by Lisa Norato
“Charley, we brought home Miss McCoy,” Rose said, lifting her skirt as she mounted the steps to the porch. Her voice rang with pride as though she had snagged some great prize.
“Took you long enough.” As Charley turned to Shelby, one corner of his mustache crooked up in a grin and a dimple appeared.
“Shelby McCoy, this here’s my husband, Charley St. Cloud.”
“Welcome, Miss McCoy,” Charley said.
Shelby joined Rose on the porch and extended her hand. “Thank you, Mr. St. Cloud. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I really do appreciate your opening up your home to me. Your wife is a doll. She’s been so kind. Both of you are very generous.”
He released her hand and waved her off, saying, “Aw, call me Charley. Shorty and me took the liberty of fixing supper. Hope you like fried beefsteak and gravy.”
“It sounds delicious.”
“What’s that you got there in your arms?”
“That’s Hawr-hey, Pa,” Wylie said before Shelby could speak for herself. “He’s a dog.”
“Are you sure? Where’s the rest of him? Well, bring the little fellow in and let’s eat.” Charley retreated into the house, and a handsome youth with a shy smile took his place at the door. Black curls grazed the top of the door frame.
“Meet Shorty,” Holden called.
“Evening, Miss McCoy.” As Shorty opened the lower half of the door to let them in, a gray ball of fluff scurried out. The kitten crossed the porch, jumped up to the railing and sized up Jorge through two narrow blue eyes. Jorge glared back.
Rose made the formal introduction. “Shelby, this is my fourth son, Leo. Everyone calls him Shorty.”
Shorty was dressed in standard cowboy attire. He wore a soiled apron tied at the waist. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and for all his youth, his forearms bulged with sinew and revealed a dusting of dark hair. The hand resting on the door sill was strong and broad.
Shelby grinned up at him. “Hey, Shorty.”
“Howdy, ma’am. Can I carry your bags inside for you?”
Shelby had come to the Flying Eagle expecting to meet a group of city slickers in search of a new way to relieve stress. Instead, she found it filled with inquisitive animals and virile young men. But then nothing had been what she’d expected.
“Yes, thank you, Shorty. But there’s not much to carry. I’m traveling light.”
“Miss McCoy’s things are in the back of the wagon,” Holden informed his brother. “You ladies go on in to supper. Wylie and I will join you shortly, after we’ve seen to the horses.”
Upon crossing the threshold, Shelby entered a foyer enclosed on three sides. It opened to her left into a large room that ran the length of the house. Against the far wall stood a huge fireplace of gray and beige stone. Flat boulders formed a hearth seat at its base; the mantel was a squared timber. In her sister’s lodge, this massive, fieldstone hearth was the focal point of the dining area in which Shelby was to have played hostess. Yet here she stood. Same landscape, same room, same fireplace, but instead of a historic vacation resort, she had arrived at the home of the original, nineteenth-century owners.
After the uncanny day she’d had, Shelby thought she would have become used to her supernatural plight by now, but another shock wave rippled through her.
The eeriness lingered as she dined with the family in a room off the kitchen. To her left, a staircase led to the upper floor. Hugh, the middle sibling of the five St. Cloud brothers, was due to arrive in a few days, but his empty seat at the big plank table did not loom quite so obviously as Ruckert’s.
Shelby watched Holden pass a large earthenware bowl of potatoes to Shorty across Ruckert’s untouched place setting and wondered why no one commented on his absence. He had not accompanied them on the long ride from town, but then, that had been hours ago. How long could it have taken him to bandage the sorrel’s leg?
This family gathering would have made for such an excellent opportunity in which to observe him. But after the intense look he’d given her this afternoon, Shelby didn’t know whether to be relieved by his absence or not. His look had shaken her, shaken her as thoroughly as the realization she had traveled through time. It was just a look, she kept telling herself, a few seconds of eye contact. But in truth, Shelby knew it had been more than that. They had shared an intimacy. Ruckert had touched upon something so personal within her, the prospect of facing him again unsettled her.
