“Why not, Trevor? I’ve learned lots of things from books.”
“Like what?” In his experience, a person learned by trial and error. And the two stumps on his hand proved that about his tussle with a big ornery log and the heavy blade at the sawmill.
“Stitchery, cooking, calligraphy, card games, setting a table, fashion, manners…I could go on and on, Trevor. Isn’t that how you learned to be a cowboy?”
He swallowed back another laugh and shook his head. Wait until Jake hears this. “Nope, being a cowhand is something I learned by doing.”
“Then you should count yourself lucky.” Another long sigh drifted through the air.
Ahead he could see the church steeple. Only another mile before they reached town. “Are you saying through books is the only way you’ve learned?”
“I’m guessing you don’t have any sisters. Girls aren’t encouraged to go out and do things. They are told to be quiet and perform house tasks. A girl with asthma is allowed only the chores that involve the least amount of movement. So, books became my schoolhouse, my view of life outside my family’s house.”
Trevor had always held a bit of pity for the results of his stupid act but at least, he’d learned how to work with his handicap. In only a few situations was he forced to ask for help. “Sorry to hear that, Clari. I’ve always lived an outdoor life and never thought about shut ins.”
“Shut in? Don’t call me that, Trevor Driscoll. I may have to limit what I do, but I’m not an invalid.”
The rustling of clothes sounded, and Blackie side-stepped.
Trevor switched his hold on the headstall and turned to spot Clari with her right leg in front of her across the horse’s back. “Don’t do it.” He straightened his hand and pointed. “Do not jump off.” He regretted the harsh note the moment he spoke but he couldn’t take it back.
She jerked up her head and glared, twin red spots flared in her cheeks. Then she focused on a distant point and sat with her back ramrod straight.
During the remainder of the ride, she never said another word. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why he felt like he’d just lost something precious.
Chapter Three
Four days later, Clari paced in front of the mercantile’s window, casting anxious glances to the view of the street. Why had she treated Trevor like that? The man had rescued her after being dumped by the horse, and she’d acted so silly as to ignore him after he called her an invalid. He couldn’t have known how sensitive she was about her illness, or the lack she felt for not having basic abilities like other young women her age. Especially when she so wanted to be like the independent women who lived in the western frontier she’d read about.
If only Aunt Alda hadn’t overacted when she and Trevor returned to town. The woman was frantic over the possibility of Clari becoming ill and had responded to Trevor’s explanation with chilly civility before rushing him back into the cold afternoon. She’d insisted that Clari take a long, hot bath and breathe steamy water with crushed eucalyptus leaves for twenty minutes. The treatment, Aunt was convinced, had been essential for staving off the threat of illness. Although, Clari had struggled with a coughing spell during church services when Mr. O’Shea scooted into the pew in front of her at the last minute. Because of her impetuous act, only now was Clari released from the confines of her bedroom.
All of her free time had been spent in her upstairs bedroom. According to Aunt Alda, she was supposed to be thinking about the behavior of a proper young woman. Instead, Clari had capitalized on the uninterrupted time and written three different versions of the runaway horse incident—adding more adventure with each rendition. The last was her favorite, because she’d included daring events like a hungry coyote who slunk at the edge of the tree line, shadowing their trail, and a swooping eagle who tried to steal the bauble off her bonnet. In an early draft, she’d wanted to add a poisonous snake but remembered reading snakes hibernated in winter.
From the rejections she’d received on her submissions to the dime novel publisher, she’d learned the editors were looking for stories with lots of excitement. But her earlier stories had been written while she lived with her family in Racine and were of more genteel events. Nothing more exciting than a factory accident ever happened there, or least that was her experience during visits to Papa’s textile mill. As far as the editors were concerned, losing a finger to a press or a mangle wasn’t the same as having a digit shot off in a gun battle in front of a western saloon.
