Love on the Range

by Jessica Nelson

  Three, a hypocrite. He couldn’t forget the trace of snobbery in her voice when she’d been lecturing him about the benefits of the city.

  Four, he’d known the girl a short time. Yep, plenty of reasons.

  Her pale hand rested on his kitchen counter and he resisted the urge to touch her skin, to see if it felt as smooth and warm as it looked.

  “I need to get back. Thank you for the water,” she repeated. Her gaze slipped away, scanning his counter and stopping on a letter he’d meant to burn. It lay propped against where the counter met the wall, the handwriting legible from where he stood.

  “I’ll let you out,” he said quickly.

  Gracie looked up, and he could tell she’d seen too much. She didn’t ask questions like he’d expected but rather waggled her fingers at him and stepped out the door. A blast of cold slammed the door shut behind her.

  Trevor watched her from the window in his living room, a lone figure huddled against a harsh wind. The sky was streaked orange by the setting sun. He should take her back in his Ford. It would be the kind thing to do. He reluctantly grabbed his hat and yelled out the front door. “Gracie, let me give you a ride. Wait up!”

  She turned, the wind lashing her skirts against her legs. He led her to the back of his house where he kept his truck. She wore a small smile as she got in. The engine coughed to life, and they drove over the rough terrain, bouncing in awkward silence. He trained his gaze forward.

  Gracie cleared her throat. “I didn’t notice the lack of a road when I walked over.”

  “No need for one.” Trevor concentrated on avoiding shrubs. It helped him ignore her perfume, some flowery scent that made him think of spring.

  “Thank you for driving me back. The weather turned colder than I expected.”

  “Winter’s coming,” he said, voice terse.

  “I’ve always loved winter, how it shows God’s goodness, His faithfulness.” She smiled, her eyes glowing in the sunset like a newly oiled rifle stock. He loved his rifle. “I can feel how close He is and how small I am in the desolation of winter.”

  He looked ahead, jaw tight. “What I sense is the harshness of this place.”

  “But the plants grow. He provides sun and rain, and despite the harshness, there’s life. He is good.” The unbridled optimism of youth rang in her voice.

  “Time will temper that outlook.”

  Gracie studied Trevor’s sharp, lined profile, wondering how to respond.

  His face reflected him in many ways. Strong, stern. Weary of soul, as if the winter of life had deadened within him all ability to grow. The hope was that good seeds still lay in the frozen soil of his heart, waiting for spring.

  Back in the kitchen, before seeing that intriguing letter on his counter, she’d observed how Trevor filled out his earth-stained Levi’s with muscular strength, and how his plaid shirt stretched tight against his broad shoulders. She was unaccustomed to noticing men in such a physical way, but at that moment she’d had trouble removing her gaze.

  What would have happened if she’d leaned forward and kissed him?

  The thought brought a stinging blush to her cheeks. She wasn’t so bold. A woman simply didn’t kiss just anyone, especially a man known for such a small time. Most important of all, it was Striker who she longed to forge a relationship with, not some taciturn cowboy.

  The truck jolted over an uneven piece of land, bringing her attention back to Trevor’s profile. “Why don’t you believe in God?”

  He shot her a glare. “I don’t believe in a God who lets people live in a world like this.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m not even going to ask what’s wrong with it because I’m sure you’ll have a whole list of doldrums to recite. Nevertheless, you should consider the good things.”

  “It’s not that easy, Gracelyn. You can’t just simplify pain and suffering.”

  “I’m not. I am not trying to, at least.” She cocked her head. “You have a good life, Trevor, in a place you love. And yet you’re bitter?” She was fishing, she knew, but it was in her nature to probe. He awakened something within, and she found herself longing to discover more of him.

  Trevor parked his truck next to Uncle Lou’s wagon, then turned to Gracie, eyes blazing. Her curiosity withered beneath his hard gaze.

