“You tried to make amends by leaving the ring.”
“Suuu-zannne,” Rosa’s strong voice belted across to her, and Suzanne dragged herself upright.
“I have to get supper,” she said, turning to go. Then she forced her aching muscles into a stiff run back to the chuck wagon.
Luke stared after her, ashamed of himself. He had been all wrong about their motives in helping him. It was obvious now that they hadn’t been trying to trap him or force him to stay. She was still being nice to him; she was still concerned about his health. And she hadn’t told on him, like some women would have done if they had felt jilted. Jilted? Why had he thought of that word? There was no courtship between them. But then… he would never jilt a woman like Suzanne. He only wished circumstances were different, he wished…
He tore his mind away from such foolish thoughts and turned to get a drink of water.
Suzanne realized, guiltily, that Rosa had already heaved the chuck box from the rear of the wagon and was opening the hinged lid. Cubbyholes and drawers held cutlery, plates, and other staples. From the depths of the box, Rosa removed coffee beans and a grinder.
“I’ll get the water,” Suzanne offered, grabbing the enormous coffeepot.
Soon they were busily preparing the evening meal. She and Rosa had decided on bacon, beans, and biscuits, topped off with Rosa’s fried apple pies. Somewhere in the background, one of the cowboys was playing a harmonica. The jaunty tune he played flowed over the camp, and slowly the cowboys relaxed after their hard day’s work, smiles returning to their wind-whipped faces.
Suzanne’s eyes trailed from the group back to the skillet of bacon she was frying; she loved to watch the meat sizzle, breathe the unique aroma. She lifted her eyes again, this time to the cottonwood trees where a breeze rippled the leaves. The breeze grew stronger, stretching across the valley—a cooling relief from the heat of the day.
The man playing the harmonica had launched into a lively version of “Oh! Susanna,” and a tall cowboy was belting out the chorus while the others tapped their feet, clapped, and stole glances at her.
Even Luke was watching her with a rare grin.
She looked away, embarrassed, but suddenly was very glad that she had come.
Later, as the men sat around the fire, sampling her biscuits and murmuring their approval, Suzanne stole a glance at Luke. He was watching her, she was sure of it. Yet, when she looked at him, his blue eyes skittered over her head, as though he were observing something in the distance.
Daylight gave way to darkness and the men sat around in groups, drinking coffee, discussing the next day’s plans.
“Are you doing all right, Miss Waters?” Art asked, slinking up from the darkness.
She gasped and whirled, pressing her hand to her bosom. “You startled me,” she exclaimed.
“I’m real sorry,” he said, looking distressed.
“That’s okay, Art. I’m just a bit jumpy. And I’m doing just fine. Thank you for asking.”
He stood with his head tilted, staring down into her face, his arms dangling awkwardly at his sides. As Suzanne looked at him, she realized that any hope of caring for Art had vanished since she’d met Luke. The thought startled her—she and Luke had never even spoken romantically. But she knew that she couldn’t settle for anything less than true love, and Art couldn’t draw that from her with any amount of attention.
“Excuse me, I need to ask Rosa something,” she said, smiled briefly, then sidestepped him.
She didn’t want Mr. Parkinson upset with her for distracting his son. Furthermore, she was in no mood to keep up a polite charade with Art. He was beginning to wear on her nerves. For some reason, whenever Art came around, she found herself stealing a glance at Luke, trying to gauge his reaction. He didn’t seem to notice Art’s attention to her. Or if he did, he certainly didn’t appear to care.
Everyone took turns being watchman, so the cattle were never left unattended. Suzanne’s eyes followed Luke when his turn came to mount his horse and ride the perimeter.
His profile was a silhouette in the darkness, but she could see that he still favored his left side, leaning forward in the saddle, working the horse’s reins with his right hand.
“Miss Waters?”
Mr. Parkinson stood over her.
“Yes, sir?”
“You and Rosa throw your bedrolls here beside the chuck wagon,” he said wearily. “You’ll have more privacy. I’ll see that you’re not disturbed.”
