Chapter 8
“Are you sure you’re feeling better? Jasper and Curly are working on that new section of fence. If you want me to, I could go fetch one of them and send him for the doctor.” Lucy waited until Martha scooted herself up in bed, then set the tray of tea and toast on the older woman’s lap. “I should have realized something was wrong when you said you felt dizzy the other day.”
“Don’t you fret—I’m much better this morning. I should be back on my feet tomorrow.” A smile wreathed Martha’s creased cheeks. “This is the first time in years I’ve been cosseted like this. It’s a comfort to have you here.” She sniffed at her tea, then took a sip. “That’s a sight better than the first pot of tea you made for me.”
Lucy laughed, remembering the disaster with the sassafras tea on the evening of her arrival. “If you don’t need anything else, I’ll see to the chores.”
She went about feeding the horse and then got cracked corn for the hens from the barn. Maybelle rounded the corner, eyeing Lucy’s bucket with curiosity. Lucy grinned at the cow but kept her distance. As docile as Maybelle seemed, Lucy had no intention of getting near those long, pointed horns. She reached in her bucket, tossed a handful of corn onto the ground, and went on toward the hen house, leaving Maybelle nosing the unexpected treat.
While she gathered eggs, she made a mental list of tasks to be done. She needed to bring in firewood for the stove and tidy up the kitchen before she tackled the rest of the housecleaning.
Lucy sighed and wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, thinking how glad she would be when Martha was back on her feet again. Trying to manage all the chores and household duties on top of taking care of the older woman was almost more than she could handle. At least there hadn’t been any sign of intruders since the night they saw the glowing “phantom” near the barn.
She hooked the egg basket over her arm and went back into the house. Maybe she would fix some eggs for Martha’s midday meal. She pulled four from the basket and was reaching for a bowl on the cupboard shelf when a loud clatter made her jump.
Lucy hurried to Martha’s room and peeked inside. Martha lay curled on her side, fast asleep.
Lucy’s stomach knotted. That noise had been close. If it hadn’t come from inside the house, what had caused it? She glanced out the front window, hoping to see Maybelle lumbering past the porch. Nothing stirred. But she had heard something—a noise that seemed utterly out of place.
And that meant something—or somebody—was outside.
She started for the front door, then turned back to pull the shotgun from the rack. She held it gingerly, knowing Martha made a point of keeping it loaded, and hefted it in her hands, surprised by its weight.
With her heart pounding, Lucy stepped onto the porch and scanned the ranch yard from one end to the other.
No one was there. Nothing moved.
Lucy edged along the front of the house toward the north end, where the kitchen was located, and peered around the corner.
Nothing.
Where had the sound come from? She swept her gaze across the outbuildings. The barn door stood slightly ajar.
Lucy swallowed and breathed a quick prayer. Forcing her stiff legs into motion, she crossed the distance to the barn with the shotgun at the ready. Using the tip of the barrel to nudge the door open, she stepped inside.
Andrew smiled when the Diamond S came into view. Since Lucy’s arrival, Aunt Martha had seemed happier than he’d seen her in ages. Maybe she had been far lonelier than he’d realized. In which case, his decision to provide a companion had been a good idea, regardless of the reason for doing it. Yes, bringing Lucy Benson to the ranch had been a wonderful thing for his aunt.
For him, too, if he wanted to be honest with himself. He hadn’t felt so lighthearted in ages. And that was just at the prospect of seeing Lucy.
Lucy, with her golden hair and the smile that seemed meant just for him. Lucy, whose cornflower-blue eyes sparkled when she laughed and flashed when she was angry. And how they had flashed on his previous visit, when she’d shoved him with all her might!
It had been all he could do to keep from reaching out and taking her in his arms right then and there. Andrew grinned. Maybe he could find some other way to antagonize her so she would push him again.
He pulled his horse to a halt in front of the hitching rail and noticed the barn door standing partway open. Lucy must be out there tending to some chore. Maybe he could have her to himself for a few moments before he went inside to visit Aunt Martha.
Treading softly, he eased his way across the packed dirt and peered into the dimness of the barn, wondering if he could catch her unaware. But Lucy was nowhere in sight.
Andrew frowned. It wasn’t like her to leave the door standing ajar. She had to be inside somewhere. He heard a stir of movement from the direction of some unused stalls. Grinning, he eased his way toward his objective, anticipating her look of surprise.
Halfway there, his foot scuffed against some loose pebbles, and they rattled across the dirt walkway. The next instant, Lucy appeared in the opening of the last stall.
“Hold it right there!” she said.
Andrew’s glee turned to panic when he realized she was holding Aunt Martha’s shotgun to her shoulder, pointed straight at him.
“Whoa!” Andrew stopped dead. From the expression on Lucy’s face and the way her hands shook, he could see she was terrified. She might not even realize who he was, but that wouldn’t matter if her finger tightened on the trigger.
“Lucy, it’s me.” He froze, not daring to breathe, while she registered his presence.
“Thank goodness!” The words came out in a choked voice. “I didn’t hear you ride up.”
“I’d be much obliged if you’d take your finger off the trigger and point that somewhere else.”