The bowl of mashed potatoes had made its way over. Shelby looked inside and saw the swirls of cream and butter, then glanced at the batter-fried steak and thick gravy on her plate. Life as a chubby teenager had left its scars, and to this day, she kept careful watch over her diet. She took a small scoop, then passed the bowl to Wylie and realized everyone was staring.
“Is that all you’re going to eat, Miss McCoy?” Wylie asked.
By her standards, Shelby thought it was plenty, but Charley said, “Don’t be shy of our cooking, ma’am. Shorty’s a pretty fair cook once he puts his mind to it. Taught him myself.”
“And you must be starving after all the traveling you’ve done today,” Rose said.
You don’t know the half of it, Shelby thought.
Charley motioned to his youngest. “Put some potatoes on her plate, son.”
Wylie dug the wooden spoon deep into the bowl and scooped up a large mound of mashed potatoes, which he dumped on Shelby’s dish between the steak and a serving of beet greens.
Shelby thanked him and tried not to think of the damage to her figure as she slid a forkful between her lips and let its buttery lightness melt on her tongue. “Mmm . . . Charley, you’re right. This is reeeally delicious, Shorty.”
So this was what real food tasted like in the days before cholesterol was discovered. She cut into her steak.
“I suspect you’re quite a cook yourself, Miss McCoy,” Shorty said.
Shelby used the time it took to chew her steak to consider her answer. She had discussed her abilities earlier with Rose. Even though she enjoyed cooking, she did not have a lot of experience. Living alone had never been a great motivator to any chef, but suddenly she had a whole ranch full of hungry cowboys to cook for, and all she could think to say was, “I’ll try not to disappoint you all. As far as how good a cook I am . . . well, you’ll have to judge that for yourselves.”
Her gaze sought her hostess seated to her right, her ally, her anchor in this crazy mess. She smiled at Rose and said, “But I do believe cooking skills come with caring about what you’re doing and the people you’re cooking for.”
Emotion welled to the rim of Rose’s eyes, letting Shelby know she understood. Shelby had been trying to convey her affection for this family, and Rose responded with a softly-spoken, “You’re very sweet.”
Shelby smiled and sipped her coffee. She didn’t want to embarrass Rose with too much attention when it was obvious Rose was not used to it.
So she was surprised when Rose squeezed her hand. Shelby glanced up.
“Don’t you worry about disappointing us, dear,” Rose said. “We’re just grateful for your willing hands.”
Shelby wanted to do something special for these people, and before she could think twice about the wisdom in what she was about to offer, said, “Nana Tinkler loaned me her recipe for potato doughnuts.” She scanned the faces gathered around the table. “Do you . . . like doughnuts?”
The men leaned forward, eager, and Shelby could see that yes, they most certainly did. Actually, an authentic 1890 recipe for potato doughnuts was tucked inside her rucksack, given to her by Shelby’s Aunt Agnes. The recipe originated with Aunt Agnes’s grandmother, who once upon a time had sold doughnuts and coffee to railroad passengers in Green River.
Shelby was to deliver the recipe to Caitlin, so her sister could add it to her collection of old family recipes. The Flying Eagle Guest Ranch served a combination of gourmet and authentic western cuisine. But although Shelby had failed to arrive at her sister’s guest ranch, Aunt Agnes’s potato
doughnuts would be served at the Flying Eagle nevertheless.
She hadn’t read the recipe. She hoped it wasn’t too difficult.
Holden leaned back onto the rear legs of his chair, his broad shoulders backlit by the muted glow of the oil lamps in the kitchen behind him. He took a slow sip from his coffee mug and studied her over its rim.
“Cookie’s not likely to be welcome back if’n you keep this up,” he said. His smile crooked up a notch to engage his dimple. “As ranch foreman, I don’t generally eat with the hands except on roundups, but I’m tempted to start taking my meals in the cookhouse.”
She returned the smile. “Ah, so you’re the cow boss and Ruckert’s the horse boss. Is that how things work around here?”
Where had that come from? Shelby wondered. Why, when she had the avid attention of this handsome, affable young man, did she turn the conversation to the silent, unsociable Ruckert?
Holden eased forward until all four legs of his chair touched the floor. “Well, something like that, yes, ma’am. But Ruckert works alone, mostly.”
“How did he learn to communicate with horses?”