  “‘God is so good,’” he mocked. “What do you, socialite of Boston, know about pain? I could tell you stories that would shock you. You’re lighthearted and completely unaware of the suffering around you. We don’t believe in God around here for good reasons.” Trevor struck the wheel with the palm of his hand. The sound ricocheted in the truck like a gunshot. “What do you know about a drunken father who beats his kid unconscious every night for smiling the wrong way, mothers who prostitute themselves and then spend the money on whiskey and opiates. Do you know why Mary doesn’t go to church? They won’t let her in because she’s part Paiute. That’s some God you serve.”

  Gracie pressed herself back against the passenger door, a faint tremor working through her stomach. No wonder Trevor hardly smiled. He was obviously a man tormented.

  She frowned. She didn’t like his implication that she was a shallow child incapable of empathy, ignorant of evil. She was torn between defensive anger and deep sorrow.

  As he glared at her, the scar on his brow stark white against his skin, perception filled her. She straightened from the door and leaned toward him.

  “You do believe in God,” she said slowly. “You just hate Him.”

  A shocked expression crossed his grim features, then a look of dawning knowledge.

  There was silence as he looked away from her. “You’re right,” he said, voice low.

  Gracie wanted to say more, but he looked so defeated. Gone was the strong presence she had been attracted to in his kitchen. In its place sat a lonely, desolate man. A man who had lived in darkness for far too long. She gently placed her palm on his shoulder.

  “Get out.”

  “But I—”

  “Now.”

  She opened her door and slid out quickly. Autumn sliced through her, and she wrapped her arms tightly against her ribs. The menacing intensity vibrating through his voice made her lungs feel squished within her rib cage. She’d barely made it to the front porch before his truck squealed, digging up dirt as it turned and bounced across the land, not headed toward his house, but somewhere else.

  For a moment she held perfectly still, a deep pain spreading through her, immobilizing her. Would she ever say anything right? She drew a full breath, released it, then turned and went inside.

  Mary stood in the hall, forehead puckered. “What’s wrong with Trevor?”

  “We were talking about God,” Gracie murmured.

  Her brow smoothed. “That explains it, it does. He doesn’t like the mention of Him.”

  Gracie followed Mary into the dining room. “You’ve known Trevor a long time.”

  “Since I was a wee babe.” Mary ran a dust rag over the rich-hued furniture. “His mama and mine shared a profession together, and he watched out for me. He’s a good man, he is, just can’t accept that God loves. He can’t put it together in his head because of his upbringing, I expect.”

  “His upbringing?”

  “Our mothers were prostitutes.”

  “Oh.” Gracie winced. Trevor had been speaking from his own experiences. “What about your fathers?”

  “Mine just wanted his whiskey. Don’t look so sad, Gracie. Bad things happen in life. So do good. It’s the way things work out.”

  “It’s not right, Mary. I wish there was something I could do to change things. You don’t seem bitter.”

  “God’s helped me forgive.”

  “You’re a Christian, then?” The heaviness in Gracie’s chest lifted a
little. “Trevor said churches here don’t accept you.”

  “Some churches, unfortunately, are very prejudiced, but I do meet with a few Christian neighbors every other Sunday for our own version of a church service. There’s no local church close by so we do our best.”

  “But you don’t pray at meals.”

  Mary sighed. “Not out loud, no.”

  They walked upstairs, and Gracie felt her depression dissipating. Church! She bounced after Mary into the bedroom, forcing thoughts of Trevor and the life he’d endured to the back of her heart.

  Mary wiped the window and Gracie wrinkled her nose at the stench of vinegar.

  “I’d love to meet some of the neighbors.”

  “You can come.” Mary smiled gently. “But please, leave me be so I can finish cleaning.”

  “I’ll help.”

  “Absolutely not. This is my job. Maybe you need a rest?”

  “I suppose.” Gracie shrugged and left the bedroom. Despite the excitement tumbling through her at the prospect of attending church, thoughts of Trevor would not leave. Perhaps she had been hasty in her judgments of the people here. Perhaps she was not as modern, not as accepting, as she’d once thought.

