keep your toes up—it keeps them in the stirrups.”
“And me in the saddle. I’ll do that next time.”
Each day, her legs and stomach were still tight from the exercise, but even that was getting better.
Mealtimes were her favorite time of the day. Vivian considered the stories Seffi told her at breakfast, dinner, and supper. Was it possible to fall in love with a man she didn’t know? Probably not though Vivian had to admit she really had no idea what falling in love might be like. She was, however, beginning to admire Waylon and looked forward to their meeting.
That night after the women hugged good-night, Vivian lie on her bed with apprehension swamping her. She truly needed this to work. She had so much to lose if Waylon rejected her.
Chapter 6
Waylon Morgan
The sun was still a couple of hours above the western mountains when Waylon rode into Creede. He’d been in the saddle for a week and looked forward to hot water in the steel tub and warm food without the grit of sand that had blown onto it. Although they hadn’t caught the rustlers, all his men were alive. He counted that a blessing along with recovering most of the cattle, and a few that belonged to his neighbors, too. He’d sent those over to Royce Clark’s place. He hoped the winter blew in hard and put an end to the rustling.
Maybe it was his imagination, but Creede seemed to be an extra friendly town today. People along the street stopped what they were doing and waved his way. They always waved, but today they lifted their hats from their head in almost a cheer. Several women yelled, “Congratulations!” instead of giving a customary nod. He felt like a one-man parade in his dirt-caked trousers. As he rode through the middle of town, he had an urge to kick his horse into a run, wanting to put distance between himself and the peculiar attention he was receiving.
He stopped at the Crowther’s Dry Goods store to pick up a few necessities and was greeted by Mr. Crowther with a hearty handshake and congratulations.
However, as soon as Benita heard his voice, she spun around and chucked a tin of apricots at him. “How dare you show your face around here after what you did?” He jerked to the side as another tin sailed shy of his left shoulder. Her aim was not that far off and improved with each throw. “Stand still, so I can hit you.”
Waylon hadn’t expected her to spew venom for a missed dance. He did have a good reason to leave that night. On second thought, he was glad she was mad at him—he’d get some peace from her constantly chasing him.
Mrs. Crowther caught her daughter around the waist. “I’m so sorry,” she said as she dragged her to the back room before Benita could launch another tin at his head.
Her father shook his head. “She’s a little sore, but she’ll get over it. Mrs. Crowther and I are very happy for you. What is it you wanted to order?”
How did folks know about the cattle already? Boone and Holt went with the wranglers and weren’t bringing the herd through town but cut off a few miles ago to take them to the south-east pasture. Waylon was confused by the response he was receiving. Many folk must have been as worried as the ranchers about the threat the robbers posed. He hadn’t expected congratulations or even to be noticed on his way home.
The only exception was Benita. She stood by the open door to the stockroom, her back to him. He ordered a few groceries for the house that he’d pick up in the next few days and high tailed it out. Just as he was going to step off the boardwalk, Benita opened the door.
“You can take your business to the mercantile. We don’t need your money or your face in our store again.” She threw his order onto the dirt and ground it with her heel, then spun away.
Waylon thought maybe the whole town had turned on its head, and he ought to get out while he was still sane. He kicked his horse into a trot. When he turned off the main road and crossed the railroad tracks, the snow was a little deeper and not as packed. There hadn’t been much snow yet this year. That was good for recovering the herd but bad come spring if things didn’t change. What would the summer pastures, streams, and lakes be like?
Waylon saw two women standing by the clothesline. It was a cool day, but the sun was bright and warmed his dark pants, hat, and coat. He suspected that the clothes would dry a little before they had to take them inside to finish the job. He recognized one—his mother, her hair pulled back in the usual twist, knotted at the base of her neck. The other woman…he groaned…it was her pretty face he saw behind his eyelids before he fell asleep. She seemed to be a smaller build than his mother, and from the way she moved, she appeared to be younger, possibly much younger. It was definitely her.
