Chapter 2
The wedding took only a few minutes, and Cummings all but hurled her baggage onto the ground before picking up the reins and hurrying the team away down the west trail. Emmeline stood beside the trough next to her new husband, watching the last link—however cranky and temporary—with her sisters disappear in the rattling wagon. The prairie suddenly seemed bigger and emptier. A quick thrill followed hard on the shock. She’d done it. She was here in Wyoming Territory, married and living on a real ranch.
Hooking her pinkie through a strand of hair blowing across her face, she surveyed the place that would become her new home. Netting-like fence stretched between wooden posts, forming smallish pens around the long, low shed that was open on one side. She hadn’t seen fencing like that on her sisters’ ranches, but perhaps this was something new.
Sean, his face seemingly set in a permanent scowl, shoved his hands into his pockets and headed back the way he’d come, taking the dog with him.
“We’ll follow as soon as I hitch up the wagon.” Joe had to holler after him, but Sean didn’t break his stride or relax his hunched shoulders.
When would she meet the cowboys? On her sisters’ new ranches, the ranch hands had come to the wedding—though at Jane’s wedding there had only been the one older man present. Joseph’s hired men must all be out working.
A pair of horses dozed in the corner of one corral, the only livestock evident.
Joseph headed toward the smoldering house and put his boot against a blackened upright, giving it a shove and sending it toppling into the ashes. “Not much of a welcome for you, I’m afraid.”
“You couldn’t help it, Joseph.” She glanced at her possessions sitting on the ground where Cummings had left them. “You said there was a wagon?”
“Call me Joe. And the wagon’s behind the shed. I’ll hitch up the team, and we can load up your things. It will be a bit cramped, but we spend most of our time outside anyway.”
While she waited for him to return, she opened one of the valises. Her sketch pads and pencils were jumbled from Cummings’s rough treatment, and several of her colored chalks had broken, but a safe familiarity trickled through her as she touched them. The wind fluttered one of the pages, and she lifted the sketchbook out of the valise and flipped through the pages. A smile formed at the various drawings of cowboys and knights, cattle and castles, cow ponies and chargers. Closing the book, she hugged it to herself. Now, instead of just reading about and dreaming of cowboys, she was actually married to one.
Joe led the two horses from the corral around the back of the low, three-sided shed. How soon before he taught her to ride a horse? She imagined herself skimming over the ground on a fleet mount, the wind streaming through her hair, racing the sun. Since it was still early spring, surely she’d arrived in time to see a real cattle roundup. Her mind filled with everything she’d read about cowboys and ranch life. With every passing moment the trappings and conventions of school life in Massachusetts fell away.
A rattle caught her attention. Joseph led the team, hitched to what appeared to be a wooden house on wheels. It even had a stovepipe jutting through the curved roof. Not quite as long as a farm wagon, it had a window in each side, and as he turned the team, she spied a door in the back. The wagon looked for all the world like it belonged in a gypsy caravan. It only lacked the gaudy paint job like she’d seen on similar vehicles back east. Surely her new husband wasn’t a gypsy?
“I’m glad I stocked the wagon yesterday. Plenty of food and supplies to last a few months. At least those didn’t go up with the house.” Joseph came around to load her things. “I’ll help you up inside.”
“Where did you get a wagon like this? Did you buy it from a gypsy?”
He laughed. “No, it came with the ranch.” He helped her up the small set of stairs hanging from the back.
She stepped into the wagon, glad it was tall enough she could stand erect. A narrow aisle ran down the center with a bunk on each side, covered with rough, woolen blankets. At the far end, near the front of the wagon, a small sheet-metal stove stood on squat legs. Bags of flour, cornmeal, and beans crowded each other, and a case of canned goods blocked the aisle.
Joe joined her, stooping to keep from hitting the ceiling. “We’ll have to make room for your things. For now, I’ll just put them on a bed. Each of the bunks lifts up, and there’s storage underneath. I’ll clear out one of them for your use when we get to the camp. I hadn’t figured on you coming out on the range with us all summer, but with the house gone…” His voice was pleasantly rumbly and deep, sending a shiver through her. He hefted her trunk onto one of the bunks. Surveying the cramped space, he tugged on his beard. “This isn’t exactly the honeymoon you must’ve hoped for, but I’m happy you’re here. I’ve been looking forward to your arrival ever since I got your letter.” He patted his shirt pocket. “I’m glad I carried it with me, otherwise I would’ve lost it when the house burned down.”
