The pain still pulsing through her, she undressed and pulled on her nightgown. With that done, she simply stood there, alone in the middle of the room, the man she was already falling in love with out in a cabin somewhere nearby.
Yes. I am falling in love.
She’d hoped for it, of course, but knew she’d be lucky if Mitchell was even a lick nicer than William Picoult. As fate turned out, Mitchell had his own hard edges—but he also had a warm heart. He’d shown in to her in their sweeter moments.
How could she not fall in love with him? And how could she be expected to climb aboard a train and leave him behind forever?
“I don’t know what to do,” she found herself crying into the darkness. “I just don’t know what to do.”
Of course, no one answered. Stumbling around the side of her bed, Gemma collapsed on her mattress. And, suddenly, she knew what she needed to do.
It had been weeks. Not since her mother had last dragged Gemma to church had she gotten down on her knees. And then, it was never in full earnest. Gemma had always believed in God, but she’d never seen much reason to call upon His help. Even when she knew she needed to escape New York at any cost, she still relied on herself first.
But if there was ever a time for prayer, it was right then. Mitchell was doing everything he could to save his ranch. He needed help from a bigger hand.
So, bowing her head, Gemma opened her heart and let the words flow.
In the morning, Gemma woke before the sun—her first time accomplishing such a feat. Scurrying from her bed, she dressed in the dark, her fingers fumbling along the buttons. As she sat to lace up her shoes, the conversation from the night before entered her mind.
But, for some odd reason, it did not bother her. Mitchell’s words had been heavy, but Gemma’s heart was not. She did not understand this, but she had woken full of peace, brimming with a deep sense that everything was going to be all right.
Fully dressed, she poured water into the washbasin Clara had brought her the day before, then scrubbed her face and braided her hair tightly. Most of the house was dark, the only light coming from the kitchen. When Gemma walked in, Clara’s mouth opened in surprise.
“I understand,” Gemma smiled. “Seeing me up so early must be a shock.”
Clara’s gape turned into a pursed smile. “I’m glad to see you at any hour.”
“What can I help with?”
They got busy making breakfast for the men, frying bacon and potatoes and filling pitchers with yesterday’s milk, taken from the icebox. A new sense of purpose and satisfaction grew in Gemma as she worked. Half a week at Winding Path and she was adapting. A tiger could be rid of its stripes—especially if it was only becoming the animal it was always meant to be.
Mitchell wasn’t at breakfast, which didn’t surprise Gemma. Most of the men were in and out in a few minutes themselves, gone as soon as their plates were clean and their coffee mugs emptied.
“I’ll get the cleaning up, dear,” Clara said when Gemma went to stack the breakfast plates. “You’ve worked hard this morning.”
“I’ll go gather eggs, then.” She grabbed the basket from its spot under the shelves. “Anything else I should do while I am out there?”
Clara’s eyes sparkled. “No, that’s fine. How about I show you how to churn butter this afternoon?”
“I would love that.”
Her own skirt hardly able to keep up with her, Gemma was out the door and across the backyard. Her now favorite chore ran like clockwork. Ten eggs from the coop. Five from the bushes.
As she pressed further into the prickly undergrowth, though, a red and brown hen suddenly popped up from the cover and ran away, squawking.
“I’m not going to eat you!” Gemma called after it. The hen kept going, running in the opposite direction of the rest of the chickens. Gemma glanced at the hens and roosters behind her. Weren’t chickens supposed to stay together? Wasn’t that how they evaded predators?
The hen in mention was already halfway to the horse barn, fleeing like a chopping block with legs was chasing it.
“Come back!” Gemma called. Setting the basket of eggs on the grass, she took off after the hen. The animal dodged the horse barn and took a right into one of the fields, putting itself in the great wide open. Apparently, she was the most unintelligent chicken to have ever hatched.
Not far into the field, the chicken swerved around a pile of half-eaten hay. Seeing her opportunity, Gemma hugged the bale of hay in the other direction. The two met head-on and Gemma pounced, sweeping the hen up into her arms.
“Bawk!” the chicken screamed.
Gemma held it securely in the crook of her arm. “Oh, no, you don’t. I myself was a troublesome girl. I know all the tricks in the book. We are headed back to the coop.”
Turning away from the bale, something caught her eye. A bit of red poked out from the hay. A berry? Was that normal in hay?
With her free hand, Gemma seized the berry and gently tugged. Something snapped and some thin, green leaves came out with the berry. Holding the small branch up to her face, Gemma inspected it closer. She’d seen this plant before… but where?
