by Ginny Aiken
“I reckon that’s a good way to put it, then, miss. Pete, he puts me in mind of a lost sheep, you could say, bellowin’ and hollerin’ for someone to come find it. He’s making the same kinda noise, but he won’t git himself down to Bountiful and find himself a new ewe. That’s what’ll put ’im to rights, all right.”
Emma blushed. “I do think that’s a mite too much for you to tell a practical stranger, Colley. All I can say is that I’d like to go home as soon as tomorrow morning, but Mr. Lowery has made it plain he won’t permit anyone to help me. And so, since I’m stuck here until he changes his mind, I’d like to make my stay as least unpleasant as possible.”
The ranch manager gave out a bark of laughter. “That there sure and was the tightest knot of words a body could ever tie together to just say you ain’t none too happy stuck out here with a bunch of sheep, some unshined-up men, and me.”
Again, her cheeks heated. “Oh, I don’t think I said that—”
“No, ma’am. You didn’t, but you sure wanted to.” She grinned. “I do get the gist of what you meant. Most womenfolk I’ve known don’t much cotton to this kinda life out here, neither. Mrs. Lowery fought a fierce fight against the loneliness, the weather, and the long, long hours of work every single last day, but it still got her but good. He took it hard, losing her.”
Again, she braced herself against the rush of compassion for the man who’d shown her mighty little of it. Well, he had offered her a roof. And food… which she had to make—heaven help them all. “At least she could cook.”
Again, Colley laughed. “So will you, if you want to learn. Way I see it, it’s up to you, missy. Cookin’ up a plate of vittles don’t take too much, you just have to make up your mind to do it.”
Emma understood what Colley was trying to say in her gentlest way. It would be a matter of determination. And sincere desire.
She bit her bottom lip. To be honest, she didn’t have any interest in spending time bent over the hot hearth, making bacon and beans and biscuits.
Colley marched to the door. “Back in a minute, miss.”
“Where are you going?”
“We need us some cold water. Can’t be washing up dishes with that there water what’s right near boiling. And everything needs a rinsing with clean water, too.”
After Colley closed the door, Emma heard the soft rustle of Robby’s voice. When she turned to check on the child, she realized he was slowly sounding out Sir Thomas Malory’s old-fashioned English. Although she saw no harm in it, she feared his father wouldn’t be happy with him—or her—if he returned and found the boy with all his attention on the collection of tales.
“Robby, I think this might be a good time to change into your nightshirt. Your papa’s likely to come in soon to say goodnight, and you won’t want to not be ready.”
The boy looked from Emma to his beloved book to the cabin door and back to her. “Reckon you don’t want me to not be ready, Lady Emma. He don’t like my mama’s book.”
Sadness weighed down the narrow shoulders and Robby kept his gaze on the book. Emma couldn’t bear the raw emotion she saw depicted on the sweet, boyish features, so she let the grammatical error pass. She hurried to his side, sat, and slid an arm around his shoulders.
“But I do,” she said, her voice soft and crooning. “And I’m here, aren’t I? We can read a bit once you’ve changed and washed up. There’s also time tomorrow for reading… and the next day, too.”
When he looked up at her, her heart ached for the lonely motherless boy.
“Are you gonna be staying with us, then?” he asked, a hint of toughness to his expression. “Mama didn’t stay.”
What could she do? What could she say?
“Oh, Robby. I’m here now. Let’s not think about the future, since we need to get through right now first. The future will have plenty of time of its own.”
She could see her response hadn’t satisfied him, but she refused to tell him an untruth. She couldn’t bear the thought of building hopes she had no intention of meeting. She was going home. As soon as she could figure out how.
He didn’t move, didn’t speak, but kept his gaze on the tome on his lap. Emma feared she might have said something wrong, something that could have hurt his feelings—the farthest thing from what she’d intended.
“How about if you only think about one thing? How about a change into your clean nightshirt?” she suggested again. “That way, you’ll be ready when your papa returns. He did say he would come read to you tonight.”