Heat swished in her cheeks at the mention of a honeymoon, and she sought a safer topic. “How long will it take to get the house rebuilt?”
He leaped out of the wagon and picked up her last bag. “It won’t happen right away, I’m afraid. I’ll have to wait until the fall sale to have enough cash for lumber and hardware.” His dark brown eyes regarded her, as if judging how she would take this news. “I know it isn’t what you’re used to, being from the East Coast. We’ll try to take it easy on you.”
A whole summer in this wagon, out on the range. She bit her lip, trying to quell her excitement as she stepped out of the wagon and closed the little door. This was going to be the best summer of her life. She’d be an experienced cowgirl in no time. Would they have a sidesaddle, or would she have to learn to ride astride? Would she see any Indians? She should’ve bought one of those wide-brimmed hats. Her bonnet would never do out here. Perhaps he had an extra she could borrow. A thousand images popped into her head, fueled by her curiosity with all things western.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
She found herself giving in to the desire to talk as they rattled out of the yard, conscious that for the first time in her life she needn’t worry about one of her older sisters reminding her to hold her tongue. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve looked forward to this. Wyoming Territory is nothing like Massachusetts. There, houses and people are cheek-by-jowl, and everything is so…” She didn’t know how to explain it. “Constricting, I guess. Everyone seems to watch everyone else and feels free to judge their behavior. And the buildings block out the view and seem to press in on you. The only place you can see any distance at all is down at the shore, looking over the sea.” She spread her arms wide, as if to embrace all of this openness, unable to contain her excitement and joy any longer. “I’ve dreamed since I was a little girl about living on the frontier. I fell in love with stories about Daniel Boone and Davy Crockett, then Kit Carson and Jim Bridger. I read everything I could find on wagon trains, the Oregon Trail, cattlemen and ranching and branding and roping and everything. I nearly wore out my edition of Harper’s when an article on cattle drives from Texas appeared in print. I think it’s so romantic, cowboys on horseback riding night herd, singing to the cattle. I never imagined I’d be married to a real cowboy.”
He stiffened beside her. “You think cowboys are romantic?”
“Oh, yes. When your letter arrived from Wyoming Territory, I knew God was answering my prayers. I can’t wait to learn to ride a horse, and I want to learn to herd cattle. I want to learn to cook over a campfire and a hundred other things. I want to be a real westerner.”
He was silent for a while, and she studied him from the corner of her eye. The smell of smoke clung to his brown shirt and tan pants. The legs of his trousers disappeared into high-topped boots with long earflaps. Strong hands held the reins, and his broad shoulders stretched his suspenders. She hadn’t expected him to be bearded, though the effect wasn’t unpleasant. His letter had said he was thirty-one years old, but there was so
mething about his eyes—so dark brown it was hard to distinguish the iris from the pupil—that bespoke a hard-won wisdom beyond his years.
Flicking the reins, he shifted on the seat. “I didn’t know you were so interested in cattle ranching. Before we get to the campsite, there’s something you should know, and I hope you aren’t too disappointed when you see the setup. You see, I’m not exactly a cowboy—”
“Oh, I know. You’re the ranch owner, not a mere cowboy. But you do work the range. I’ve read all about it. I’m eager to meet the rest of your hands. It must take a lot of men to cover so much ground and tend so many animals. Where was Sean going? He can’t be too far away if he was walking. Though I thought that was curious, since I’d read that a cowboy never walks when he can ride. Where was Sean’s horse? Are we going to catch up with him and give him a ride?”
“Emmeline, if you’ll just let me explain—” He broke off as a strange sound drifted toward them.
“What on earth?” She braced her hand against his shoulder to maintain her balance, unable to believe what she was seeing. “What are those animals doing on your land? This is a lot of nerve. You’ll have to run them off.”
