Storybook Hero (Dorado, Texas 2)

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  “Good enough.” He reached out his right hand and tucked the crate under his arm.

  “Um, Mr. Driscoll?” She rushed around the end of the counter so she could stand closer. Maybe he’d see her as more than only the store clerk. “I noticed you always look at the books when you visit the store.”

  His gaze narrowed, and he waited.

  “Not to say there’s anything wrong with that. But you seem to enjoy them so I wondered if I could offer you one at a discounted rate.” She spotted his jaw tightening again and wondered if she’d overstepped proper behavior. “Or maybe you could pay a bit each time you come in.”

  “Don’t take charity, miss, and I don’t buy on credit. G’day.” With stiff moves, he walked to the end of the aisle and rounded the perimeter of the store to get to the door. Using his left hand, he fumbled the first attempt to turn the knob before yanking open the door.

  At the audible slam, Clari jumped and then leaned a hand on the scarred wooden counter. Well, that conversational gambit was a disaster.

  Chapter Two

  Mr. O’Shea’s customer with the bunions might have a future as a weather forecaster. Trevor stood at Shady Oak’s kitchen window, finishing his second cup of coffee, his left hand tucked out of sight in the front pocket of his denims.

  Outside, the fields were a sea of white, covered by a foot of fresh snow with only the fence posts as relief. The very night when he’d heard about the man’s prediction, a storm blew in from the north and dropped the temperatures to near freezing. The first snows had been scattered enough Boss Hawksen hadn’t worried about getting out feed to the cattle. But this new snowfall had buried any remaining forage too deep.

  Behind him at the table, Jake scraped up the last of his eggs and bacon. “Sure we gotta head out? Mighty cold today.”

  “Boss’s orders.” Trevor tossed back the last of the fortifying brew and set the ceramic cup into the sink. Sure was nice the Hawksens included the hands in the meals served in the family’s kitchen. Gave him the sense of being part of a family. Something he’d missed since signing on to various cattle drives and working his way south after his job on the transcontinental railroad ended. That was more than seven years now. Last time a letter caught up to him, he learned his father was still running the family logging business in Oregon.

  At that thought, the stumps of his last two fingers on his left hand ached. Working as a logger had caused his handicapping injury, and Trevor had no intention of ever again being a sawyer. Probably couldn’t even do his part on a two-man saw with his deformed hand. A shudder ran through him every time he thought of the accident.

  “Well, lads, did you get enough to eat?” Mrs. MacElroy, the ranch housekeeper and cook, entered the kitchen and stepped up to the sink.

  Trevor shook away the bad memories, knowing he couldn’t do a thing to change them, and moved toward the door. “Sure did. Thanks, ma’am.”

  Jake jumped to his feet and carried the empty plate and cup to the counter. “Yes’m, them biscuits were mighty fluffy today.”

  “Same as every day, Jake. But I thank you for saying so.” She looked up at him and squinted her gaze. “Come around on Saturday night, I’ll give you a trim on that wild hair.”

  “Just might do that.” He skedaddled for the door and grabbed his hat on the way out.

  Trevor stood on the porch, his back to the stiff breeze that plastered his denim pants to the back of his legs. He tugged on his leather gloves, making sure to set the padded fingers of the left glove into position so he still had movement with the three remaining fingers.

  “Brrr.” Jake clamped his hat onto his head and lifted his shoulders to cover his neck. “How cold is it?” Rubbing together his bare hands, he stepped toward the farthest porch post where a thermometer was nailed.

  “Knowing the number won’t change what we have to do.” Trevor strode toward the wagon where Blackie and Pecos were already hitched. From under the front seat, he pulled his threadbare knitted navy blue scarf, wrapped it around his neck, and tucked the ends inside his coat. This was the last thing he had from his mother—a Christmas gift the year he was fourteen—before she gave up on life in the West and headed back to her family in Ohio. “Hey, Adley, let’s get movin’.”

  “Comin’.” Holding one hand on his hat, Jake trotted up. “Had to grab my gloves from the bunkhouse. Want me to drive the team into position?”