Robby lifted a shoulder. “Sure, he did. But—”
“Ready for them dishes, Miss Emma?” Colley asked, punctuating her words with the slap of the door in her wake. “Here’s the cold water so’s no one’s burning any fingers.”
She glanced at Colley, but stayed right by the boy. “I’ll be right there. I’d just like to make sure Robby gets ready for bed.”
“Reckon he’s as ready as he’s likely to get,” Colley answered as she tipped cold water into the basin of hot. “And he’s always ready to argue with his pa so’s not to hafta do any sleepin’. Ain’t that right, Robby?”
Emma let a frown creep on her face. “But a boy needs his sleep, Colley.” She turned to Robby. “You want to grow up big and strong like… like your papa, right?”
The boy finally reacted again. He nodded, very tiny bobs of the head at first, but then they grew firmer. “Yes.”
“See, Colley?” She spun, and then realized the woman had known all along what she was doing. Her pale blue eyes, the color of a fresh, spring morning sky, twinkled with clear evidence of a hidden good nature. “Oh, you! You knew, didn’t you? How do you know me so well so fast?”
“Not near so hard to do, Miss Emma, as trying to figger out them two so-an’-sos what kidnapped you. What were them two fools thinkin’?”
Emma gave it a momentary thought then faced the boy. “Please change out of those clothes, Robby. I imagine there’s a clean nightshirt somewhere here in this cabin for you to put on.”
“Nightshirt?” the boy asked. “What’s a nightshirt? ’S it different from a regular… um… day shirt?”
It was Colley’s turn to blush. “Since his ma went home to Jesus—”
“She’s an angel, Colley,” Robby said. “ ’Member?”
“ ’Zactly. When his ma went to be an angel with the Lord, why, Pete and I kinda stopped frettin’ ’bout things like nightshirts and such. He’s been sleepin’ in his—uh…”
Emma held out a hand, palm toward the ranch manager. “I see. Do you or Mr. Lowery have a clean shirt we can borrow then? If I’m going to see to Robby while I’m here, then we’re going to start out right. And it’s right for a boy to change into a proper sleeping garment.”
Although the older woman turned to head back out of the cabin, Emma thought she spied the start of a grin bracketed by all those wrinkles and creases on her weathered face.
She told Robby to wait to see what Colley would bring, and then went to the basin of tolerable hot water, cooled by the half-empty pail of cold. She dunked tin plate after fork after heavy china mug in the soapy liquid, scrubbed, and then rinsed and dried. By the time Colley returned, a red-and-gray checked shirt over an arm, she had almost everything ready to store.
The ranch manager praised her far more than her effort deserved. Emma rolled her eyes. “Please, I should hope anyone can see where a plate’s not clean, wash it, dry it, and stack it with others. It doesn’t take much to do this. Now cooking…?” She shrugged.
Colley chuckled. “You’re a right interesting lady, Miss Emma, I’ll say that ’bout you. Reckon you keep all them folks ’round you a-hoppin’ all the time.” She held out the shirt. “You can do this, and I’ll store the dishes for ya. These old bones of mine are tellin’ me they can sure do with some sleep, and straight away now.”
Robby didn’t seem happy to change clothes then wash his face and hands, but Emma didn’t brook any argument. This was the proper way to go to bed, and for how
ever long she had to stay here, those things that were up to her would be done right.
Something Colley had said came back to Emma. “Did you say that Sawyer and Ned kidnapped me?”
Colley nodded.
Emma shook her head. “They didn’t kidnap me. Not really. They and some other crook-friends of theirs—from what I’ve heard them say there were four to start with—held up the carriage I was in. That’s it. I’d gone into the woods with Pippa, seeing as how she needed her… well, her constitutional, when they held up the other passengers. I think as soon as the driver saw an opportunity to escape, he took it, and fled. I walked up, and don’t know who was more surprised, them or me.”
Colley sputtered in outrage. “What kinda lousy fool of a man goes off and leaves a lady like you all alone in the woods?” She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Purty sad substitutes for real men, them two are, too.”
