Where Eagles Fly

by Lisa Norato

  Jorge growled, sandwiched between them. The sound poured over them like a douse of cold water. All at once they realized what they were doing, really and truly realized what they were doing, and the spell dissolved. Their bodies stiffened, their lips unlocked, parting with great reluctance, until once again they found themselves staring into each other’s eyes.

  Shelby’s head reeled. Who was she to inspire this warmth and admiration in Ruckert’s lovely grey-green eyes? She was not the young blossom she once had been. She was too old for him. Or rather, too young. More than a century too young. She was not a reality of his era. She had arrived at his home by freak accident. Their kiss was nothing more than a moment of insanity. All she knew was, part of her wanted to run, and the other part wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and cling on for dear life.

  In its intimacy, his kiss had revealed a powerful, emotional depth. More, so much more, dwelt inside than his odd behavior or raw-male looks implied. Those were the masks he hid behind.

  His penetrating gaze grew too much for her, and Shelby turned away to gather herself.

  From behind her, Ruckert breathed in her ear. “I’m as surprised as you are. I’d never dream of taking such liberties, but something about you doesn’t hold to convention. I hope I haven’t offended you. I’ll go if you want me to.”

  Go? Was he feeling regret? No, Shelby, don’t jump to conclusions. That’s not what you saw in his eyes. And why did she care anyway? They had no future together.

  She faced him and answered, “No.” He was communicating with her, and she couldn’t help but feel excited. “I don’t want you to go.”

  He nodded. Good.

  “Good,” she repeated aloud.

  Good, he nodded again.

  Great, Shelby thought with a damper. She sensed the walls erecting. Conversation with Ruckert had come to an end.

  She hid her disappointment by reaching for a pot holder so she could return to her iron skillet full of sizzling fat. “I guess I’ll start breakfast then, but feel free to talk to Jorge. You might want to tell him what you did with his collar.”

  Ruckert laughed in his deep bass voice. He stepped away and lowered her dog to the rough, wide-planked floor, then reached deep into his vest pocket and pulled out Jorge’s green lighted collar. “I apologize, Hawr-hey. I was just wondering how your collar managed to shine through the dark, almost as though there were a light inside. I can’t imagine where Miss McCoy would—”

  “Shelby,” she corrected. “I think we can drop the formalities.”

  He looked up at her to acknowledge his understanding. He smiled to convey his pleasure. To Jorge he said, “. . . where Shelby would have picked up such a thing. I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like it. It’s all a mystery to me, like so many other things about her. Of course, if she cares to volunteer an explanation, I wouldn’t be opposed to lending an ear.”

  Shelby had to admit, it would be nice to tell all, to share the burden of her predicament with another. But as open-minded and unusual as Ruckert seemed to be, she didn’t believe he was ready for the concept of time travel. No, best she keep her bizarre little secret to herself.

  He rubbed Jorge’s little pink belly, but she could tell he was waiting for an answer.

  When none came, he said, “Nope? Well then, I guess I’m obliged to live with my curiosity. But I cannot in all good conscience stand by without speaking my mind on this one thing. Shelby may be comfortable with her peculiarities. That’s all well and good for her. She can take care of herself. But if she’s got a merciful bone in her body, she’ll remove this sweater before the boys see it, else you’ll not be able to walk this ranch with your head raised.”

  An undercurrent of laughter rumbled deep through his words, but Shelby knew Ruckert was serious.

  “Oh, all right,” she said, “maybe this isn’t the place for his sweater. I just worried he might be cold.”

  She got down on the floor next to Ruckert to slip off Jorge’s sweater. At once, she felt Ruckert’s lips in her hair. His breath tickled her ear. “It seems a gal with so many secrets could do with someone to trust, and . . . and I’d like to take her up on her offer to be friends.”

  Shelby smiled to herself. Trust was still a way off, but she had warmed up to Ruckert considerably, and it would be nice to have his friendship. The best part was, Ruckert wouldn’t ask questions, and that was enough for now.

  She pulled back to gaze at him, and as she did, they both began to smile. It started off slow, a mere twitch of the lips that grew and grew until they were both grinning like two school children who shared a secret.

  They had discovered each other.

  Chapter Ten

  Ruckert sipped hot coffee from a tin mug by the opened window and scanned Cookie’s “Laws of the Cookhouse” all the way to the bottom where he noticed an unfamiliar scrawl.

  As he read the writing, coffee spilled into his windpipe, searing his throat and launching him into a fit of hacking.

  “I see you’ve found my additions.” Shelby checked the skillets she had going on the stove. Scrambled eggs, potatoes and onions warmed on a rear cooking lid. The bacon had browned to a nice crisp, and she was presently preparing a milk gravy to serve with the biscuits.