  “I’ll drive first.” He hoisted himself into the seat, hearing the creak of the leather straps cushioned the wagon bed on the frame. “Just get those doors open so we can load a few bales of hay.”

  Two hours later, Trevor pitched the last of the hay into a loose mound atop the snow in the last pasture. From his position, he could see the fence that edged the road to town. Not many cattle strayed this far from the watering hole, but he wanted to cover all areas they might gather. “Okay, ring the bell, and we’ll head on home.”

  Jake swung the cowbell over his head several times, and then huddled on the driver’s seat. “Sure wish I had me a new set of long johns. Mine are thinner than an old dishrag.”

  Trevor chuckled. He’d heard each and every of his friend’s complaints before. “What you need is some more meat on those bones. You are the skinniest—”

  A galloping horse thundered by, its flanks flecked with foam, the empty stirrups slapping at its sides.

  Both men stared at the animal disappearing in the distance then gaped at each other for a second. Then Trevor hopped down and waded through the snow toward the head collar. “Help me unhitch Blackie, and I’ll see what that’s about.”

  “That was the Othmann’s mare, wasn’t it?” Jake squatted and worked on the straps holding the trace. “Lizzie or Missy.”

  “Lucy.” Trevor’s jaw tightened at the realization this was the mare normally used with the ladies cart driven by Mrs. Othmann. What was it doing way out here? And with an empty saddle? The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Something’s not right.

  He struggled to fasten the small buckle at the bit, so he gripped the fingertip of his left glove with his teeth and stripped it off. Cold air on his hand made his injury throb, but he hurried to strip the harness from the horse, using coaxing praise to get the horse to stay in place. He grabbed the spare bridle and reins from the box under the driver’s seat and eased it over Blackie’s hose. “Good boy. Just a minute longer.” In a flash, he pulled on his glove then vaulted onto Blackie’s bare back and turned the horse toward the road.

  Released from the tedium and restriction of the harness, Blackie pranced and tossed his head.

  Trevor squeezed his knees and tightened his hold on the reins until the gelding settled. Over his shoulder, he called, “Let Boss know what I’m doing.”

  “That you’re riding after a runaway horse?”

  “Nah. By now, that horse is close to its stall in a warm barn.” Trevor shook his head at the young man’s question. “I’m headed back in the direction the horse came from. Probably find an upsot rider with a sprained ankle.” After that statement, he pulled the reins to the right and urged Blackie into a canter across the snow-covered field. He held the horse’s path steady toward the fence and clicked his tongue for encouragement.

  The gelding bunched its muscles and then sailed over the three-foot rail fence.

  Prints made by the runaway horse were easy to spot in the fresh snowfall. Thankfully, low gray clouds hung in the sky and blocked any sunlight that might impair his vision. Pressure from Trevor’s knees encouraged Blackie to a trot. Trevor flicked his gaze from the grayish holes in the white snow to the open road ahead. Although the temperature has risen enough while he and Jake worked to stop the cowboy’s complaints, the air was still cold enough to impair a stranded traveler.

  Around the next bend, he spotted a dark lump to one side of the road and urged the horse closer. “Hey, I saw your runaway horse. Are you hurt bad?” Holding tight to Blackie’s reins, Trevor dismounted but hesitated to approach until he knew the person’s i
dentity.

  “No, I’m only winded.”

  That voice. His muscles tensed then he hurried forward. “Miss Rochester?” He knelt at her side, not quite sure where was a safe or proper place to touch her body. “Do you need help to sit upright?” He extended a gloved hand into her line of vision and waited.

  She struggled to push herself up from the reclining position and brushed at the loose snow clinging to her woolen coat and scarf. A frown etched wrinkles on her forehead. “I thought …I could handle…Lucy…” She pressed a hand to the base of her neck and inhaled hard twice before continuing. “That horse…has a mind…of her own.”

  The breathy way she talked concerned him. “Let me help you out of that cold snow.” He grasped her elbow with one hand and settled his other hand at her waist then pulled her a stand. A rosy glow colored her cheeks, but her eyes were too wide. “Don’t mean to get too intimate, miss, but are you all right? Did the fall injure some…” How in tarnation was he supposed ask a young lady about a personal body part? Once he’d worked with a cowhand who got tossed off a bucking horse and broke a rib who’d talked this way. Trevor just wanted to be sure she was all right.