“We’ll be fine,” she replied quickly.
She believed he considered her to be one more responsibility added to his load. Hating to cause him more concern, she was determined to be as helpful as possible.
After she and Rosa had cleaned up and put everything back in the chuck box, she settled down with her bedroll. From the depths of her pants pocket, she retrieved a tiny square of folded paper. She shook the dust from the paper, frowning, as she gently opened it, careful not to tear the sheet.
The verses she had copied were dim in the light of the lantern mounted on the wagon, but she knew them by heart anyway. Her eyes slipped down the list, pausing on the last one.
“I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.”
She thought of this cattle drive, of Luke, and finally of Pa. God, please make him well, she silently prayed. Then she folded the paper and nestled down in her sleeping bag, too weary to pray more.
CHAPTER 12
Suzanne felt a weight on her shoulder, pressing down, pressing harder. Someone was shaking her. Her eyes, gritty from trail dust, dragged open. Rosa’s toothless smile greeted her.
She popped up on her elbow, looking around. Some of the men were already up, moving about the herd, checking the horses. She bolted from her bed and fumbled for her boots. Rosa began to motion her toward the back of the wagon. There waited a pan of water and a clean towel.
“Thanks, Rosa, you’re a dear!”
Suzanne smiled at her. Suzanne turned and began splashing water onto her face. Her skin tingled from the coolness of the water, and slowly her brain began to clear. She found her mirror, whisked her hair back into a braid, then joined Rosa at the fire.
Although she had spent the night sleeping on the ground, she felt surprisingly well. She fell quickly to the task of mixing biscuits, then relieving Rosa at the big frying pan, where slabs of bacon sizzled. The smell drifted over the cool spring morning, and Suzanne quietly prayed for a good day.
After breakfast, Mr. Parkinson came up, taking the chuck box from Suzanne’s hands and fitting it into the wagon for her.
“You ladies, hurry up,” he said. “With luck, we’ll make it into Pueblo by dark.” He held himself erect, squaring his shoulders as though preparing to go to battle.
Pueblo served as a crossroads for travelers flooding into Colorado. It also provided a railhead for shipping cattle. It was a bawdy, dusty settlement nestled in a wide valley, looking rather plain to Suzanne compared to her hometown of Denver. But Suzanne and all the others on the cattle drive considered it paradise after another day beneath a blazing, merciless sun.
During lunch break tempers started flaring among the cowboys. Luke looked out of sorts. Even Art seemed rather sullen. Rosa, usually cheerful and pleasant, had lapsed into silence until the dust-layered chuck wagon lumbered into the outskirts of Pueblo. Then she blew a huge sigh and turned to give Suzanne a wide smile.
“Mr. Parkinson said to look for the Antlers Hotel,” Suzanne instructed her. “That’s where we’ll be staying tonight.”
Both women squinted into the setting sun as the wagon clattered down the narrow main street. A couple of general stores, two banks, a livery, and a narrow, two-story hotel were scattered about with a number of saloons sandwiched in between. Music drifted through the saloon’s swinging doors, as women in colorful dresses beckoned cowboys inside.
Suzanne turned on the seat and glanced around the town.
“That’s the only hotel I see.” Suzanne pointed to the b
uilding on the comer. Trail dust gritted against her teeth as she spoke. “Yes, there’s the sign, Antlers Hotel!”
Rosa carefully guided the wagon onto the side street that paralleled the hotel and stomped a boot to the brake. Suzanne leaned back in the seat, wondering if she could possibly walk after another day of sitting on the hard wagon seat.
They were just getting their feet planted solidly on the ground when Mr. Parkinson rode up.
“I’m going in to pay for your rooms,” he called to them. “The others can fend for themselves. Art and I will be staying here, too, if you need anything.” His eyes lingered on Suzanne.
“We’ll be fine.” She smiled back, wishing he would stop worrying about her.
“In the morning, Johnny, my best cowhand, will escort you back to the ranch. The rest of us will be staying on to sell the cattle and take care of business.”