He had to admit that maybe there was some good to come of the new woman bei
ng there. “She finally took my advice and hired someone,” he mumbled to himself. The way he’d treated Benita at the dance had probably convinced his ma that he was serious about not marrying. Besides, the ranch was doing well, and she deserved a little ease in her life by getting some help with the cooking and cleaning. He knew his mother had been holding out for him to get a wife instead of hiring someone to help out, but it was better this way. It seemed like cooking for this many hands was difficult for her. She also had to keep up the ranch house itself. He figured cleaning rooms and dusting probably took a good amount of time.
Neither woman had seen him approaching yet, but they would soon as he broke the tree line completely and headed down the short drive to the house. Oddly, he wanted the woman to notice him. The rest of the cowboys had taken the herd to the new pasture southeast of the ranch house, but the men would be back for dinner. He had come ahead to warn his mom that there would be a full bunkhouse to feed tonight.
His eyes strayed back to the new woman—she was definitely younger. Again and again, she bent over and picked up the wet laundry, strands of hair falling forward until she stood again and brushed them from her face. She’d shake out the laundered shirt or pant, and his mom would help her pin it on the line. This is just what he hoped for—no more stooping or bending to hurt Ma’s back. He chuckled when he noticed that the younger woman had pinned all the pants from their hems instead of their waist, so it looked like a row of men were standing on their heads.
It might be a few years before his brothers were ready to marry, bringing needed help to the ranch. Although it pricked him with guilt knowing that he couldn't fulfill his mother's wishes for him, he was glad she was being sensible about this.
He was within a hundred yards of the women now. Still neither of them had looked his way. They were chatting, laughing at their own jokes, and having a good time with their backs toward him. From behind, he could tell she was a little shorter than his mother, but that was none of his business anyway—he wouldn’t show any interest in the hired help.
As he got close to the house, he decided he give them a little warning and tucked his tongue behind his teeth to let out a whistled tune designed to bring his dogs to him, which it did. They beat a straight trail to him then heeled with one flanking each side of his horse. His mother turned and waved enthusiastically and then put her arm around the woman's shoulders and led her out to meet him on the trail.
If Waylon hadn't had both feet in the stirrups, he was pretty sure he'd have fallen off the horse right there. In the dim light of the barn, he had thought her pretty. Now, he knew the woman was a remarkable beauty. Her dark hair had not been pulled up in a bun but floated around her shoulders and down her back with the wind lifting strands here and there. She quickly smoothed her hair down and braided it over her left shoulder while he approached. Even plaited, it reached near her waist. He imagined unbraiding it, feeling the soft curls wrap around his palm, then letting it fall through his fingers to watch it flow in the wind.
For the last few yards, his attention stayed on the young woman. His mother had called her Miss Leete. As he rode closer, he recognized the sweetheart-shaped face and the large midnight colored eyes above her cherry red lips. She was just as he remembered.
He whistled again and sent his dogs back to the porch.
Apparently she needed work, and Ma trusted her enough to bring her home. His mother and the woman came to a stop and waited for Waylon to ride the last few yards. He jumped from his horse and took his hat off before he hugged his mother and kissed her cheek. Her arms tightened around him again just as he was letting go of her. He hugged her back quickly again before releasing her.
He'd only been gone little over a week. Maybe his mom had thought something had happened, and he wouldn't be coming back except to be slung over a horse’s back and lead home for a funeral. Those kinds of things can happen with rustlers—have happened. He pushed the bad memories away.
She stepped back, her eyes bright with happiness. “I expect you’d like to meet Miss Vivian Leete,” she said. She hooked her elbow with Waylon’s and walked the two steps to where Vivian waited. “Vivian, my son Waylon.”
He’d known the young woman was a looker, but coming face-to-face with that reality was startling. Her eyes were bright. Her cheeks had a touch of pink to them. Her shape was flattering in all the right places, but it was her smile that captured him completely. Her lips broadened and curled up at the end and then broke into a mesmerizing full smile. The tiniest dimples dotted just outside the corners of her lips. She looked genuinely happy to meet him.
“Miss.” He nodded but couldn’t think of one more thing to say though he knew he was smiling like a darned fool. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his mother taking in his reaction. What was she up to?
Vivian rubbed her hands down her dress. She seemed nervous. He figured it must be hard to meet your boss for the first time especially if you were hired without meeting him first. He tipped his hat. “Hello, Miss Leete? You'll call me Waylon if that's okay.”