“Oh!” Lucy looked down at the gun in her hands. When she swiveled the shotgun away from him, Andrew stepped forward and took it from her grasp. Easing the hammers down, he laid it on the ground.
When he straightened, Lucy hadn’t moved. She could have been a statue, except for the trembling that shook her whole body. She stared at him with a dazed expression. “I could have shot you.”
“But you didn’t.” Andrew tried to keep his voice low and soothing. He took her by the shoulders. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”
Instead of answering, Lucy flung herself into his arms and buried her face in his chest. Andrew wrapped his arms around her, cradling her as he would a child while she melted against him and sobbed.
He caught his breath. Hadn’t he been dreaming of holding her in his arms only moments before? He tightened his arms around her and savored the experience. Having her cling to him like this was nicer than having her push him away. Much nicer.
Lucy’s sobs eased a bit. She looked up and gave a quick gasp, as if realizing their proximity for the first time. She took a step back and swiped at her tear-stained cheeks.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Where’s Aunt Martha?”
“She came down with a bad cold just after you were here last time. She’s resting right now. That’s why I came out here on my own.”
“With the shotgun.” Andrew picked up the gun with his left hand, wrapped his right arm around Lucy’s shoulders, and led her toward the barn door. “Tell me what happened.”
Lucy knew propriety called for her to push Andrew’s arm away. But she didn’t. Having him so close felt comforting . . . it felt right. Another tear trickled down, and she swiped at her cheeks again. “I was working in the kitchen, and I heard a noise outside. I thought those intruders were back.”
His arm tightened on her shoulder. “I didn’t see a soul when I rode up.”
“Somebody had to be around to make a noise like that,” she insisted. They reached the barn door, and Andrew closed it tight. “I don’t know what they were up to, but someone was here. I’m sure of it.”
Seeing a smile flicker across his face, she twisted aw
ay and widened her stance, planting her hands on her hips. “Don’t you look at me that way. I know what I heard.”
Andrew held up his hands. “I believe you heard something, and I can see it frightened you. I’m only saying there’s no sign of anyone here.”
“I thought we had an agreement. I thought you were going to take this seri—” She broke off, realizing Andrew was no longer looking at her, but at a point beyond her shoulder.
She spun around but saw only the windmill. “What is it?”
Andrew pointed toward the top of the windmill. “Do you see that string trailing out behind the tail fin?” He walked past her to the base of the windmill, where a bucket lay on its side. A dozen or more fist-sized rocks lay scattered nearby.
Andrew loaded the rocks into the bucket, then held it aloft and poured them out on top of the pipes and the pump jack. The rocks struck the metal with a loud, clanging sound. “Is that what you heard?”
“Yes!” Lucy brightened, then her spirits fell. “You mean I got all worked up over a bucket tipping over?”
Andrew shook his head. “I don’t think this happened on its own.” Mounting the ladder on the side of the windmill, he climbed to the platform under the vanes to take a closer look at the string. He bent to pick up another large rock from the platform and nodded.
When he climbed back down, he held out the rock. “It appears someone loaded the bucket with these rocks, tied one end of that string to the tail fin, and looped the other end around the bucket. When the wind shifted and the fin swung around, it tipped the bucket over and let the rocks fall down onto the pipes.”
Lucy scrunched her forehead. “So that means . . .”
“It had to have been set up deliberately.”
“Then I was right! Somebody was here.”
“Yes, and no.” Andrew flinched when he caught her exasperated look. “Yes, someone had to be here to do it, but it doesn’t mean they were here when the bucket dumped the rocks. This could have been set up hours—even days—ago. It was just a matter of time until the wind changed and sent those rocks tumbling. It wasn’t meant to do any harm, but it would surely jangle the nerves of whoever was around.” He added in an almost inaudible whisper, “Just like those other times.”
Lucy perked up. “So you do believe me?”
“It looks like I have to.” Andrew bent over with his hands on his knees and peered at the dirt.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for tracks. Whoever did this had to leave some sign.” He moved around the windmill in ever-widening circles. Eventually, he straightened with a disgusted expression.
“What’s wrong?” Lucy asked.
“I can see scuffs here and there, but not enough to make out individual prints.”
“Show me what you’re looking for. Maybe I can help.”
“I’m looking for boot tracks—but not yours or mine or Aunt Martha’s. Whoever climbed onto the platform had to have walked over to the windmill, or ridden their horse right up to it.”
He put his hands on his hips and turned in a slow circle. “But there aren’t any other tracks around here, except for Maybelle’s.”
Lucy nodded. It would make sense to find Maybelle’s tracks around the house and ranch yard. The cow was like a friendly puppy, wandering up close to the house whenever she was in the mood for company.
Andrew swept off his hat and fingered the cleft in his chin. “Unless whoever did this sprouted wings and flew in, I don’t see how it was done.”
“There’s one good thing in this.” Lucy gave him an impish grin. “We may not know how he did it, but at least you don’t think Martha and I are crazy anymore.”
Andrew reached out to stroke the backs of his fingers along her cheek. His touch sent a shiver through her, and his slow smile warmed her down to her toes. His voice was husky when he spoke. “I think about you a lot, Lucy Benson, but I don’t think you’re crazy.”
