by Lisa Norato
He straightened in the saddle, tipping his hat back with the finger of a buckskin leather glove. As Shelby gazed up at his bronzed face, he turned his sage eyes upon her, reducing her to the size and significance of a horsefly. Then, once again, he tugged on his hat brim and nodded, bidding her adieu.
She couldn’t believe it. She was dealing with a moron and he was getting impatient with her. And not just any moron. An oxymoron.
As he started to ride off, Jorge sprang to attention in her lap and barked, “Woof!” He wagged his plume tail, Don’t go.
Ruckert glanced back, and from beneath his black mustache, Shelby saw a flash of white teeth. “I’ll see you later, Hawr-hey.”
Then he was gone, Wylie hustling down the road after him on foot, making it pretty obvious to Shelby that if she wanted answers she would either have to transform into one of man’s four-legged friends or look to someone other than Ruckert St. Cloud.
Chapter Four
Cocky, crazy creep.
Shelby glared the insult into his tall, erect back as she watched Ruckert turn the corner of Second Street and disappear with his brother behind the post office.
Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. She released a slow breath, taking a moment to compose herself. “Well, I guess he told me.”
Rose clucked to the horses and gave the reins a flip. At once, the team started to pull the spring wagon at a snail’s pace down Thornburg Avenue. “I won’t lie to you. Ruckert’s been upset ever since he learned you were coming.”
This was worse than Shelby imagined. Ruckert disliked her before they’d ever met? Why, when she hadn’t existed in his world until about three hours ago?
As much as she would have preferred to label Ruckert St. Cloud a jerk and never speak of him again, pursuing the answer might be the first step in figuring out what she was doing here. But the sparkle in Rose’s eyes distracted her. Granted, Rose had no way of knowing the extent of what Shelby was going through, but to smile in the face of her distress? That stung.
“I guess it’s too much to hope for sympathy from you.”
“Now, Shelby, don’t sulk. I thought that was real brave the way you stood up to Ruckert, challenging him to tell you what was on his mind. Most folks get intimidated and back off, but I was proud of the way you stood your ground.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t understand the problem. Why won’t he talk to me?”
“I can’t answer that without invading Ruckert’s privacy, but I will tell you this. I’ve been living with Charley and our boys as long as I can remember, and it still tickles me the lengths a grown man will go to protect his pride. You see, I know my sons. Ruckert might not have been pleased to see you this morning, but he’s coming around real quick. So don’t let him fool you, dear.”
Leaning into Shelby’s shoulder, she whispered, “He likes you just fine.”
Shelby wasn’t buying into Rose’s motherly instinct to make excuses for her son. She rebutted with a short honk of sarcastic laughter. “Oh, I don’t know. I thought he’d made himself perfectly clear. ‘If I can’t say anything nice about you, I won’t say anything at all.’ No, he’s annoyed. I’ve been an inconvenience, and I’m sorry. I realize I must seem a bit strange and foreign to you all. The thing is, I have this awful feeling of being lost and it’s making me very confused. I’ve never been this far away from home before.”
It was the biggest understatement of her life, and yet Shelby couldn’t have expressed herself better. She said no more. Given the St. Clouds’ reaction to her RAV4, she wasn’t ready to reveal the actual truth of her travels.
Rose gave her a quick once-over from the corner of her eye, then grinned as though she were the keeper of some amusing secret. “Your Nana Tinkler warned us about you,” she said with a shake of her head. “And a good thing she did, because to look at you and listen to you talk, you’d think Cheyenne was clear on the other side of the world.”
The woman’s good humor was infectious, and Shelby smiled in spite of herself.
Rose went on to say, “I believe, as long as a person walks a straight path, they should be accepted for their human qualities and not judged for lesser failings. That’s not saying you have any, dear, but your nana understands how it is with folks here in the west. Our homes are always open to strangers. And so she reminded me in her letter. Besides which, I tend to agree. This experience will be good for all of us. So don’t you fret. As soon as we get back to the Flying Eagle, we’ll settle you in, and before you know it, you’ll feel right at home. Tonight the whole family’ll gather around the table for supper, and it’ll be like you were always a part of us.”