He saw a look of surprise cross her face, but she answered, “Of course.”
To his mother, he said, “It's about time you got some help around this place. It’s too much work for one woman. I know you two will get along fine. In fact, it seems like you already do.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling you.” His ma playfully slapped his shoulder. “And Vivian’s the best help I could imagine. She’s been here a week, and already she feels like family. I expect you to treat her as such.”
Ah, that’s what she’s up to. Waylon could almost see the gears turning in his Ma’s head. She hired an appealing—stunning—woman to tempt him into marriage. It might have worked at one time. Miss Leete was just the right kind of beautiful. He took a deep breath. Maybe if he ever intended to marry. Or maybe if he hadn’t encountered rustlers three years ago. Maybe if his dad were still alive. That sure was a lot of maybes.
His mom put one arm around Waylon and her other arm around Vivian and gave them both a squeeze. “Waylon, this is about the happiest I've been in a long time. Thank you so much.” Ma released both of them and said, “Well, I'll go to the kitchen and let you two get acquainted.” His mom looked him over from head to boots. “I’ll put some water on for you to clean up.”
The silence stretched. Waylon didn’t know what to ask the woman and had a hard time untangling his thoughts around her. She remained silent, but a shy smile played around her lips, and her cheeks warmed with a pink blush. He finally broke the silence. “Welcome to the Morgan Ranch. If you don't mind, I'll go take care of my horse and then take care myself, too, before I come into the kitchen to talk to you ladies. Nice to make your acquaintance.”
Vivian’s genuine smile struck him again and left him feeling weak. He knew he’d have to stay out of that little lady’s way—for her own good as well as his.
Waylon walked his horse to the barn where Blake was at the door to welcome him. “Where's the rest of the boys?” he asked.
“With the cattle. They’ll be along in a few hours.”
“You get ’em?”
“No, they got away, but we recovered most of the cattle.” He pulled his horse into the stall and began stripping the tack.
Blake spoke up. “Shoo now—you smell like some skunk sprayed you with his finest. I’ll take care of your horse. Get yourself up to the house and warsh up. Then get acquainted with that pretty little miss in there waiting for you.”
“She’s not waiting for me unless dinner’s already on.” His voice sounded gruff, but it was best to nip this—whatever it was—in the bud. He didn’t want his ma or his brothers or the ranch hands getting ideas in their heads about…about things that just wouldn’t happen.
Blake shrugged his shoulders.
Truthfully, Waylon knew he needed to make dang sure he didn’t get those ideas either. But he knew he had them. It might be best if he stayed away from the house until the shock of her presence wore off.
He could just as easily eat with the crew in the bunkhouse or for the next few days if it came to that.
Waylon felt as if he carried twenty pounds of dust from the trail all over his clothes and maybe his hands and face too. He stopped by the trough where his mother had placed a bucket of water. He took off his hat and knelt on the ground, then plunged his head and face into the water. The ice-cold water seemed to bring him back to his senses. I’ve got a ranch to run with or without her being here. It makes no nevermind either way.
Waylon rolled up his sleeves, his mind still in a muddle. He never thought about his mom hiring a beautiful young woman, a tempting young woman at that. He splashed water over his head, hair, and neck again and again as if he were trying to wash the appearance of her from his mind. Waylon ducked his head, letting the cold water take his breath away. He rubbed across his eyes, but her visage seemed burned to the underside of his eyelids. Now that he was wet, he couldn’t stay outside or he’d freeze to death.
Why couldn’t Ma hire someone her age? Surely someone needed the money, but an older woman probably wouldn't have been much help to her. He watched the ripples in the bucket spread from the droplets. Probably best this way. He'd just have to get used to it. And avoid her. That little voice in his head seemed to belly laugh at that one. It’d be hard to do, based on his reaction to her at the first meeting.
He entered the house through the back door and turned to go straight up the stairs to his room, but without a word, his ma pointed to the small washroom off the kitchen. When his father laid out the house, he built the kitchen over the top of a well. Water could be diverted by a pipe into the bathing room.
He veered over to the small room and stepped inside where some towels and clean clothes had been set out for him. Several pots of hot water sat beside the washtub, half-filled with cold water, and a small fire radiated from the pot-bellied stove.