Not only was she anxious to talk with Trevor again, she waited for the twice-weekly stagecoach so she could send off her latest story before she lost her nerve. She leaned close and scanned the street but saw no sign of the stage. Tossing her hands in the air, she walked over to the book shelf and grabbed down a volume. Maybe if she got lost in a story, she’d stop worrying about not seeing Trevor. But the placid family-centered plot of Little Women couldn’t hold her attention. What she needed was the romantic intrigues included in The Morgesons, but that copy had been left back in Racine. She wanted to read of Cassandra’s fight for her opinion and for equality. Maybe then she’d gain a little of that woman’s spirit.
A glance at the pendulum clock on the wall told her Aunt Alda should return from her auxiliary meeting soon. Oh, dash it all. Clari rushed around to finish the chores she’d been assigned. Although, if asked her opinion, she didn’t think the bins could be any more organized or the merchandise on the shelves any straighter.
The door opened, setting off the bell, and Aunt Alda ushered another woman inside. They chattered about the upcoming church holiday party as they crossed the room.
“Oh, Clari. Anything happen I need to know about?” Aunt Alda untied her bonnet and set it under the counter, and then she patted her bun that showed streaks of gray.
“No, ma’am. One or two customers but the orders were standard, and I handled the transactions.” She glanced at the short woman with reddish hair who juggled a swathed baby in her arms. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hawksen. How is that sweet baby doing?” Clari stepped close so she could gaze on the sleeping girl’s chubby cheeks.
“Ah, me Maeve be jus’ fine. And growing like a weed. Iffen you don’t mind, would ye hold her a bit? I’ve some shopping to do.”
“Gladly.” Clari held out her arms and accepted the warm bundle. She jiggled little Maeve as she made a slow circuit of the store. Growing up, she’d had lots of experience holding babies when family gathered at holidays or birthdays. That was an ability that hadn’t taken book learning. Why hadn’t she thought to mention that skill during her conversation with Trevor? That was an important skill she had learned by doing.
Next time she saw Trevor…whenever she saw Trevor. Four days really wasn’t so long, and she’d put the time to good use. But now she was itching to learn more about him so she could craft another story. Maybe something centered on a mishap that occurred on the ranch. But she still didn’t know what a cowhand did. She turned in her circuit and her gaze landed on Mrs. Hawksen. Perhaps the woman would mention when he was due into town. Making sure to keep up the jiggling, she stopped near the women and just listened.
“Will that be five or six yards of the red checked flannel?” Aunt Alda unrolled multiple folds from the bolt of fabric.
“Six of the red and six of the blue.” She peeked at Maeve and then smiled up at Clari. “Iffen there be extra after the shirts for the hands, I’ll make shirts for me sons.”
“Three’s a good estimate.” Clari nodded.
“Ah, do ye sew?”
“I have in the past, gifts for my brothers back home. Not much time now.” Might as well just dive into her questions. “How is everyone at the ranch? Mr. Hawksen is well, I hope.”
“Clarissant.”
She heard the warning tone in her aunt’s voice but couldn’t pass up the opportunity.
Frowning, Mrs. Hawksen flicked her glance between the women. “That be an unusual name.”
“My mother loved the Arthurian legen
ds and that’s the name of Gawain’s sister. Somehow, the name fit better in the East.” She waved a hand in the air, indicating far away. “Here in Texas, I prefer just Clari.”
“Very pretty. And to answer yer question, all at the ranch be well, excepting poor Trevor has come done with a head cold that he can’t shake.” The petite redhead turned toward the counter. “Alda, do ye have some patent medicine to remedy this?”
Trevor was sick? Clari sucked in a breath. Oh no, her escapade with the horse had caused this. “Aunt, sell her a raucherkegel.”
Aunt Alda’s mouth pinched into a straight line. “Those are your personal items, Clarissant. For your own condition.”
“Exactly. They are mine.” Frustration tensed her muscles, and she stopped jiggling and swaying.
Baby Maeve arched her back and started to fuss.
“Sorry.” Clari handed the baby into her mother’s arms, dashed up the stairs to the lavatory cabinet, selected a cone, and then clambered back downstairs.
“Clari, young ladies—”
“I know, they don’t run.” As she approached Mrs. Hawksen, she held up the waxy cone. “Give this to Tr-uh, Mr. Driscoll. He knows what to do.” With quick moves, she tore off a piece of butcher paper, wrapped the odd-shaped candle as best she could, and tie the end with twine.