“Thank you, Mr. Parkinson,” Suzanne called after him, but he was already around the side of the building. “He’s always in a hurry, isn’t he?” she commented to Rosa.
As the women entered the hotel, Suzanne could tell from the shocked stares of those in the lobby that she and Rosa looked a mess. The desk clerk took a step backward as she and Rosa approached the counter, and he shoved the registration form across for their signatures. They must smell like cattle, too!
“You do it.” Rosa handed her form to Suzanne, who signed for her.
“Second floor, last room on the right,” the desk clerk quickly instructed, handing each of them a key. “Will you be wanting a tub of water? It comes with the room.”
“That would be wonderful,” Suzanne replied.
They hurried up the steps, trying to ignore the shocked faces of two proper women, on the arms of their husbands. On the second floor, Suzanne found her room and pointed Rosa toward hers. She unlocked the door and stepped into a small yet nicely decorated room with polished mahogany furniture. A marble-topped nightstand held a kerosene lamp beside a lush bed. She stared at the bed for a moment, taking a deep, long breath. She couldn’t wait to hop in!,
Then her eyes fell to her dusty boots. Out of respect for the carpet, she reached down and removed her boots, careful not to add any more dust to the mounting pile. Depositing her overnight bag, she slipped off her woolen socks and sauntered to the window to raise the shade.
Below her, the busy street was filled with horses, wagons, and an assortment of people. She recognized two cowboys from the cattle drive. They were pushing through the bat wing doors of a saloon across the street. She pressed her face against the window, peering from right to left. Where was Luke? she wondered. Probably in the saloon already. She lowered the shade and sighed. She had hoped he wouldn’t forget the lesson he had learned from his last poker game.
The knock on the door turned out to be her tub, carried by two stout men who eyed her curiously. Suzanne didn’t notice their stares, as her eyes drifted longingly to the tub. The men then brought up pails of hot water. As soon as they left, she forgot about Luke, the long trail, and everything else for the next glorious hour as she soaked in the tub.
When finally Suzanne felt squeaky clean and presentable in a floral cotton she had tucked into her satchel, she left her room. She knocked on Rosa’s door, planning to invite the older woman to dinner, but from the sound of the snores audible through the wooden door, Rosa had forgotten food.
Suzanne ventured cautiously down the stairs, wondering what Mr. Parkinson expected them to do about supper. She had brought the last dollar from the cookie tin, hoping it would be enough to cover her expenses until Mr. Parkinson paid her.
As she stepped into the crowded lobby and glanced around, she heard her name shouted above the murmur of voices.
Art Parkinson came, fresh from a bath and shave, dressed smartly in a topcoat over black trousers. From the looks of the crisp white shirt, she suspected his first stop in town had been the general store.
“I was on my way to your room to see if I could buy you supper,” he said, beaming at her.
Suzanne hesitated. Automatically, her eyes slipped over the lobby. Luke was nowhere in sight.
“The dining room is filling up fast,” he continued, “but we can still get a seat.”
She smiled up into Art’s angular face. She should be grateful someone wanted to escort her to the dining room.
“That’s very sweet of you,” she said, taking his arm.
She dragged her eyes from the lobby of strangers and walked with Art into the dining room, unaware that Luke was just entering the hotel. And now he was watching her walk away with Art.
Luke entered the opposite side of the dining room, carefully selecting a table in a far corner. He sat in back of Suzanne so he could observe her without her knowing it.
Taking a deep breath, he studied the menu that had been handed to him. He had been starved when he had arrived at the hotel, half-hoping to invite Suzanne to eat with him. Mr. Parkinson had given them a slight advance to see them to Pueblo, and he hadn’t spent any of it. There was enough to buy dinner for two this evening.
How could he have forgotten about Junior? he wondered, glaring in their direction.
The young idiot hadn’t stopped talking since they’d sat down. He squinted, trying to see how Suzanne was reacting, although it was hard to tell, with her back to him. And yet she was tilting her head, nodding, acting like what he was saying was the most fascinating speech she’d ever heard.
“Ready to order?”