  Breakfast was nearly ready. The stale, smoky smell that hung in the air upon her arrival had been replaced by the aromas of wood smoke, fried onions and fresh boiled coffee.

  Behind her came the jingle of Ruckert’s spurs and the hard clunk of his heels as he crossed the room, battling a last few, lingering coughs.

  “I’ve drained off the meat drippings and mixed in the flour,” she recounted aloud. “Next I add milk, salt, pepper, and stir. Oh, and I thought maybe some crushed herbs might be tasty. Have I forgotten anything?”

  Shelby peered over her shoulder, not that she was expecting a response. She found Ruckert was filling a clean mug under the water spigot. He tipped his head back for a long swallow, then turned and sucked her into another of his intensely contemplative stares.

  At his approach, Shelby propped a hand on her hip and lifted her chin to meet his sage gaze.

  He’d been a lot quieter than she would have preferred, which was a disappointment, because after their kiss, she was experiencing a strong urge to communicate. They seemed to have connected on some deep emotional level, and she had hoped to explore those feelings by getting to know him better. But even though Ruckert had taught her the workings of the cookhouse and had helped prepare the meal, he demonstrated rather than explained. He continued to address his instructions via Jorge. He whispered recipes behind her back. Anything to avoid direct conversation.

  Shelby raised a slim, meticulously-tweezed brow. He could be a little weird in that way. All that quiet strength and masculine grace poured into one very tall glass of water. Shame the glass had to be half empty.

  Still, he pushed her buttons in all the right places and even set off a few alarms. He was so young. But, oh, she really liked him. What a switch from yesterday, from earlier this morning, when she thought him an arrogant buffoon. Today she learned her attraction ran deeper than the physical. She only wished she could figure out what it really was.

  Ruckert dumped the remaining water from his mug into her milk gravy. The meat drippings sizzled.

  “What’d you do that for?”

  “See there, Hawr-hey. That sort of thing is cause sufficient to suspect there’s a lot more to Shelby than she’s letting on. How do you suppose it is that a hoss man like myself knows to add water to a gravy and the cook don’t?”

  Because the cook belongs to an age of ready-made gravy sold in supermarkets, Shelby would have told him if she thought he’d believe her. Sure, there were women who still made their gravy from scratch, but she was not one of them.

  She gave a shrug of feigned insult and continued stirring.

  “And I wouldn’t get fancy if I were you,” he whispered from behind. His voice was a caress as smooth as velvet. So rich and deep, it aroused Shel
by to the depths of her soul.

  “Punchers don’t take lightly to cooks who mess with their gravy.” His breath stirred her hair. She imagined him pressing closer still, his lips on the back of her neck, his mustache tickling her skin, and it was all she could do to concentrate on her cooking.

  Taking a deep breath, Shelby salted and peppered her gravy, hoping Ruckert didn’t notice the unsteadiness of her hand.

  “For a man who’s so curious about me, you’re not willing to share anything about yourself.” She turned to face him. “What painful memory caused you to stop playing the piano?”

  For a moment it looked like he was actually going to tell her. His gaze danced over her features as though he were memorizing each one. He opened his mouth. Shelby saw the willingness in his eyes.

  And then it was gone. He shook his head. He couldn’t say it. Whatever it was, he didn’t trust her enough to share it.

  Shelby hid her disappointment behind an impassive stare. “Obviously, you feel you’re unique because you have a difficult time expressing your pain. Isn’t that just like a man?”

  With a casual shrug, she gave him her back and returned to her skillet. “Maybe you’ll tell me later when you’re ready. In the meantime, would you mind serving up those biscuits?” She pointed at an agate ironware bake pan cooling on the worktable. “I’m afraid they’ll stick if I wait any longer, and I still have to finish up this gravy.”

  He did as she bade and reached for a spatula. Presently, Shelby heard something drop and turned to watch one of her baking powder biscuits roll across the floor. Jorge chased it under the dining table.

  She sighed. “Now if the punchers get that enthusiastic over my biscuits, I’ll be home free.”

  She glanced at Ruckert. A smile had stolen into his sage eyes and lifted the corners of his mustache. They laughed together.

  “That laugh of yours makes for the prettiest sort of sound,” he told her. “Reminds me of that piano music you play.”

  Shelby reeled. He’d spoken to her, plain and clear, without whispering, without addressing Jorge. “Thank you,” she said.

  He nodded. You’re welcome.