“Thank you, Rose. That’s really sweet.”
Rose shrugged off the compliment. “Hugh won’t be joining us until later in the week. He’s working as our rep with an outfit a hundred miles north of here. But if we’re lucky enough to catch up with him, you may get to meet Holden this afternoon. He’s in town.”
“Great.” Frankly, meeting another male in the St. Cloud clan was not on Shelby’s list of favorite things to do while on vacation. How many were there, anyway? She’d soon find out. The important thing was, Rose had worked a miracle in restoring her sense of inner calm with those kind words, and for that Shelby would be eternally grateful.
They drove in companionable silence past the bank, a livery stable, a pharmacy, the general store and several saloons. Shelby watched the horses’ slow, bobbing heads and opened her mouth to speak, but the only thing to come out was a sigh.
“You know, dear, if you feel you’d like to tell me your story, I’m here to listen.” Rose turned to look Shelby square in the eye, inviting her to spill her guts.
And oh, how she’d love to, but she was afraid Rose wouldn’t believe her and then she’d lose her only friend, other than Jorge. Besides, how would she ever convince this woman of something she didn’t believe herself? Travel through time? No way. Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe if she kept pinching herself, she’d eventually wake up.
“Well, there is something I suppose I should tell you,” Shelby confessed. “I’m sure Nana Tinkler meant well, but you see, I’m not as close to her as you might think. The truth is, I don’t know a whole lot about being a ranch cook, but I’m willing to give it a try if you don’t mind someone with a little inexperience in your kitchen.”
Now that they’d had this talk, Shelby wanted to help Rose in any way she could, just as she’d been eager to assist her sister this morning. However, there was another reason behind the offer, a less noble one. Shelby needed to secure a place for her and Jorge to stay. She didn’t want to be put on a stage or a train. Where would they go? No, best they stay as close as possible to the scene of the crime until she could figure out how to get them back to their real life.
Rose acknowledged the offer with a smile. “I’m glad you’re here, Shelby McCoy.”
“Thank you, Rose. It means a lot to hear you say that.” Shelby couldn’t find it within her to lie by saying she felt glad to be here, but she was thankful to have Rose on her side, and she smiled her own appreciation.
Jorge grew bored with it all, and in a moment of canine anxiety, began chewing on the leather flap of her vintage-inspired Western belt. At forty-nine bucks, she supposed she should stop him, but Shelby didn’t have the heart. Instead, she was reminded of her increasing hunger, and the thought of eating jogged her memory back to their last meal.
“Ooh, Rose, would you mind turning here? I believe if we take a left, we’ll intersect with Grand Avenue.”
“Got business on Grand Avenue, have you?”
“There’s just something I need to see.”
As Rose maneuvered the wagon onto the wide, dusty strip of Grand Avenue, Shelby searched for the historic restaurant she had stopped at for breakfast this morning—Boyle’s Family Eatery. Mr. Boyle was an avid antique collector, who had preserved as much of the original interior architecture as possible, restored or remodeled what he couldn’t, and displayed western artifacts wh
erever he found a square inch of unused space. In a glass case at the front of the eatery, he showcased his wife’s homemade baked goods, made fresh each morning. Shelby had ordered a low-fat bran muffin, along with a caramel latte and a side order of bacon for Jorge.
She gave Rose’s arm a squeeze when she found what she’d been searching for. “Here. Stop for a minute, would you, Rose?” After the wagon drew to a halt, Shelby scrambled for her rucksack, then passed Jorge to Rose while she climbed down off the seat. As she reached for him again, he squirmed frantically, fearful he might be left behind, and vaulted off Rose’s lap into Shelby’s arms.
Nestling him against her shoulder, Shelby trotted down the board sidewalk. Her boot heels rapped out a pop-pity-pop sound as common as any cowboy’s, yet the stares of passersby were anything but. They gawked at her and Jorge with amused curiosity. Shelby, however, was too busy trying to gauge her location, trying to figure out if she had the right place, to care.
The sign overhead read “The Crystal Saloon,” but instead of a striped awning shading an oak-and-beveled glass door with a tinkling bell above it, she found herself peering over the double swinging doors of a newly opened saloon.