The waiter stood by his table, waiting.
Luke looked back at the menu. Well, he had enough money for two, so he’d eat enough for two.
“I’ll take the beefsteak, potatoes, and whatever else comes with it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The menu was whisked from his hand. Immediately, his eyes shot back to the couple. Then, with firm resolve, he turned in his seat and concentrated on looking through the window to the busy street. He would not look their way again, he promised himself. It was a matter of pride, and he knew he could be tough enough to keep that promise.
Suzanne had listened intently as Art had given a lengthy account of his year at Harvard. He had managed to talk his way through their delicious meal. Suzanne began to wonder if all this talking was a nervous habit or if he was this loose-jawed all the time. “I would have flunked out if not for Papa pulling a few strings,” he stated proudly. “One year was more than enough for me. I was born to be a rancher,” he boasted.
She listened and forced a smile. From what she had observed, Art spent more time lounging on the porch than at the corral and stables. She supposed when your father owned the ranch, other things mattered—like wearing good clothes and supervising the ranch hands.
Maybe life with Art wouldn’t be so bad, she told herself, recalling the satiny feel of the fine hotel soap, not the rough lye she’d had to rub on her skin for months.
“…and I would be honored,” he finished with a flourish.
Her eyes moved from his bobbing Adam’s apple to his flushed face. He had obviously said something very important, but she had no idea what it had been.
“So… how do you feel about that, Miss Waters?” He was such a gentleman, always addressing her formally.
“Well…” She hesitated, wondering how to react so he wouldn’t know she hadn’t been listening.
“I guess I’m speaking prematurely,” he rushed on. “I know you have to see to your father, but, like I said, next year when I turn twenty-one, I’d like to ask for your hand.”
She gulped, wondering how she could have possibly missed his proposal. She mentally scurried to recapture her wits, knowing the importance of choosing precisely the right words.
“Art—and please call me Suzanne from now on—you understand how worried I am now, with Pa and all.”
“Oh yes! I hope you don’t think I’m being improper.”
“No, not at all! I appreciate everything you’ve said, and I’m honored that you—” She broke off, swallowing. “I just
think we should wait awhile longer to discuss this. But thank you.” She gave him her best smile.
He was staring into her gray eyes, transfixed, blithely unaware that his size-twelve feet blocked the passage of the drunken cowboy stumbling past.
Suddenly, a crash just behind her jolted Suzanne, and she whirled to see a huge man sprawled across the adjoining table. A goblet shattered against a china plate; silver clattered to the floor.
Sputtering profanities, the man gathered his considerable bulk upright and whirled on Art, spitting fire. “You tripped me!” he roared, slamming a huge hand around Art’s throat.
Suzanne stared at the hammy hand, crushing Art’s Adam’s apple. Why, he could choke in seconds, Suzanne thought and panicked.
“I… didn’t…” Art choked out the words between gulps for air.
“Turn him loose,” Suzanne cried. “You fell over your own feet, not his.”
The man turned raging eyes to her. His companion had now joined the ruckus, snickering in the background. Suzanne glanced at Art, whose bulging eyes could pop from his face any minute.
“Well, you’re a feisty one,” his companion said. “I’ll see to her, Buster.”
The proprietor rushed up, desperate to settle the matter quietly.
“Step aside,” the bully growled at him. “Me and this idiot will settle our differences outside.” He yanked Art from the chair and hauled him from the dining room.
“Come on.” The companion breathed whiskey into her face. “We don’t want to miss the fun.” He was every bit the bully his friend was, Suzanne decided, as his fingers bit into her arm.
“Stop this,” she cried, looking back at the proprietor, who was trying to quiet the disrupted diners, assuring them everything was under control. There had merely been a small disagreement.
Didn’t anyone care? Couldn’t anyone stop these bullies?
Suddenly the ugly man who had grabbed Suzanne was shoved back and knocked flat. Luke stood over him, glaring down threateningly.
“Leave the lady alone,” he warned through clenched teeth.
The Brides of the Old West: Five Romantic Adventures from the American Frontier Page 8