  After brushing off the front of her coat and adjusting her dark bonnet, Miss Rochester turned and smiled. “No injury. Just shortness…of breath. Do you have…a phosphorus stick…or a flint striker?” She dug into her coat pocket and pulled out a dark cone-shaped object.

  Looked like a weird lump of coal. A man couldn’t consider himself prepared if he didn’t carry a matchbox. Trevor dug into his trouser pocket, pulled it out, and extended it toward her.

  Shaking her head, she pantomimed the action of striking one and then pointed at the tapered end of the cone. Her breathing continued to be shallow and throaty.

  Trevor moved close, positioned himself to block the slight breeze that came from the northwest, struck a match, and pressed it against the grayish tip.

  Miss Rochester pressed her red mitten-covered hand down over his so the flame touched the darker portion that smoldered and let off a fragrant balsam scent. She lifted the cone close to her head and waved her hand so the thin tendrils of smoke were forced into her face and then she breathed in the smoke. After several inhalations, she could take deeper breaths and the furrowed lines in her forehead eased.

  He’d never seen the likes of what she was doing, but her breathing now sounded normal and the panicked look was gone from her warm brown eyes. “Better?”

  She nodded and took one last deep inhalation, holding it for several moments before releasing it. Then she leaned over and dipped the black cone into a snowdrift until the fizzing sound stopped and the last wisp of smoke floated away. “I must have forgotten my own matches, and I know better. Mr. Driscoll, I can’t thank you enough for being close by with your savior matches.”

  “What is that black stuff?” He arched an eyebrow at the funny thing resting in her palm.

  “A candle called raucherkegel that has frankincense as the main ingredient. Inhaling the smoke relaxes my lungs and allows me to breathe better. My aunt and uncle send away to Germany for the remedy.” With a quick move, she dropped the cone into her coat pocket. “Were you riding patrol on the road to help with problems like mine?” She flashed a wide smile, clasped her mittened hands under her chin, and sighed. “Just like a true hero.”

  Yep, she’s back to her chatty self. “Nope, nothing like that. Tossing out hay for cattle on Shady Oaks land. Spotted the runaway horse. I was prepared, that’s all.” He glanced at her voluminous skirts and at Blackie’s bare back. Not a good match, but he’d have to make the best of the situation and get her back to town as fast as he could. “Ever ridden bareback?”

  “Without a saddle?” Her eyes widened and her mouth gaped. “Not in all my life.” She looked at the black horse standing a few feet away, and her eyes widened even farther. “It’s so big.”

  “Tall, Blackie is sixteen hands high. But getting back to town will be faster if you ride.”

  Miss Rochester spun in a circle with her head throw back and her arms out straight. “But the day is so beautiful. Let’s walk back to town.”

  Spoken like the city girl he knew her to be. Trevor eyed the rail fence across the road. The height looked like a good substitute for a mounting block. “That it is, miss. But tell me one thing, how are your toes feeling?” His own were tingling, but he’d prepared for his day by putting on a double layer of socks. Plus he figured he was more used to being outdoors than a woman who worked in a store.

  After blinking at him a couple of time, she leaned over and looked at her booted feet buried in several inches of powdery snow. “Well, now that I’m thinking about them, I have to admit they are a bit numb.”

  “Thought they might be.” He held out his hand and waited for her to grab it. “From that fence yonder, you can hoist yourself up onto Blackie’s back.”

  A wavy tendril hanging from under her hat swung as she shook her head. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  Trevor took a big step and tugged, grateful she hadn’t resisted. As he walked closer to the fence, he scrambled for a way to convince her to ride. Then the idea popped into his mind. “What would Enid or Guinevere do when faced with such a dilemma?”

  Her hand squeezed tight, and she wrapped her other hand around his wrist. “You’ve read Tennyson’s Idylls Of The King?”