Signs out front welcomed new patrons, while inside the dim interior, smoke swirled from the tips of cigars, glasses chinked, dice rolled, and someone tinkled out a lively tune from an upright piano. Shelby saw a long bar with mirrors and liquor bottles lined against them, the reflection appearing to double their numbers. Gas lights hovered high above round tables where men hunched over their drinks or a hand at poker. Cowboys lined the front of the polished bar, drinking beer, one boot heel hooked on the foot rail below.
It was while Jorge’s nose twitched back and forth, taking in the odors, that Shelby recognized Mr. Boyle’s prized antique mirror, polished and brand new, hanging by a coat rack next to a cuspidor.
Her heart leapt to her throat. She nearly gagged.
No denying it now. She had left Cheyenne at eight a.m. this morning, only to arrive in the Gem City of the Plains 1886.
She felt numb, defeated, drained of all hope.
“No. This is so wrong,” she despaired in a volume louder than she’d intended.
A husky voice boomed from the dark, smoky pit. “You got a complaint, boy? Step inside and let’s hear it.”
The sun shone at her back, casting her in shadow to those viewing her from inside the saloon. The tall, dark silhouette of a shaggy headed figure with two skinny pants legs and boots appearing from beneath the double doors.
Jorge took offense and growled low in his throat. He snarled, arousing murmurs from the back, setting chairs to scraping against floorboards.
Shelby clutched the Pomeranian with both hands, but Jorge fought against her, barking savagely. Let me at him! Let me at him!
The shouts and heckles grew louder. Bodies had begun to move towards them. Shelby’s brain screamed, “Run, you moron!” but her body hadn’t yet recovered from its shock. Her feet were plastered to the boardwalk.
Someone yanked at her sleeve, setting her reflexes in motion, and Shelby allowed Rose to hustle her away from the swinging doors.
They ran across the street, dodging wagons and horses, while behind them more raucous shouts and laughter mingled with the clatter of the busy avenue.
Together they moved quickly, without so much as a backwards glance, and when Rose spoke at last, her voice was chopped and breathless. “Your na-na . . . warned me . . . you were . . . your own wo-man . . . but I have a few . . . sug-gestions . . . for your own sake.”
They scooted down the boardwalk and ducked inside the establishment of the W.G. Jonn Grocery. Rose prodded her away from the glass front window into the depths of the interior. The light grew dim, and the musty smell of dry goods mingled with the odors of wood smoke from the potbellied stove, boiling coffee and a whiff of stale tobacco.
Shelby took it all in, waiting for her heart rate to return to normal. She walked past long shelves of heavily polished, dark wood and glass display cases. Not an inch of space was wasted. Glass jars sat neatly on a countertop, filled with peppermint balls and cinnamon sticks. On one side stood a counter for groceries; on the other, shelves piled high with canisters of condiments and spices. The oak hardwood floor had been scuffed raw, but kept clean-swept and lined with barrels of flour, sacks of sugar, dried beans and coffee, kegs of molasses and vinegar.
Rose ducked beneath a row of assorted cooking pots and iron skillets hanging from a ceiling beam, then motioned Shelby down a rear aisle, pretending to browse.
“I don’t mind you telling my boys tall tales about some horseless machine. I suppose it’s all harmless enough. But while you’re in town with me, I’ll not have you tramping up to a saloon’s doors and rousing its patrons. And please, for mercy’s sake, wipe that paint off your lips.”
Quickly, Shelby swiped the back of her hand across her mouth. Someone was approaching.
Rose glanced up. “Oh, good day, Gus. I’d like for you to meet Miss Shelby McCoy. Shelby, meet Gus Sanders, the store clerk.” Then to Gus again, “Miss McCoy’s going to be staying at our place to lend a hand while Wilson Tinkler’s out of town.”
Gus was a smooth-cheeked young man dressed in a windowpaned-checked suit, with sandy blond hair parted slightly off center. Shelby guessed him to be about twenty or so, and obviously baffled by her appearance.
