by Freda, Paula
“How did your day go?” Leatrice asked. Seth was glad of the distraction.
“We had to doctor a bull. He had himself a taste of locoweed this past summer. Practically tore his eyes out and came close to decapitating himself when he charged the fence.
“Barbed wire is a cruel restraint,” Leatrice remarked.
“Nevertheless, it does its job. We run stock, not pets. Maybe I should take you to the local slaughterhouse. You could stand a little reality.”
“Reality! What do you call this?” Leatrice held up her hands. “They’re a wreck. And I’ve acquired a permanent kink in my back, and calluses on my knees.”
“Woman, for what you engineered, I ought to set you to pitching manure out of the cow barn and pig shed, for fertilizer, and cleaning the stables regularly.” Leatrice’s face registered shock and revulsion.
“I suppose you think I’m being cruel, in retaliation for your jerking the ground clear from under me,” Seth argued. “Well, surprisingly, I’m not. What did you think being a poor rancher’s wife was like? I saw my mother pile animal droppings for months on end, until they looked like dark brown buttes. And darn proud of her manure piles she was, even if the animals weren’t hers. But her labors meant an added paycheck to help Dad. No matter if her eyes watered and burned from the powerful stench, or her back hurt so bad, I can’t remember her ever standing fully upright.”
Leatrice refrained from voicing her thought that in her case, if he married her, he wouldn’t be a poor rancher. She did not want to antagonize him. If he should take it into his head to set her those tasks, her determination to prove she deserved his love would force her to carry them out.
“How about some apple pie,” she offered, opting to change the subject.
“Okay.” He poured himself a second cup of coffee. “You’ve learned to brew a powerful pot of coffee,” he admitted, already regretting his harsh words of a moment ago. He was not a sadist; he did not like hurting her feelings. It wasn’t her fault she was born in the east, and pampered and spoiled all her life. She was trying very hard. And it showed. His home was neat and clean, his clothes washed and neatly folded and put away in the bureau in his bedroom. Her efforts at cooking were improving daily. He sometimes wondered what she’d learned in Paris. Actually, he hadn’t expected her to last this long. But the year had hardly begun.
Leatrice watched him demolish three quarters of the apple pie. He left the last quarter for her. No need to tell him who baked the pie. By now he’d guessed it was Linda. “Linda brought over some cookies,” Leatrice said flatly. The annoyance in her voice was there for anyone to hear.
“She’s only trying to help. What do you have against her?”
“She’s in love with you.” There, she’d finally said it. But having said it, she had no wish to start an argument. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll finish up in the morning. I’m going to bed.” Without waiting for his reaction to her comment about Linda, she left the kitchen.
Very early the next morning, Seth went out to the barn and milked Bessie the cow. By the time he returned with a bucket of milk, Leatrice had fresh coffee brewing, eggs poaching in fresh cream, and Linda’s homemade bread warming in the oven. They ate and Seth explained he would load the trailer with the bales of hay while she cleaned up in the kitchen and dressed. With her along, he would drive to the north pasture and it would be her job to drive slowly while he threw bales of hay over the side onto the snow. “Stay alert,” he warned her. “Don’t run over cattle that might wander near the wheels. Listen to my instructions as to which direction to drive. We’ll break for lunch, pick up more hay at the Bar LB, and finish the job in the afternoon.”
“Okay,” she said, and Seth had to turn away to hide the compassionate protective response in his eyes to the lamblike, vulnerable semblance on her face that of late he saw more and more. Why didn’t she rant and rave, or tell him to go to Hades. Instead she sat there confused, bravely restraining the question — Are you sure I can do this? “Make sure you keep the windows open in the truck so you can hear my directions. Dress warm; wear your thermal underwear and wool socks. It’s cold out there this time of year.”
He made the mistake of looking at her. How those blue eyes could mesmerize. He grabbed his coat from the hook and clapped his Stetson on his head. “Meet me outside the barn in half an hour,” he said. Of all the men in the world why had she chosen to fall for him? He flung open the back door and stomped out into the blistering cold.