Emma remembered Ned’s kindness toward her, his efforts to shield her from the difficulties of her situation. “I can’t speak for Sawyer, since he does frighten me, but I suspect Ned’s not nearly as bad. Perhaps you could give him a chance and he could choose to do right.”
Colley opened the door, now that she’d finished her postsupper chore. “Hmph! I’ll hafta see ’bout anything like that. Dunno as I can trust a fellow like him, what with him takin’ the boss’s sheep an’ us findin’ him with them.”
“Give him a chance,” Emma urged. “I have a… an intuition about him. I think you’ll be surprised.”
The older woman snorted. “Tomorrow’s a different day’s what I say, missy. Lord bless ya both so’s you both do sleep well.”
“Good night, Colley. I hope tomorrow’s a much better day.”
“So do I.” She closed the door to her room.
Robby had watched and listened, and had yet to change out of his day clothes. Emma started him along the process, but moments later, Pippa gave an intense little cry. Emma had come to recognize that particular sound, and knew her pet gave her but a scant minute or two to act before she did what puppies do.
“Please continue,” she told the boy, hurrying to tie Pippa’s rope around her neck. “I’ll only be a short while. Pippa doesn’t dawdle.”
The evening had grown nippy by then, and Emma hoped the pup did indeed take care of her needs fast. She shivered, wishing she had her wool cloak along with her. She didn’t want to leave Robby alone for long. She did not want to have to face Mr. Lowery again, either, especially with the boy unready for bed, but she supposed a final encounter for the day could not be helped.
“Hurry, Pippa!”
For a change, however, Pippa did dawdle. She sniffed and burrowed her nose between twigs and around rocks, and then behind a branch or two. Finally—finally—she found the right spot for her needs, and moments later, Emma led her back to the cabin.
As soon as she walked in, she fought the urge to make a face. Mr. Lowery had returned and was seated in his late wife’s rocker. He’d pulled the chair close to Robby as the little boy lay snuggled under his covers already, looking down from the top bunk. The resonant rumble of the rancher’s voice made a surprisingly pleasant backdrop as she untied her dog, stowed away the rope, unlaced her boots, and took a seat at the table.
Only when she stopped bustling did what Robby’s father read register.
“…‘Moreover,’ ” Mr. Lowery cleared his throat. To Emma, it seemed when he resumed his reading, he did so in a louder voice. “ ‘Moreover the Lord saith, because the daughters of Zion are haughty, and walk with stretched forth necks and wanton eyes, walking and mincing as they go and making a tinkling with their feet:
“ ‘Therefore the Lord will smite with a scab the crown of the head of the daughters of Zion, and the Lord will discover their secret parts.
“ ‘In that day the Lord will take away the bravery of their tinkling ornaments about their feet, and their cauls, and their round tires like the moon, the chains, and the bracelets, and the mufflers, the bonnets, and the ornaments of the legs, and the headbands, and the tablets, and the earrings, the rings, and nose jewels, the changeable suits of apparel and the mantles, and the wimples, and the crisping pins, the glasses, and the fine linen, and the hoods, and the veils.’ ”
Although he didn’t look her way, not even once, she had the horrid feeling he’d read those harsh words for her. No, not for her. Emma felt certain Peter Lowery had read fire and brimstone Scriptures directly at her.
In that very second, she decided to find her way home.
Chapter 9
She blanched.
Peter saw it out of the corner of his eye. He closed his Bible, satisfied he’d made his point. Perhaps that would encourage Miss Crowell to make a serious effort to do her part. It wasn’t his fault she’d been abandoned in the woods by her traveling companions. It also wasn’t his fault he couldn’t just up and take her back to Bountiful any old time, either. He bore responsibility to his men, his son, and his wife’s memory.
That was the single, solitary reason he didn’t hoof it to town for no practical reason other than to get rid of the burden Miss Crowell and the outlaws represented. Yes, she was a burden. He’d seen the way not only Robby, but also Ned, and even Wade looked at her. Sawyer? Oh, he looked at her, too, only in a different, more dangerous way.