The realization hit her so fast, it made her lightheaded. She knew the plant because her doctor back in New York had treated her mother with it on several occasions. He had brought it to the house and left the branches and fruit there to steep. And that wasn’t all!
Her heart racing, Gemma ran all the way back to the coop. Leaving the hen in her rightful place, she turned right back around and began running once more. The plant was still clutched in her hand, the answer to what she’d asked for.
On the other side of the barns, she found just who she was looking for. “Mitchell!”
Turning from the two hands he was talking to, he stared at her in surprise. “What’s wrong?”
Gemma stopped a few feet away from him, her chest heaving and her legs shaking with exertion. “I…” She had to stop talking, needing a breath before she could go on.
Mitchell lowered himself so his hard face was even with hers. “What happened?”
“This,” she gasped, straightening up and opening her palm. The three men stared at the plant there in puzzlement.
“What’s that?” Beau asked.
Gemma’s hunch had been right. The men didn’t know what the plant was—because it was not native to North America!
“It is called English Yew,” she explained. “It was brought over here from Europe. I found it in a bale of hay in one of the fields.”
Mitchell’s eyes darted back and forth between Gemma’s face and the yew. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“So, it does not grow around here?” she carefully asked, needing to make absolutely sure none of them had seen it before.
“No. How do you know what it is?”
“Our family doctor in New York brought some to the house several times to treat my mother with,” she excitedly explained. “He brought the whole branches so that parts could be steeped to make tincture. But he told us to make sure not to discard the rest behind the house, as the dogs might chew on it and get sick. You see, it is poisonous for animals! It can even kill them.”
Mitchell blinked over and over again, staring at Gemma like he could not believe what she had said. “You’re sure that this is the plant?”
“Yes. Look. There are little openings at the end of the berries. See?” She held the branch up for inspection and he took it in his own hands.
His face growing red and his chest rising, Mitchell closed his eyes. The other three people watched him, waiting.
“Someone brought it here,” he finally said, opening his eyes and curling his fingers around the English Yew. “I’ve lived here for over twelve years and I’ve never seen this.”
“Neither have I,” Beau said.
The other cowboy murmured his own agreement.
“Perhaps it came in on a shipment and got mixed in with the hay somehow,” Gemma suggested.
“Which ba
le did you find it in?” Mitchell sharply asked.
Gemma struggled to make sense of the still-confusing layout of the ranch. “Um, over there. In the field near the road. But just at the edge of it.”
“All six cows that fell ill were over there yesterday morning,” Beau said.
Mitchell’s head whipped toward him. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Daniel, go get rid of that hay right away,” Mitchell ordered. “Put it in the old corn crib, and make sure it’s shut up tight. Don’t let any animals near it.”
The hand ran off and Mitchell turned to Beau. “That couldn’t have just ended up in the hay.”
“No.”
“What do you mean?” Gemma asked, enthralled. She’d been raised to not partake in conversations she had no part in—especially when it was a man’s conversation—but she couldn’t pull herself away from this one. She needed to know what Mitchell was suggesting.
“Did you see anything else in or near the bale?” Mitchell asked. “Find anything suspicious?”
“I… No.” She shook her head. “I chased a chicken over there, and then saw this poking out of that hay. That’s all.” Realization dawned on her. “Do you… do you think someone put the yew in the hay?”
Mitchell and Beau exchanged a quick look.
“I can’t say for sure yet,” Mitchell answered. “But let’s go take a look at the hay.”
The men started walking, but after a couple steps, Mitchell stopped and looked at Gemma. “Will you come with us? I need you to look and make sure there’s nothing else in the hay. If there is, it might be you can recognize it.”
She knew it was wrong in such a somber moment, but happiness filled Gemma’s chest. Mitchell needed her. Not once since arriving in Shallow Springs had she imagined he would require something from her.
“Of course.” She led the way back to the bale, where Daniel and other hand were already busy loading the hay onto a cart.
Grabbing a pitchfork from Daniel, Mitchell spread some of the hay on the ground, searching through it. Another sprig of English Yew poked out through the golden hay, then several more.
“It’s all in there,” Daniel said in astonishment.
“But how?” Gemma pressed.
Mitchell angrily tossed the pitchfork on the ground. “Someone mixed it in there.”
His announcement settled heavily around the group. The four of them stood there, looking at the hay and the yew and stewing in their own thoughts.
A person had intentionally put the yew in with the hay. Surely, they had known what the cattle eating English Yew would do. Gemma could hardly believe it. Someone was attempting to kill off all of Mitchell’s cattle.