CHAPTER FIVE
As instructed, Leatrice met Seth outside the barn, bringing with her the lunch basket she’d packed the night before. Seth finished dropping the bales of hay from the opening in the loft onto the flatbed trailer below. The open platform was hitched to a light motor truck that Leatrice noted with relief was equipped with a fully automatic transmission.
Seth drove uphill through the snow over a narrow unpaved road that led to the north pasture. Each pasture was fenced in, separating it from the other, and was accessible through a series of gates cutting across the road. At each juncture Leatrice climbed down and depending on the type of closure, she unlatched, unchained or unhooked the gate, dragging it open. When Seth had driven through, she locked the gate and climbed back into the motor truck.
Black Angus and dark red/white Hereford and rarer orangebrown Longhorn raised their heads and cocked their ears warily at the thrumming of the truck’s motor and the slurp of heavy wheels trundling through the snow. A mean-looking bull that apparently considered the truck an intruder or a competitor followed on heavy hoofs and bellowed a challenge. Seth ignored the challenge and slowly increased speed until the bull was left behind. When they reached the end of the north pasture, Seth U’d to a turn and stopped. He opened the window. “Slide over,” he said. He climbed down and slammed the door shut. “Remember, keep alert, drive slow,” he told Leatrice as she took the wheel. “Watch out for snowdrifts and ditches. No quick stops or starts. I don’t fancy being dropped over the side along with the feed.”
Using a tire as a foothold, he hoisted himself onto the platform. Leatrice watched with growing alarm as he scaled the bales of hay. She was waist-out the window by the time he reached the top of the load and positioned himself with legs spread-eagled, ice grey-green eyes contemplating the snow-mantled land and the cattle scattered about in groups.
“Start her up... slowly,” Seth hollered.
“All right,” she answered. Her gloved hands tightened nervously on the steering wheel. Slowly, carefully, she began to drive the truck.
“Okay, leave the road and head east, slowly.”
Leatrice gave a small whimper. “Leave the road?” But that meant driving over uneven ground. She envisioned tomorrow’s headlines:
“MAN THROWN FROM TRAILER,
HOUSEKEEPER ARRESTED FOR MURDER.”
By the time they had covered the upper half of the north pasture with Seth snapping bale strings and heaving the hay over the side, Leatrice was beginning to feel confident. Not so her face, her toes and the soles of her feet. Despite the heavy wool scarf drawn across the bottom half of her face, and the two pairs of thick wool socks and fur-lined winter boots, she was growing numb from the bitter cold. Her cheeks, the tip of her nose and her ears were a rusty pink. Her eyelids were near to shuttering from the glare of the sun reflected in the snow combined with the boredom of driving at a crawl. In the distance the main house on the Bar LB, which she had occupied prior to moving into Seth’s home as his housekeeper, came into view. Leatrice experienced a profound longing for its warmth and elegance. At the same time she heard the muted crackle of hay spilling over the side, followed by Seth’s “Okay, let’s go, left, a quarter of a mile.” In a state of half sleep, half reverie, his voice took on the quality of a sonic boom. She reacted before her brain could intervene and decode, and pushed down on the accelerator. The motor sputtered, the wheels spun rapidly. The truck lurched and sprang forward. The same instant a red signal flashed in her brain, she heard a loud, heavy
“thump”. Leatrice slammed on the brakes, went into park, and switched off the motor. She sat perfectly still. Then, hesitantly and reluctantly, checked the side-view mirror.
A few feet behind the flatbed trailer, Seth lay sprawled in the snow. “Oh no, I killed him,” Leatrice cried.
The body moved. She held her breath as Seth climbed to his feet.
“Are you all right?” she called, leaning out the window. Seth scowled at her while he beat the snow and hay off his person with his battered Stetson. Leatrice shrank into her seat as he started toward the front of the truck. The desire to run was cogent, but she reminded herself that she was a grown woman, and after all, it had been an accident, and Seth did not appear to be hurt. The remaining bales of hay must have broken his fall, along with the padding offered by the layers of winter clothing and the heavy accumulation of soft snow on the ground. So why was he stomping toward the front of the truck, mad as hell? Perhaps tomorrow’s headlines would read,
“MAN KILLS
HOUSEKEEPER”
Leatrice slid over into the passenger’s seat and slunk down, hands in pockets, chin buried inside the lapels of her navy coat. Seth reached the driver’s side and hoisted himself up so he could see inside the truck. Leatrice mumbled into her coat’s lapels, “It was an accident — honest — I’m sorry.”