Mrs. Hawksen narrowed her gaze on the brown bundle and then looked at Clari. Her expression eased, and a smile played over her mouth. “I do believe my cowhand will appreciate the remedy more coming from the young lass.”
The scissors landed sharply on the counter. “Really, Vevina, I couldn’t approve—”
“Now, Alda, ye remember being young.” She leaned over the counter and winked. “Besides, I have me hands full with the young’uns. Kell or Myrna will handle any needed chaperoning, and Clari can stay for supper then my husband will drive her back afterwards.”
Clari knew better to make a direct appeal to her aunt, but her heart pounded with anticipation at this boon. A trip away from the confines of the house and store and she’d get to see Trevor again.
“Well, you did tend the store while I was at my meeting.” Her gaze moved around the room and then settled on her niece. “Gather your things, and take your thickest shawl for over your head. Don’t want you to take chances with the night air and risk getting an earache.”
“Thank you, aunt.” For good measure, Clari bobbed a curtsey before walking at a sedate pace up to her room to gather her coat, hat, gloves, scarf, and a shawl. At the last minute, she grabbed the envelope ready for the mail and her well-worn copy of The Last Of The Mohicans, touted as the best romantic adventure story of the century.
Clari hurried through the store and stopped near where the women waited. “I’m ready.”
Mrs. Hawksen jerked her head toward the paper bundles on the counter. “Would ye mind, dear? Hank should be arriving soon to collect us.” She lifted Maeve a few inches. “And me arms be filled.”
The rattle of a wagon sounded just outside. “I think he’s here.” Clari scurried to the counter, slowing her pace halfway there when she caught her aunt’s narrowed look. She grabbed the bulky, but light, bundles by the twine and followed Mrs. Hawksen out to the plank boardwalk. The chilly air nipped her cheeks at first, but the freshness smelled wonderful. Clean air with a hint of freedom.
By the time they reached Shady Oaks, Clari had learned so much about life and the people on the ranch that she’d thought up a new story. She accepted Hank’s help to climb down and then looked around at the place where Trevor worked and lived. Farmhouse, barn, corral with several horses and a small pony. Two black-and-white dogs bounded across the yard with a couple of miniature cowboys trailing behind. When she spotted all the bundles in Hank’s hands, she cringed, vowing to be more helpful so she might be invited back.
“Come on inside, Clari. I’m sure Myrna will brew us a pot of tea to take off the chill.” Mrs. Hawksen walked along the side of the house.
Clari followed, looking all around. Painted window boxes just waiting for spring flowers. A vegetable garden behind the house with a few brown plants showing above ground. The building next to the barn must be the bunkhouse where Trevor lived. She hurried inside and nodded at the smiling housekeeper who held out her hands to collect her wraps. “Thank you, Mrs. MacElroy.”
From another room came the sounds of two little boys vying for their mother’s attention, telling her all the things they’d done in her absence.
Clari closed her eyes and let the sounds of family activities roll over her. As much as she’d protested at the time, she now realized she missed her family with two noisy younger brothers who loved nothing more than to kick up a ruckus and a sister who’d been the picture of perfection.
“Water’s heating for tea.”
Swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat, she smiled and sat in the nearest chair. “That will be nice.”
Mrs. MacElroy busied herself with settling cups and saucers and the tin of tea onto a tray then brought it to the table. “You that gal with the runaway horse?”
In her mind, Clari finished the sentence with, who Trevor rescued which made him become sick?” She forced a smile and nodded. “That was me. And I’m hoping to show my gratitude by bringing him a remedy that always helps me when I get head colds or have trouble breathing.”
Stamping boots sounded on the porch and then the door swept inward. Kell Hawksen was an imposing man, and his broad figure filled the doorway. After shucking his jacket, he pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his wheat-colored hair. “Afternoon, miss. Didn’t know we had a visitor.” On the breast pocket of his dark shirt shone a sheriff’s star.