He clasped his hands together and made a slight bow in greeting. “It’s always a pleasure to welcome a new lady to Laramie City, Miss McCoy.” His eyes darted from her to Jorge, from Jorge to her long-legged jeans, and even in the dim lighting Shelby could see the high color on his cheeks. “Is there anything I might be able to help you with, ma’am?”
“Thank you, Gus, perhaps there is.” Rose fingered a pair of ladies’ riding gloves as though she were interested in buying them. “Miss McCoy lost her luggage on the train and we’re in need of a few necessities.”
* * *
Ruckert burst through the double doors of the Silver Star Saloon with a force that left the place in flabbergast. All activity stopped, and in the hush, there was nothing but the squeaking of the door on its hinges and the chime of his jinglebobs against the rowel of his spurs.
He heard only his own private thoughts. A turmoil of emotion rolled like a tumbleweed inside him, and he stood before the crowd lost in it, easily the largest man in the room.
He hadn’t been surprised when they reached Laramie City with no sign of Miss McCoy’s “car.” But blamed if he could figure out how she had managed to traverse those seventy miles from Cheyenne. With Wylie along to do the talking, Ruckert had checked up and down this town, and nowhere had he found evidence of her passing through.
No one by the name of Shelby McCoy had purchased a ticket on the Union Pacific.
No one had noticed a flame-haired woman with a fancy bit of a dog arrive on the stage.
None of the clerks at any of the hotels were holding a trunk for a Miss McCoy. Ruckert had a notion she might have arrived earlier and spent a few days in town for some reason she didn’t want folks to know. But that wasn’t the case. So he paid a visit to Tom Dillon’s Livery Stable to inquire if maybe she had hired a horse. Tom assured him there was no way he’d lend one of his horses to a strange female out riding by herself, and it still didn’t explain how Miss McCoy had ended up tramping to the ranch on foot.
He had half a mind to confront that little pants-wearing, story-telling, sassy-mouthed calico for the truth.
But he knew he never would.
Loneliness dwelt inside him, yet he felt it more profoundly at this moment, standing in the middle of a crowded room. It left him all too aware of his inability to engage in intelligent and witty conversation with other men, to exchange ideas freely. He could not voice his thoughts and feelings without suffering their impatience, without soon reaching the point where they no longer listened to what he was saying because they were too distracted by how he said it.
Wylie came bounding through t
he door behind him, and his sorrow returned to its hiding place in his heart. Presently, everyone went back to their beers and their jawing. Ruckert found his brother Holden seated at a table by the potbellied stove with two punchers from the Lucky U. They each had their knuckles wrapped around a mug of coffee, listening while Holden read aloud news of the Stock Growers Association from The Laramie Sentinel.
As Ruckert reached his side, Holden stopped reading and slowly lifted his head. His Stetson was a natural color “Boss of the Plains,” its four-inch brim rolled high on either side, its crown creased down the center and adorned with a red leather hatband studded with silver conchas. When he noticed Wylie, his cheerful expression grew stern. He folded up his newspaper and eyed the boy with the authority of an older brother.
Ruckert knew Holden did not approve of a thirteen-year-old patronizing a saloon, but he wasn’t planning on staying long. He pulled out the fourth chair and dropped his carcass in the seat without preamble, then reached for an empty chair from the next table and gestured for Wylie to do the same. Tipping his hat back off his forehead, he stretched out his long legs, then nodded to the two punchers seated across from him. It was all the greeting they could expect and they both knew it.
They murmured a collective, “Afternoon,” wary of his dark, silent manner as most folks tended to be. More enthusiastically, they greeted Wylie, following which, one of the Lucky U punchers cleared his throat and told Ruckert, “Bassil Farthing’s got it all over town he’s looking for you, Hoss Man. ‘Got a rough-broke cayuse over at his place he wants you to take a look at.”
Ruckert had acquired the name “Hoss Man” long ago. A story circulated that God had hobbled his tongue so he’d learn to speak the language of horses, and it seemed fate had endeavored to make it so. Ruckert’s way with the creatures was widely recognized. Farthing’s Livery was the one place he hadn’t checked when he’d been investigating Miss McCoy’s travels, but suddenly the mystery lost its intrigue. He could think of nothing, save that a horse might be in trouble and need his help.