“Ruckert’s lived with horses all his life.” Charley set his knife down on the edge of his plate and continued, “From the time my family first settled this land, the Flying Eagle’s had claim to its own herd. Ruckert maintains that herd, brings them down from the range in summer, breaks the colts in the spring. . . .”
He trailed off, his gaze wandering over the heads of the diners. After a pause, he turned again to Shelby, this time with a directness that reminded her of Ruckert. Leaning forward, he braced a forearm on the edge of the table and said, “From the time he was old enough to ride off by himself, Ruckert has camped out on the range, following the mustang herd for days at a time, trying to get as close to them as he could, just to observe. He’s spent more time with horses than with boys his own age or any of the ranch hands, even his own family. I don’t rightly know how it came to be, exactly, that he had the sense to figure out what them horses was saying to each other, when there’s plenty who’ve tried and failed, but I do know talking to horses comes natural to Ruckert, more so than with folks. You might have noticed, Miss McCoy, he’s not one for making conversation.”
Noticed? Ha! She wanted to laugh at the understatement, but Shelby kept her smile to a minimum and nodded. “It’s obvious Ruckert has a way with animals. But why is it, if you don’t mind my asking, that he’s less responsive to people?” She grinned, saying, “And here I thought it was me.”
He’d been reasonably quiet until now, but Wylie gulped down a mouthful and burst, “Oh, it’s you, all right, Miss McCoy.”
“Wha—?” Shelby set down a forked slice of batter-fried steak, her appetite gone. “Well, what is it about me that turns him off?”
Rose pushed away from the table and stood to glare at her son. “Wylie doesn’t mean it personal.”
Wylie returned to his meal, red-faced, while Shelby wondered how “It’s you, all right” could be anything but personal. Rose left the room and disappeared into the kitchen.
“I don’t understand.” Shelby appealed to the rest of the family. “Why won’t Ruckert speak to me?”
Holden stared deep into the dregs of his coffee cup. “If’n you heard him talk, you’d know why.”
Rose emerged from the kitchen with the enamel coffee pot. She stood in the doorway and locked gazes with her husband. The bags under Charley’s eyes looked more pronounced, and from the expressions on their faces, Shelby guessed Holden had touched a nerve. She waited for someone to break the embarrassing silence, but Holden only shook his head and drained the contents of his cup without further comment.
“I have heard Ruckert talk,” Shelby said, “and he has one of the strongest, richest voices I’ve ever heard.” Even now, just remembering the sensuous, deep tones of Ruckert’s voice shot a tingle up her spine.
She tucked a stray lock of hair behind one ear and proceeded cautiously in the hopes that someone would take pity on her and clue her in to the big mystery. “Does he talk to you all?”
“Yeah,” Shorty said with a shrug, “sometimes.”
Shelby sighed. “You know something about Ruckert I don’t, but you’re not going to tell me what it is, are you?” At his lack of response, her thoughts turned inward, and she wondered aloud to herself, “There’s something I’m missing here, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what it is. I feel like the answer’s right in front of me, only I can’t see it.”
“Aw, Miss McCoy,” Shorty drawled, “don’t go imagining all sorts of reasons why Ruckert’s the way he is. He just is.”
Rose had made her way around the table refilling coffee cups, and as she refilled Shelby’s, she said, “It’s amazing what that boy can come up with to avoid a conversation, but sooner or later, he’ll have to talk.”
Charley asked, “You like piano playing, do you, Miss McCoy?” and Shelby knew the subject had been brought to a close.
She wiped her mouth on her napkin. “Yes. I’ve been playing since I was six, and I do some composing.”
“You don’t say? Well, feel free to use our piano whenever the mood suits,” Charley offered. “It hasn’t been used much since Ruckert quit playing. Maybe you’ll play for us after supper?”
Shelby could not hide her delight. “Ruckert plays the piano?” Could it be she actually had something in common with him?
Holden grinned and leaned an elbow on the table. “You like Ruckert, d’you, Miss McCoy?”