“Ah, my dear, yer here. Might there be a task these hooligans can do outside, while we ladies enjoy a cup of tea?” She crossed the room and stretched up on tip-toes to brush a kiss on her husband’s cheek. “Maeve is still sleeping.”
“So enjoy your time when you can.” He chuckled and tapped the end of her nose with his finger. Grinning, he put his hat back on, tucked his jacket under an arm, and guided the boys toward the door with a hand atop each head. “Come on, boys, let’s see what’s doing at the barn.”
“Yippee,” chorused two boys’ voices.
Myrna grabbed the kettle just at it let out a shrill peep and poured water into the ceramic pot decorated with green shamrocks. “Miss Rochester here tells me she has a cure for our Trevor.”
“Blessed be, I almost forgot.” Mrs. Hawksen dashed to the coat stand by the door, dug into her reticule, and pulled out the small bundle.
“I’ve had asthma since I was young, and my mama tried so many things. Then she learned about these incense candles from Germany. They are the only remedy that truly helps my breathing.” She smiled and gestured toward the door. “Well, those and living in a milder climate like Texas.”
“Ha, I’ve heard Texas called many things but not milder.” Mrs. MacElroy distributed the tea cups and set a plate of cake-like squares in the center of the table.
“Compared to the cold coming off Lake Michigan and the smoky air from burning coal for heat, this climate is mild and the air is cleaner.” Clari sipped at her tea, hoping to hurry along the social part of the visit. Her mind wandered to questions of what the bunkhouse looked like, where the feed for the animals was stored, and how many stalls were in the barn. She accepted a cake and was surprised by the spicy moist flavor. “What is this? It’s delicious.”
“Pumpkin coffeecake.” Mrs. Hawksen laughed. “We wanted to use pumpkins instead of turnips this year. We planted too many pumpkins this year so the boys would have their pick for jack-o-lanterns. Now poor Myrna has to figure out new recipes.”
“Good thing the cows find the big squashes tasty enough.” Mrs. MacElroy grinned over the rim of her cup.
Clari set down her cup. “I don’t mean to be rude, but may I see Mr. Driscoll now? I know how frightening not being able to draw a full breath is. I feel that his rescue of me may have brought on his cold, and I wish to r
epay the favor with this remedy as soon as I can.”
Mrs. Hawksen placed her hand over Clari’s and squeezed. “I’m sorry, dear. Myrna and I be so hungry to visit with a new friend…” She shook her head and stood. “A mite selfish is what we be.”
“I’ll go.” Mrs. MacElroy stood and walked toward the door, stopping at the coat rack. “I end up doing most of the doctoring here, so let me learn this new remedy.”
Five minutes later, the women were at the bunkhouse door, and Mrs. MacElroy knocked briskly. “Trevor, you awake?”
Clari pressed a hand on the woman’s arm. “This remedy doesn’t need for him to do anything. We can set it in a tin plate and let him still sleep.”
The older woman’s brows wrinkled, and she shook her head. “Never heard of such a thing.” She reached for the knob and pushed open the door.
Ragged snores filled the air, and Clari’s heart ached for the struggle Trevor must be having to breathe. She hurried inside and glanced around until she found a tin cup on a nightstand. The form of a sleeping man occupied the bed in the back corner, and she wished for the ability to rush across the room and rest a hand on his forehead to check for fever. But that impulsive action would get her locked in her room forever, like Rapunzel in her tower.
Knowing she shouldn’t be at his bedside, she gestured toward the privacy screen that must section off their bathtub. The two women carried the folding wooden screen and set it between where Trevor slept and the next bed. Clari stole a peek and saw his cheeks were covered with dark beard stubble and locks of his hair covered his forehead. Even asleep, the man was quite handsome. His left hand rested on the mattress, and she saw the stumps where he was missing two fingers. Poor man, wonder how that happened.
An “ahem” told her she’d been caught gawking, and she reached into her coat pocket for her matchbox. Within seconds, the cone lit and a thin trail of smoke rose. Clari stepped close to Mrs. MacElroy. “The frankincense helps loosen the tightness in the lungs, even as he sleeps. I’ll just set it on the floor near his head.”
Storybook Hero (Dorado, Texas 2) Page 3