  “I have.” His preference were the adventure novels penned by James Fennimore Cooper, but when his selection was limited, he read whatever he could find.

  They stopped next to the fence, and he released his grip on her hand to lean over and tie off the reins. The instant their clasp dissolved he wanted the connection back. A thought that brought him up short. Loners didn’t need hand-holding or coming to the rescue of pretty young ladies with deep brown eyes.

  “I read his wonderful descriptions of nature and can picture the scenery in my mind. Don’t you just love the images he creates with his words in those poems?”

  “Right.” She sure got excited by words. The breeze stiffened and tugged at his hat. He clamped it down then swept his arm toward the fence. “Now, do you want a hand up to stand on the fence post, or can you climb there yourself?”

  She just stared, a finger covered in red knitted wool tapping at her chin. “I have never heard such long sentences coming from your mouth.”

  “Never been alone together before.” Now that he’d spoken the words, he became too aware of their situation and how someone coming upon them might misinterpret it. He glanced up and down the road but saw no one approaching. “Miss, we must get moving.”

  “Oh, I hate being called miss.” She slogged through the snowdrifts and stopped at the post then turned and tilted her head. “Maybe just for today, while we are out here in the wilderness, together in our plight to fight our way back to civilization, you could call me Clari, and I could call you Trevor.”

  Our plight? Only a foot away from where she stood, he smelled the rich scent from her candle that clung to her clothes or hair. “Agreed. Now climb atop that post.”

  Eyebrows raised, she tipped her head forward and cupped a hand at her ear, a smile displaying a dimple in her left cheek.

  A sweet dimple he’d never been close enough to see. Now that he knew it existed, he’d look for it in the future. “Please climb on the post, Clari.”

  “Of course, Trevor.” Her wide grin made the ribbons holding on her bonnet bob at her cheek.

  No denying the sound of his name spoken in her soft voice was special. He watched her struggle to balance on the post and stretch out her arms to reach for the horse. “Miss, I mean, Clari. That won’t work. You’re too far away.” He held up his hand, waited for her to slip her smaller one into his palm, and helped her back to the road. Then he cupped his hands, making sure his stronger right hand was on the bottom. “Put your left foot here and on the count of three, I’ll hoist upward, and you’ll swing your right leg over Blackie’s back. Once you’re there, grab onto the base of his mane.”r />
  A gasp sounded. “To ride astride? I don’t think that’s proper.”

  He straightened and cocked an eyebrow. Indulging her was getting them no closer to Dorado—both literally and figuratively. He could withstand cold just as well as any other cowhand, but he knew enough not to dawdle outside in winter. “In emergencies such as this, don’t heroines use whatever measure necessary to meet their goal? What would Cora or Alice Munro do?”

  “Oh, I loved that book. The Last of the Mohicans is my favorite of the Leatherstocking Tales stories.” Clari eyed the distance from the ground to Blackie’s back. “Make that foothold again, and I’ll attempt to follow your instructions for climbing aboard the horse. But you mustn’t look, for this will be awkward.” With a flurry of skirts and petticoats, she sat atop the horse.

  Trevor held onto the strap of Blackie’s headstall with his right hand and the ends of the reins in his other. Striding quickly to warm himself, he led the horse down the road and recognized the fence along the pasture he’d been in when he spotted the horse.

  “I like the view from up here. I can see so far in each direction.”

  A question that had been bothering him since he found her surfaced again, and he gave it a voice. “What were you doing riding alone when you obviously don’t have much riding experience?”

  Only the squish of footsteps in the melting snow could be heard.

  He glanced over his shoulder to check on her.

  “Hey, you promised not to look back because my petticoats are showing.”

  Fighting a grin, Trevor faced forward. “Don’t know you are all right if you’re silent.” A state he’d never experienced while in her presence.

  She let out a sigh. “Well, I’ve read so much about riding horses that I thought I could handle Lucy.”

  Before he could stop himself, Trevor let out a loud laugh, making Blackie sidestep. Then he crooned in a low voice and reached to rub a soothing hand on the startled horse. “Sorry, Clari. But handling a horse isn’t something you learn from books.”