20
20. Mitchell
Chapter Twenty
When Mitchell was a kid in Virginia, he’d tried more than once to count the stars in the night sky. On cool summer nights, or warm fall ones, he’d take a blanket and spread it out on the grass. Laying with his head against his arms, he’d gaze up and count as high as he could, but he always ended up falling asleep, then waking up in his bed after one of his parents had carried him inside.
Looking up at the sky now, he remembered those nights. Everything had seemed so simple then. The last few months had made him feel like he didn’t understand anything anymore. Where was the peace and security in the world when everything he and his parents had worked for all their lives was crashing down around him?
Surely, God heard his pleas for help and understood what Mitchell was going through. He’d always had real faith in the Lord. Not even his parents’ deaths had shaken it.
Was he being tested? If so, tested for what? He worked hard. He was committed. He did his best to treat his men and everyone else around him well.
Bowing his head, he shut his eyes.
God, just tell me what I’m supposed to do and I’ll do it. Show me who you need me to be and I’ll be that person.
With his prayer finished, he gave the twinkling sky one last glance. He was doing his part, pushing forward. He just needed to keep his faith.
Weaving across the ranch, he ended his journey at the toolshed. The door was open, Beau sitting on a log. Mitchell could make out the lantern at his feet, but it hadn’t been lit.
“It’s me,” Mitchell announced.
“I didn’t figure it would be best to draw attention to ourselves,” Beau said in a low voice, tapping his boot against the tin lantern.
“Good thinking.”
“This a good enough spot?”
Mitchell considered it for a moment. “Let’s go into the field.”
They’d be in the open there, but if they were walking someone would have to trail behind them to eavesdrop on their conversation. Surrounded by buildings, as they were now, anyone could crouch down somewhere and spy.
Leaving the lantern where it was, they walked along the horse trail that took them into the southern field and near the main road. They kept their steps light, listening for any signs of being followed. At that point, as much as he hated it, Mitch was starting to feel like he couldn’t trust anyone. Even the ranch hands he’d hired himself years ago could be suspects. It seemed the only person he could really trust was Beau. He should have been grateful he at least had one true friend, but thinking about it still left a sour taste in his mouth.
“I expect you know what I’m going to say,” Beau begin.
Mitchell glanced at him, but only saw the slightest shape of his face. With the moon hidden away somewhere, it was hard to make out much of anything in the near pitch-black night. “No. I don’t.”
Beau grunted. “Samuel.”
“Hm.” Mitch took in a long breath. “You think it’s him.”
“Yep.”
“Why would he poison the cattle?”
Beau snorted. “You got a soft spot for him, Mitch. It’s amazing, considering you’re so rough all the time.”
Mitchell’s shoulders drew back tight. “Now, you’re acting mad. Samuel Barnes has been a thorn in my side for years. I don’t give him special attention. Don’t have any reason to, and never will.”
“Yeah, but your pa hired him. That means something to you.”
Mitchell bit down on his lip. He couldn’t argue with that. His father hiring Samuel years ago was the only reason Mitch hadn’t already fired him. If any other hand spoke to him the way Samuel did, Mitch would have them packing within a day.
“It don’t make sense, though,” he said.
“Why he would do it?” Beau asked.
“Uh-huh.”
A moment of silence passed between them. The dry dirt of the road crunched under their feet. In the dark, it was hard to tell how far they’d gone down the road, but Mitchell knew they hadn’t yet passed the bend.
“Motives can be hidden,” Beau said. “And Barnes is the kind of man who hides things well. Don’t you think it’s odd that he’s still working here? He sure acts like he hates this place. He could go and work at any other ranch in the whole territory, but he stays here. Now, why is that?”
“Hm.” Mitch turned that information over in his head, taking some time to really study it. “You think he wants the ranch for himself?”
“Could be he’s thinking you’ll get so fed up you’ll quit and take off back to Virginia.”
“No,” Mitch grunted. “That’s not going to happen. Not until it’s my last option.”
Samuel Barnes…. Could he really be capable of working to undermine Mitch? The two of them had their difficulties, but Samuel had had great respect for Mitch’s father. He’d also been extremely loyal through the years, never mind all the lip he gave Mitch.
They’d reached the curve in the road. Mitch couldn’t see it, but his feet instinctively knew the bend they’d walked on thousands of times. He turned around, back toward the ranch, and Beau followed.
“I have my own theory.”
“What’s that?”
“That vagabond,” Mitch answered. “Fletcher. Wh
at do you know about him?”
“Fletcher.” Beau stretched out the name. “He came from somewhere down south.”
“I heard California.”
Her Western Heart (Seeing Ranch series) (A Western Historical Romance Book) Page 13