A river of woolly backs flowed over the brow of a low hill, baaing and bleating. A dog barked, and behind the short-legged, barrel-shaped beasts, two men walked with long crooks.
“Those sheepmen have invaded your range.”
Joe pulled the horses to a stop. “Emmeline, I’ve been trying to tell you. I don’t have cattle. Those are my animals. I’m a sheepman.”
Two hours later, Emmeline eased onto the chair Joe had placed beside the campfire for her, still dazed. She rested her limp hands in her lap and stared into the coals.
From the other side of the fire, Joe watched her, as did the boy, Sean. A third man, one of Joe’s—her mind still balked at the idea—shepherds sipped coffee, his hands wrapped around his cup to ward off the evening chill. Pierre, Joe had called him. An older man, quiet, slim, with a French accent.
All around her in the deepening night, fuzzy pale humps lay on the ground or stood quietly. Moonlight bathed their dumpy bodies and glinted off marble-like eyes. Those eyes, with their strange horizontal pupils, eyes that didn’t engender trust, that gave her a shivery unsettled feeling, as if they might go berserk at any moment. She could pick out a faint grinding noise, the occasional click of teeth, as hundreds of sheep chewed their cud. Every so often a bleat or baa punctured the night calm.
Sheep.
Hundreds of them.
This wasn’t just a bad dream or a cruel joke. It was real. She was married to a sheepherder. Everything she’d read told her that sheep were the bane of the open range, a blight on the land that caused untold devastation to the grazing, making it unfit for cattle. Real ranchers despised sheep and sheepherders, and in her heart, she’d joined their crusade against the woolly animals and their minders. Now she was—gulp—one of them.
Emmeline jumped when something wet and cool nudged her hand. The shaggy black-and-white dog sat before her, a silly grin on her face with her ears cocked and head tilted just a bit as if to say, “Hey, you’re new here. Want to be friends?” Her pink tongue lolled, and she swiped it toward Emmeline’s fingers.
“That’s Shadow.” Joe poked the fire, sending gouts of sparks upward as the coals settled. “I’m hoping for some nice litters of pups from her. Good sheepdogs are highly prized, and Shadow’s one of the best.”
Emmeline reached a tentative hand toward the dog’s broad, smooth head, touching the silky ears and almost smiling when the dog closed her eyes and leaned into the petting. Emmeline had never had a dog before. The school had forbidden pets in the masters’ houses. Now she found she had several dogs, with more on the way. Perhaps there was no great loss without some small gain.
Joe had pointed out a large white dog on the perimeter of the flock when he’d first helped her from the wagon. She’d barely been able to take in his words through the fog of shock swirling in her brain.
“That’s Shep, and he’s the guard dog. His job is watching out for wolves and coyotes. He’s not a pet, so don’t try to touch him. Once I introduce you, he’ll leave you alone.” Joe snapped his fingers and the shaggy white dog loped over, stopping a few paces away and lowering his head, sniffing and eyeing Emmeline. “Shep.” Joe commanded the dog to come closer. Shep came, and after a close examination that had Emmeline wanting to back away, he shook himself and trotted back to his job.
Another dog, black and white like Shadow, now sat beside Joe on the far side of the fire. His bush of a tail stirred the grass when Joe patted his head. “This is Robert Burns, but you can call him Robbie. He’s Shadow’s mate, and a first-rate sheepdog. I got them as puppies from a Scotsman who was trailing his flock north to the Big Horn Basin.”
The Frenchman rose and tossed the dregs of his coffee cup out onto the grass. He stretched, yanked at his suspenders, and flicked back the hank of salt-and-pepper hair that had fallen over his forehead. “Robbie only has room in his heart for one master. But Shadow, she loves everybody. I will take ze first watch tonight, and I will wake ze boy when it is his turn.”
“I’m supposed to take the midwatch.” Joe frowned, the campfire casting shifting patterns of light and dark on his face.
“No, no, not tonight. Sean and I can handle it. You should stay in camp wiz madam.” He nodded toward Emmeline. “I am sure ze madam would appreciate it.”