Seth muttered something indecipherable, then jumped down, opened the door and climbed into the truck. She could almost hear him counting to ten, before he suggested breaking for lunch.
They ate roast beef sandwiches, applesauce, and Linda’s homemade cookies. Leatrice was glad she had packed two large thermoses of coffee. Seth advised her to save some coffee for consumption while she drove, to keep her warm and awake.
Towards evening, Seth took the wheel again and parked near a forest of snow-feathered conifers. Sometime during the drive toward home, their conversation had turned to Christmas, only a few weeks away.
“Lee, what say we cut ourselves a Christmas tree?”
“Yes, I think that would be very nice,” she said, relieved that he seemed to have forgotten about that morning’s mishap. They trudged, boots and denims calf-deep in snow, appraising the evergreens. Seth carried a two-handed saw that he’d taken from the large toolbox he kept behind the seat of the motor truck. What had come over him, Leatrice puzzled. She had never seen him this lighthearted. He drew her along from conifer to conifer, asking her advice and debating amicably over several possible choices. Leatrice recorded and stored in her heart each question, each smile and each laugh.
They finally settled upon a young pine that would fit nicely in a corner of the parlor. Seth began singing Christmas carols. Spurred by his jovial mood, Leatrice joined him. Wielding the two-handed saw between them, they sawed the tree. “T...i...m...b...e...r!” Seth yelled, commandeering Leatrice to a safe distance. Carefree as children, they frolicked and teased each other, dragging the tree back to the truck. Heaving and huffing they loaded it onto the now empty platform, then laughing, they cleaned off the pine needles and bits of bark embedded in their coats. Their camaraderie felt so natural, so real, as if they had often shared these precious moments. It felt right to Leatrice to cradle Seth’s face in her hands, and sensing resistance, with her lips seek his eyes, his brow, his cheeks, his chin and finally his lips. “Damn you, Lee,” Seth swore, seizing her in his arms, and returning her kisses, once again forgetting his pride, and reaffirming the knowledge that he wanted her. He had always wanted her.
The muffled sound of hoofs in the snow went unheard until Linda reined in her white mare, the horse panting and greenish around the mouth. Startled, Leatrice and Seth drew apart. Linda spurred her horse close to Seth. “It’s Jess. He’s been gored. Down by the creek, two miles west.”
Seth froze. Leatrice was forgotten as he headed for the truck. Once inside, he plunged the vehicle in the direction of the wounded ranch hand. Linda dismounted and rubbed her horse’s neck and its withers with her gloved hands. Bending, she grabbed a handful of snow and pressed it to its mouth. The mare greedily consumed the snow and quieted under the girl’s soothing touch. “He’ll be back for us,” she said, continuing to tend her horse. “He’ll never marry you,” Linda said, matter of fact. She kept her eyes hooded.
“What? — Why?” Leatrice asked. She had guessed right along that Linda was in love with Seth.
She turned and faced Leatrice. “He probably never bothered to tell you — we were in the hayloft when Binney came to tell him you were on the phone and demanding to speak to him. Seth had just finished proposing to me.”
“No ... No, he never told me.”
Observing Leatrice’s stunned expression, Linda found the courage to add, “You’re a lot of woman, Leatrice, I’ll admit. Beautiful, educated, refined. A goddess who is used to getting what she wants.” She seemed to grow in stature. Her breezy, fresh-air country look darkened to that of an asp readying to strike. Drops of poison flecked the airy tone of her voice as she remarked, “You may tempt him, and he may succumb occasionally, but his heart is mine, it’s always been mine.”
“If I’d known—" Leatrice began. She didn’t know what to say. She loved Seth and by reason of that very love she could not find it in her heart not to empathize with Linda. But at the same time she was jealous of Linda. The girl posed a threat to her winning Seth’s love. “Did he tell you anything about our — arrangement,” she asked.