  Chapter Six

  A great journalist must be bold and fearless.

  Gracie set her shoulders and walked to where James stood against the wagon, eyes squinting against the morning light.

  “Good morning, James.”

  He grunted in reply.

  “Are you heading to Burns this morning? I’ve need of several things. Toiletries, chocolate…” Clues as to Striker’s whereabouts. That letter on Trevor’s counter had been quite interesting, though she hadn’t seen enough to know what it meant, or if it had anything to do with Striker.

  She knew only that the return address was from the Bureau of Investigation. Why would the government be writing to Trevor?

  “I got no patience for your yapping. Git,” James replied. The wagon creaked as he straightened and turned away from her, messing with something in the back.

  “No talking…I promise,” she said.

  He shook his head and spit his tobacco to the side. “Nope. Stay here with Mary.”

  Taken aback, Gracie didn’t know what to say. Sunshine rolled over her, bathing the wagon with light. James paid her no heed. He walked around the wagon and clomped up the front porch steps.

  Drawing a deep, unsteady breath, Gracie glanced around. No one to see if she left. Would they worry? She gnawed her lower lip, then made her decision.

  A quick dash through the kitchen door brought her to Mary, who was cleaning the stove.

  “I’m going on a ride. I’ll be home later,” Gracie told her breathlessly.

  “Do you need food?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Biting her cheeks to keep from smiling, Gracie darted out the door and back to the wagon. With no one in sight, sneaking up under the covers in the bed of the wagon didn’t pose a problem.

  The rough wool contained a musty smell. Like hay and mold. Her nose twitched but she managed not to sneeze. Voices drew near. Low, male tones.

  The wagon shuddered as the men climbed in. Gracie grimaced. Would it be more than just James going to Burns? She was counting on him not noticing her. But with two…well, maybe that would work out better. They’d be busy talking and might not notice if she needed to shift around the bed to get comfortable.

  Something tickled her nose. A sneeze worked through her and exploded out, just as the wagon burst into action. The force of its movement rolled her into the wagon side. Sharp pain rocked through her scalp but she ignored it.

  Focus, that’s what she needed.

  A journalist couldn’t be a prissy socialite, but a daring adventurer who took risks others only dreamed of taking.

  Besides, she needed something to take her mind off Trevor. Curiosity was no excuse for upsetting him the way she had.

  She relaxed against the floor of the wagon bed. Perhaps this trip would be the only one she’d need to get the information she wanted. If she couldn’t get an interview, she’d settle for an article. She frowned, remembering Mother’s most recent letter. It had been a virtual tirade, accusing Gracie of being ridiculous for refusing marriage to an upstanding, socially appropriate man.

  It didn’t matter what Mother said. Love would be the foundation of Gracie’s marriage someday. Not money or connections. This was the twentieth century, after all. The archaic system of arranged marriages was long dead, at least for Americans.

  Closing her eyes, she waited for the wagon to reach its destination.

  An hour or so later, judging by the position of the sun in the sky, the wagon rolled to a stop. Perspiration trickled down Gracie’s neck as she peeked from her wool cover.

  “You want flour?” James’s voice crackled so close that Gracie almost shrieked. Instead she stiffened, holding perfectly still.

  “Yep.” Uncle Lou’s voice floated over clear as a lake in summer. “I’ll go check the telegraphs.”

  Sounds and smells inundated her, the pounding of feet against wooden sidewalks, the murmur of voices hurrying back and forth. Gracie tried to take deep, even breaths but her heart refused to quit knocking against her sternum and the blanket was about to suffocate her.

  After minutes of dreadful heat, she could take no more. She flipped the blanket off and scooted up, carefully inching her way toward the edge of the wagon, hoping to slip off and question a few people before Uncle Lou or James came back.