The madam would appreciate it if her husband had told her about the sheep before she prattled on like a nitwit about cowboys and horses and all. She forced a polite smile in Pierre’s direction.
Sean, who had ignored her all evening, went to the back of the wagon and jerked down a bedroll. “Guess me ‘n’ Pierre will be sleeping outside all summer.” He pressed his thin lips together.
Emmeline stopped stroking the dog and gripped her fingers in her lap. The boy’s hostility rolled from him like the waves of heat from the burning house had. She couldn’t tell if he was angry at her, Joe, or the whole world. Shadow whimpered and put her head on Emmeline’s knee, staring up at her with dark, imploring eyes to continue petting.
“Nothing unusual in that, is there?” Joe kept his voice calm and reasonable. “The only time you slept in the wagon last summer was when it rained. I thought you liked sleeping outside.”
The boy scowled. “I like having a choice.”
“We don’t always get to choose, Sean. And sometimes what we think we want isn’t what’s really best for us.”
“Like you’d know what was best for me. You can’t even figure out what’s best for you. Sitting here, when we should be tracking down the varmints that burned your house. You know who’s responsible, and you know he’s laughing at you right now. Instead of going after him, you’re sitting here like a lump, hoping that if you ignore the problem, it will go away.” Sean walked with jerky steps around to the far side of the fire, and just outside the ring of light cast by the glowing coals, he shook out his blankets. Shadow wriggled, whined, and headed over to join him.
A thousand questions rippled through Emmeline’s head. Sean had all but declared Joe a coward. What would her new husband do about that? Sean might only be a boy, but according to all her reading, calling another man a coward was a good reason for a gunfight, or at the least a fistfight.
Instead of calling the boy out, Joe rose, tossed his stick onto the fire, and came to stand before her. Emmeline’s muscles tightened. He held out his hand. “We’d best turn in. Lambing is going to start soon, and we’ll be rushed off our feet.”
His voice, though tired, was as mild as a spring breeze. He didn’t appear angry at all. She swallowed. Was Sean’s assessment true? Was Joe a coward? Her mind thrust away that idea. He couldn’t be.
Taking his hand, she rose, still numb from the shocks coming at her one by one today, how far from her ideal her reality was turning out to be. He led her to the back of the wagon and helped her inside. A match scratched and flared, illuminating th
e cramped space as he lit the lantern hanging from a hook in the center of the ceiling.
Time. I need a little time. Everything is happening too fast, and I need time to think it all through. She pressed her hands to her middle and plunked down onto the edge of one of the bunks. “Can we talk?”
He moved aside a sack of cornmeal and sat on the bunk opposite her. Gently he took her hands, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his thighs. “I’d like that. You’ve been mighty quiet tonight.”
Warmth slid up her cheeks at his nearness and the rasp of his rough hands on hers. The smell of smoke still lingered faintly on his clothes, but it was mixed with the scent of soap and outdoors—and sheep. She took a shuddering breath. “It’s all so different from what I imagined.” She couldn’t hold his gaze, instead staring at their hands, his so dark and work-worn and hers pale and small by comparison. “I feel like a fool, going on like that about cowboys and the West.” Her throat tightened.
He squeezed her fingers. “I should’ve explained things in my letter, though I never thought you’d care. Since we didn’t have a real courtship, it’s expected that there are a lot of things we still need to learn about each other.”
A trapped feeling wrapped around her, and she swallowed. She needed to put some distance between them, however small, and withdrew her hands, scooting away until her back rested against the side of the wagon. She drew her legs up onto the bunk and tucked her feet under her skirts. “Perhaps now would be a good time to get started on that learning. I have a hundred questions.”
A soft smile crossed his face. “I’m not surprised.” Settling back as if he had all the time in the world, he said, “Ask away.”
“Sean seems to think you know who burned your house. If you know who did it, why aren’t you chasing them down and bringing them to justice? Why haven’t you notified the local sheriff or marshal or whoever the law is out here? Shouldn’t you be forming a posse or something? Strapping on your six-guns and chasing down the varmints?”
Where the Heart Is Romance Collection Page 51