A corner of Linda’s mouth twisted with scorn. “Some of it. You tempted him, and then you bought him. The Bar LB in exchange for his soul.”
Somewhat melodramatic. But in a real sense, somewhat true. She had indeed bartered for a year of his company; a year to prove that she was willing to sacrifice everything if he would give her title to his heart. But her efforts were doomed. Why hadn’t he told her about his relationship with Linda?
“One year,” Leatrice said, squaring her shoulders. “Just one year and he’ll come back to you, heart, body and soul.”
“What do you mean — one year?”
Leatrice laughed, a cold self-belittling chuckle. “That’s it, the stipulated fee, one year of his life, one year of his company, after which the Bar LB and The Triple R will be his, and yours, when he marries you.”
Finally completely understanding, Linda said, “I’m sorry for you, I’m truly sorry for you.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?” Leatrice sobbed. She buried her face in her hands and wept.
CHAPTER SIX
“How could you keep her a secret? Why didn’t you tell me?” Leatrice asked Seth the following morning as she served him breakfast.
“Would it have made a difference if I had?” Seth remarked.
Leatrice pressed, “Do you honestly consider me that ruthless?” And when Seth did not answer, “I admit my methods to gain time with you have been a bit unorthodox, but if I’d known someone else was involved, I’d never have gone as far as — “
“I think you would have, Lee, just the same. Linda would have been one more obstacle neatly to dispose of. And as for a bit unorthodox....” Seth arched an eyebrow.
Leatrice gripped the edge of the table. She felt small, a doltish eccentric. “Are you in love with Linda?” She had to know. Whether she stayed or left depended on his answer.
“I’ve known Linda since she was born. Long ago I decided that if and when I chose to marry, Linda would be the logical choice. She is everything a rancher could want in a wife.”
How very dispassionate and objective. It was plain he was not head-over-heels in love with her. But he had said Linda was everything a rancher could want in a wife. Thus it followed that she, Leatrice, was the last thing he would want in a wife. The iron band of inadequacy tightened about her heart. Yet his answer was not the worse she had feared, and there remained the slimmest of possibilities that before the year was up, she might prove herself, change his mind, and win his heart. She left the conversation unfinished, while she busied herself fitting slices of Linda’s homemade bread with slices of pot roast
for Seth to take with him. He and some of his ranch hands would be out, probably all day, searching for the bull that had gored Jess.
“How is Jess?” Leatrice asked.
“He’ll be all right. His left thigh was badly ripped, but the doctor patched him up. He’ll have to take it easy for a while, but I’m taking care of all his expenses and keeping up his paycheck until he is well enough to return to work.”
“That’s very fair of you.”
“It’s my duty.”
After supper that evening, Seth went to the stalls to check on the horses. The night was cold and the sky clear and very close. The stars appeared so near that he needed all his power of reasoning not to reach up and attempt to grasp one. The illusion paralleled his relationship with Leatrice. Yesterday when he’d held her in his arms, the promise of lasting happiness had hovered within his grasp. But the promise was a lie. Leatrice would never cut it. Linda was the reality. She stood for logic and permanence. She was the grit of the earth, born and bred a Montanan, like himself. If she failed to heat his blood as Leatrice did with but a brush of her lips against his, in the long run it would not matter. A man needed a partner to help him, comfort him, to share his good times and bad, and God permitting, to rear sons and daughters with. He needed a companion with whom one day to share his old age. Linda fit the picture. She was the logical choice. Yet sometimes in the middle of the night, when all was silent except for the occasional baying of a wolf in the distance, he would think how utterly and completely content he might feel if Leatrice were the logical choice.
When he returned to the house, carrying a fat cardboard box, a fire crackled in the hearth inside the parlor — Leatrice’s doing. The lights were off and the entire room shimmered in soft tones of amber and maize. A long-playing record on the phonograph’s turntable spun golden sounds of Christmas melodies. Seth carried the box into the parlor and placed it in front of the couch. He sat down and sank into a flowered cushion. Motioning Leatrice to join him, he pulled open the interlocking flaps on the box and began drawing out small wooden figures of angels and Santa Clauses and reindeer. “I carved these myself when I was a boy,” he said. The thought of that accomplishment still excited him.