  Oh, this was a foolhardy plan. Spontaneity proved once again to be a foe. Stifling a groan, Gracie slid off the wagon and attempted to straighten her hair and skirts. She must look a fright, for a few people stared at her quite oddly.

  She patted her pocket and felt the reassuring bulge of her notebook. If only she’d thought to bring some sort of disguise, a hat or a veil.

  But no matter. She’d just avoid the dry goods store and the Post Office. It should be a simple feat.

  She looked up, taking in her surroundings. There was more than she suspected. Buildings hugged each side of the road. Avoiding James and Uncle Lou might be harder than she’d thought. The mercantile stood directly across from her and the telegraph office appeared to be down the street.

  Her shirt stuck to her skin and an itch crawled along her neck. She must hurry. She ducked to the other side of the wagon. Spotting a linen store, she dodged to the door frame. Surely the men wouldn’t visit a store dealing in lady’s clothing.

  A little bell rang as she opened the door.

  She stepped inside, observing the petite woman at the counter and a lone woman standing before daisy-bright bolts of cloth.

  “Good morning,” she said, moving into the store and giving both women her friendliest smile. “I’m looking for Striker.”

  Their brows went up in unison. Then a shuttered look seem to come over them. The woman at the counter turned her back and the lady at the bolt of cloth became preoccupied with a particular daisy.

  So this was how it would be? Gracelyn set her shoulders. She would not back down from a challenge. Not when it came to her Striker.

  * * *

  “Went to Burns today,” Uncle Lou announced over supper.

  Gracie paused in eating. “I really need to get to town, if possible.” Especially since today’s trip had proven so unfruitful. She’d narrowly managed to return to the wagon before Uncle Lou and James.

  A risky business, journalism.

  “I don’t know about a trip to town. Seems the influenza is all over the country. Military boys are dropping like flies, and the grippe’s spread to civilians.” He spooned mashed potatoes into his mouth, glancing around the table. His blue eyes weren’t sparkling with mirth tonight, Gracie noti
ced.

  “How severe is it?” she asked.

  “Oregon doesn’t have too many cases yet. It’s bad by your parents, Gracie. Real bad.” Uncle Lou looked at Trevor. “You’re leaving in the morning for that business deal?”

  Trevor nodded.

  “Wear your mask. Keep safe.”

  He was leaving? A shiver of foreboding slithered down Gracie’s spine. “How long can the influenza last?”

  “This one’s virulent, but I don’t know how long it lasts. I’ve never had it before.” Uncle Lou looked at Mary. “I want you to stay away from town for a while.” He paused. “Mendez has been spotted skulking around.”

  Mary’s eyes lowered.

  Very strange. Uncle Lou seemed proprietary, almost. As if he had feelings for Mary. But more interesting were his words. Mendez usually kidnapped very young, blonde women.

  “Why would Mendez care about Mary?” Gracie shot Trevor a look. He kept eating, head down. He hadn’t spoken directly to her since he’d ordered her out of his truck the other day.

  “Mendez is obsessed with her,” Uncle Lou said slowly. “Years ago, before she came here, he kidnapped her and tried taking her down to Mexico.”

  Her attention shifted to Mary. “That’s horrible. However did you escape?”

  “Striker saved her and brought her here,” Uncle Lou said.

  “Striker,” Gracie breathed. “Oh, Mary, what is he like? The papers are wrong, aren’t they?”

  Mary smiled a quiet smile. “He’s wonderful.”

  “I knew it. A true hero.” Gracie sighed and propped her elbow on the table, her cheek on her hand.

  “He ain’t a hero.” Trevor frowned. “Eat your food.”

  Gracie flinched. His first words to her since their altercation in the truck sounded unbearably bossy.

  James cackled around a mouth full of potatoes. “Don’t listen to Trevor. We all admire Striker around here, girl.”

  “The point,” Uncle Lou said briskly, “is that you women keep an eye out and if you see anything suspicious, let someone know. Mendez will stop at nothing to get Mary back.”