Not that Peter could fault any normal man for admiring Miss Crowell. Sure, she was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. All that red, curling hair—even when in a messy tumble—caught a man’s eye and didn’t let go. Her green eyes sparkled with her every thought and emotion. And when she got mad… who-eee! Those eyes blazed, her cheeks colored right up to a bright rose, and even the curls on her head quivered with her anger.
He had to fight a grin whenever she bristled.
A quick glance showed her silent, biting her bottom lip.
Peter shrugged. At least she wasn’t arguing right then.
No matter what, he wanted nothing to do with her. He had no patience for frivolous women. Emma Crowell had proved to him she didn’t have a single bit of usefulness to her. She wasn’t even built to endure the hard work, weather extremes, and harsh realities of this raw, wild land. This land where he’d put down his roots… the land he’d come to love… the land where he belonged.
It seemed no matter how hard he worked to keep his land, he found nothing but trouble—or troublemakers. He thought of the two sheep rustlers. Or were they really wool rustlers? They’d begun shearing the sheep rather than taking off with the animals to try to sell them. He supposed wool was easier and more lucrative to sell than winter-thin sheep. At least he’d been able to find the rustled animals and get them back where they belonged. He just wished he hadn’t had to bring the thieves with them.
Then there was Miss Emma Crowell… she posed a number of problems. A truly decorative woman would never be of any help out here or even on a ranch. Peter knew he could fight his tendency to let his gaze stray toward her more often than it should, but he didn’t know how the other men would handle their reactions to the pretty butterfly among them.
Even now, the image of Miss Crowell’s dark auburn hair, shiny with its rich red lights, leaped to life in his thoughts. True, she’d tried to tame those long locks into a braid that morning, but her efforts hadn’t really succeeded. That hair seemed to have a life of its own.
Just like the owner.
Where the rogue notion came from, Peter didn’t know. But it wasn’t the first time it had popped into his head, and he reckoned it was true enough. She had a lively personality, all right. He’d tried to tamp down her sparkle, but it seemed she just got right back up again and kept on going. Somehow, no matter how many chores he gave her—even the challenge of Robby’s schooling—deep in his belly, he knew she would find time to encourage the boy’s silly pursuits.
On the other hand, Peter wouldn’t soon forget the excitement in his son’s eyes when he had walked in and found them head-to-head over the book. The excitement that had faded in his presence.
A pang of an unaccustomed feeling seared through him, its hit so strong it forced him against the chair’s back rails. At that moment, he almost—almost—wished he could bring that same light into Robby’s eyes himself. But in no way could he ever imagine reading foolish nonsense to his son. Still, the odd emotion lingered.
Was he… could he be jealous of Miss Crowell?
He stole another look at her. She still sat at the table, stick-straight, her lips clamped tight and her shoulders stiff. Hm… perhaps his words had achieved their desired effect.
Perhaps they’d done more.
Much, much more.
An unintended more.
Peter shifted in discomfort and glanced at the boy. He’d fallen asleep. At the very least, tonight he’d been lulled into slumber by the Lord’s Word, not the book of make-believe.
But what good did the particular passage you read do Robby?
Even more uncomfortable in the wake of the thought, he stood. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Crowell glare as she watched him move. Her head tipped up in the defiance she seemed to display any time she disagreed with him. Clearly, his attempt to instruct her with biblical wisdom had not been a success.
He took notice of the charged air in the room. Miss Crowell was not pleased.
Peter shrugged. They did have a whole summer to make progress on that score. Neither one of them was going anywhere. “Good night, ma’am.”
“Indeed, sir.” Her words came out icy and clipped.
It would appear he had a mighty long way to go.
Heading for the door, Peter forced himself to relax. As long as he didn’t lose his ranch, he could handle anything, even a silly society lady who didn’t think too highly of sensible ranch living and hard work.
He prayed she at least had enough common sense to respect God’s Word some and take it to heart.