Chapter 9
“Are you sure?” Andrew leaned over the plat map spread out before him.
The county recorder nodded and pointed to a series of crosshatch marks running northwest to southeast on the map. “This line marks the route of the Forth Worth and Denver City Railway Company. And this”—he traced an intersecting line with his finger—“is where the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe proposes to put in a new line connecting with their main route up in Kansas.”
Andrew followed the line leading to the edge of the county—straight through the Diamond S. “And you say all these ranches along the new route have been sold?”
“That’s right. And all within the last few months.” The other man gave Andrew a curious look. “Only a handful of people knew about the new plan.”
“And all those properties were purchased by the same buyer?”
The recorder nodded. He leaned toward Andrew and lowered his voice. “Between you and me, he got them all at rock-bottom prices, and he stands to make a killing if the proposed line does go through.” Straightening, he added in a normal tone, “Does that answer your questions?”
Andrew set his mouth in a grim line. “Yes, I believe it does.”
Back outside, he mounted his horse and started off in the direction of the Diamond S. Getting the information had been the easy part. Now he had to figure out how to break the news to Aunt Martha.
The horse shied when the wind sent a string of tumbleweeds spinning crazily across the trail. Andrew tugged his Stetson down on his forehead. After all Aunt Martha had done for him while he was growing up, how could he have assumed her mind was off balance? Remorse ate at him. And the idea that she needed a keeper . . . A harsh laugh tore from his throat, to be carried away on a gust of wind.
On the other hand, if he hadn’t been concerned enough to write that letter to his friend in Dry Gulch, Lucy never would have entered his life. The way it all came about remained a puzzle. A query to his friend brought a mystified response, with the friend claiming he had nothing to do with recommending Lucy for the job. He hadn’t gone any farther than mentioning Andrew’s dilemma to a couple of friends and the local schoolteacher. It seemed the story of how God put it all together might remain a mystery. One thing Andrew did know for certain—he was mighty glad it happened.
He wondered what Lucy’s reaction would be when he told the women what he’d learned. With proof that his aunt hadn’t been imagining things, would Lucy feel duty bound to find employment elsewhere? He knew she didn’t want to accept charity. He also knew he couldn’t stand the thought of her leaving.
But he knew one way to keep that from happening—if only Lucy would agree.
A steady breeze teased at Lucy’s hair as she picked another handful of horehound leaves and dropped them into the basket she was carrying over her arm. She’d used up most of their supply making tea for Martha during her illness, but foraging for the herb had only been an excuse to get away from the house. Her real purpose in coming out was to see if she could find any signs pointing toward the devious person who’d set up that prank at the windmill. If she could find horse tracks leading away from the windmill, she might be able to follow them to the perpetrator’s lair.
That task proved easier planned than done. She’d been searching for over an hour and had covered a good bit of territory, wandering back and forth and scanning the dimpled earth for a sign. She’d seen cattle tracks aplenty, and some belonging to smaller creatures, but no sign of a mysterious horseman.
It was time to head home so Martha wouldn’t worry. She’d already stretched her time away from the house longer than any excursion for plants would account for. She turned back to retrace her steps and caught her breath when she spotted a pillar of smoke obscuring one corner of the barn.
Lifting her skirt clear of the ground, Lucy set off toward the barn at a run. The dry framework of the barn would go up like a tinderbox, and with the direction of the wind, the house would be next. Tendrils of panic twined up her spine. She let the basket fall from her arm and redoubled her speed.
The wind swirled, sending the smoke into a spiral. As she neared the barn, she saw forks of flame shooting up from the dry prairie grass, still some distance away. Thank heaven! The fire hadn’t reached the structure yet. If she could circle around in front, get to the leading edge, maybe she could do something to keep the flames from spreading to the buildings.
She raced pell-mell, her lungs straining for air. Just short of her goal, the wind shifted again, enveloping her in an acrid cloud of smoke. She whipped her apron off and used it to wave away the billowing mass. Through the haze, she spotted a figure on the other side of the fire. Had Martha come out to help? No, this person wore a large hat—a Stetson. Squinting, Lucy recognized Curly and went limp with relief. Help was at hand.
As she opened her mouth to call out, the smoke cleared for a moment and Lucy squinted, unable to believe her eyes. Instead of coming to her aid, Curly was heading off at a good pace in the opposite direction—away from the fire—astride . . . a cow? She blinked her eyes, but nothing changed. The animal Curly rode was indeed a cow . . . with a white splotch across her shoulders.
“Maybelle?” Lucy whispered. She shook the confusing image from her mind. There was no time to wonder about that. She couldn’t count on help from Curly—she had to get Martha. Spinning around, she sprinted in the direction of the house, but the toe of her boot caught on a clump of grass, and she stumbled and fell headlong.
Andrew tried to settle his nerves as he trotted his horse up the last hill before reaching the ranch house. Could he follow his heart and lay his hopes for the future at Lucy’s feet, or was there someone whose permission he needed to ask first? Lucy had no family, so he didn’t know who that could be. Maybe his best option would be to consult Aunt Martha.
A Match Made in Texas Page 22