Surely, Holden had mistaken her curiosity for something more. How to answer such a question? she wondered. “I, uh . . . uh, sure I like him. I like your whole family. Rose and Charley. You, Shorty and Wylie. I like the grey kitten on the porch and the yearling that grazes on the front lawn. I like the way the Little Laramie River winds around behind the house and the stone bridges that cross it—”
“Aw, come on now, Miss McCoy. You’re as slippery as Ruckert when it comes to mixing words with a little tongue oil. You like him special, else you wouldn’t be changing the subject around to him every chance you get, asking all these questions. I reckon then you won’t be coming a-riding with me.”
Something in her expression must have given him the wrong impression, because Holden said, “It’s all right. Say, why don’t you ask Ruckert to take you for that ride.”
“Huh? Who? Me?” Shelby quivered at the prospect of being alone with that long, lean, virile hunk of young manhood. “Oh, I couldn’t.”
“Sure you could.”
“Well, I don’t know. I’m not much of a rider. I’d need a pretty docile horse.”
“Ruckert’ll see you get a good horse. He’ll take good care of you.”
Rose gave Shelby’s shoulders a squeeze. “I think it’s a lovely idea. Why don’t you think it over, dear?”
Shelby did think about it. She thought about it a lot, but Ruckert still hadn’t returned by the time she crawled into bed. She lay on her back, staring wide-eyed into the shadowed ceiling beams as moonlight spilled across her faded calico spread. Despite exhaustion, she felt too charged with the craziness of her day for sleep.
She wasn’t the only one. Jorge could not sleep either. He climbed on her chest and panted.
“It’s no problem for you,” she told that saucy little face. “Your bathroom habits don’t need to change. And after that steak bone you had for supper, I wouldn’t be surprised if you never wanted to leave.”
She hugged him close and surveyed their tiny upstairs room. The bed was narrow and set kitty-corner next to a solitary window. Her few articles of clothing hung on pegs on the wall. There were no closets, no coat hangers, only a mirrored rosewood dresser draped with a bureau scarf on which Shelby had laid out her few toiletries.
Among them was a wooden toothbrush she had purchased at the W.G. Jonn Grocery, now soaking in a tin cup to keep the bristles soft, and a little tin metallic box of sanitary tooth soap.
By the foot of the bed stood the washst
and where she had rinsed out her panties.
Fine, she thought. I can live with cozy. But in a house with no plumbing? That was the killer.
She tucked Jorge down beside her, snuggled under the covers and curled her body around his. Maybe, if she fell asleep, by the time she opened her eyes again, this whole absurd adventure would be over. But something else kept her awake, and she whispered the secret to Jorge.
“Funny, but with all I have to deal with, I can’t stop thinking about Ruckert. He refuses to speak to me one minute, then stares me down until I think he can see inside my soul the next. What’s it all mean? I can’t figure him out.”
It was time to put Ruckert St. Cloud out of her mind and call it a day. She was smarter than to let herself read hidden meanings into a man’s every glance.
Chapter Seven
Ruckert scrubbed his face and hands at the pump. He let the brisk water revive him, then entered the house through the kitchen, mopping his face with his black neckerchief.
As he strode across the planked floor, the soft tinkle of his jinglebobs and the hard clunk of his two-inch heels disturbed the silence. Moonlight led him to the cookstove where a covered plate warmed on one of its cast iron lids. He lifted a corner of the linen dish cloth and a delicious aroma of cooked beef, sourdough and onions wafted up to greet him.
His empty belly cried out like a lost soul in hell.
He recognized the smell of his pa’s cooking—batter-fried steak and milk gravy—but in the moonlight, the meal resembled a lump of shadows on the tin plate. Ruckert carried it to the plank table in the next room, where he removed his hat and sat down to enjoy supper. He sliced the steak, then forked a thick piece into his mouth. As he chewed, he shoved thoughts of Miss McCoy aside and willed himself to relax. Here, alone in the quiet, under the darkness of night, he faced no pressure to speak.
He tried to cipher up a name for the sorrel filly, but nothing fitting came to mind. He’d sleep on it, he decided, and bit into a baking powder biscuit. He commenced to sop up the gravy with the remaining half of biscuit, when a small speck of brightness caught his eye. It glowed an ungodly shade of green in the inky blackness where he knew the top of the staircase to be.