  The one-room cookhouse glowed in the soft muted light of the oil lamps. The red-and-white checked oilcloth had been scrubbed clean and was set with the tin dishware and cutlery. Shelby smiled. “I really appreciate all your help. I couldn’t have managed breakfast without you.”

  Again, he nodded. My pleasure. She had taken to reading his expressive face the way she did her dog.

  A few awkward moments later spent gazing, gaga, at each other, Ruckert touched the brim of his hat and addressed Jorge. “Well, looks like you’ve got everything well in hand here, little buckaroo. I believe I will be going, then. On my way out, I’ll ring the farm bell to call the hands to chuck.”

  “Would you mind sticking around?” Shelby asked.

  Ruckert’s eyes narrowed in question, and Shelby explained. “I wouldn’t mind some emotional support.”

  Another nod and he stepped outside to ring the bell.

  When he returned, Shelby handed him a fresh cup of coffee and one of her baking powder biscuits. Ruckert retired quietly to the back of the cookhouse by the checkerboard. He chomped into the biscuit, biting it in half. He chewed slowly for a moment, as though testing its flavor, then saluted her with the remaining half, his mustache crooked in an encouraging grin.

  One by one the punchers filed in. They were younger than she’d expected, from late teens to early twenties, a bit ragged around the edges and full of lean angles, but surprisingly clean and fresh-faced. Wind and sun had burned their complexions, and hard work had toughened their bodies, but the innocence of youth shone in their eyes.

  They regarded her with gawking expressions, full of wonder and uncertainty. A few nodded shyly in greeting, but none spoke. She noted their surprise at Ruckert’s presence and Ruckert’s restlessness as he observed them. They called hello, greeting “Hoss Man” and in a tone which rang with a definite air of respect. The older, more confident of the punchers sauntered in with a bowlegged step and held toward the rear. Most had removed their hats and stood waiting for direction.

  “Have a seat, gentlemen. Breakfast is served,” Shelby said, trying to put everyone at ease. She poured cups of coffee to be passed along as they gathered around the table.

  Teaching high school students these past fourteen years, the scenario was familiar. The schoolmarm inside her found her footing. She felt in control. For unlike the prospect of a music lesson, she held these cowboys’ attention with one of the greatest preoccupations of a young man’s life. Food.

  Jorge growled from beneath the long dining table, grrr . . .rrr, then rumbled low in his throat and spat out a succession of sharp, high-pitched barks.

  The punchers started in surprise, some spilling their hot coffee as they searched for the source of the disturbance.

  Shelby chuckled as she filled another mug with coffee. “That’s my dog, Jorge. He’s under the table with a biscuit, and he’s growling because he thinks someone will try to take it away from him. To be perfectly honest, he’s daring someone to take it away from him. My advice to you, ignore him. Once he’s figured out a way to provoke you, he’ll never give you a moment’s peace.”

  The punchers lifted the oilcloth and ducked their heads for a look.

  “I don’t see nothin’,” one cowboy muttered.

  “There,” said another. “See his little black eyes gleaming over by Ham Sanders’ boot? Reckon that’s your breakfast he’s eating, Ham?”

  The punchers laughed.

  “He don’t look big enough to be a dog, but if it’s a fight he wants, he picked the right man, hey, Ham?” called another heckler, which stirred up a second round of laughter.

  From the shadows, Ruckert moved to stand over the seated punchers, a mighty tall oak towering over a bunch of green saplings. He lowered his tin cup to the table with a bang, the look on his face saying it all. Hoss Man was not amused.

  The punchers straightened in their seats. All signs of amusement faded from their faces. Humbled, they turned to Shelby and nodded their apologies.

  Ruckert returned to leaning against the far wall and folded his arms over his chest. Shelby couldn’t figure him out. Who was this strange man? This handsome, sexy, rugged cowboy, full of buried emotion, who communicated without words and came to the rescue of defenseless animals and women in distress?

  She shook off the questions and forced her attention back to the punchers. Stepping to the head of the table, she greeted them with a smile. “Don’t worry, guys. There’s plenty more where that biscuit came from. But first, I’d like to introduce myself. I’m Shelby McCoy. You all can call me Shelby. I’ll be your cook these next three weeks, and as you’ve probably heard, I’m Cookie’s niece. Word is, he’s quite the cook. I can’t promise meals as good as his, but I’ll sure try my best to make his absence as bearable as possible.”

  And hopefully, Cookie wouldn’t return earlier than expected and expose her for the fraud she was.

  She strode across the kitchen area to where the list of “Wholesome Rules” hung on the wall and tapped her spoon against the list. “And as Cookie’s niece, I’ll expect you to continue to abide by his rules. In addition, I’ve added a few more ‘Laws of the Cookhouse’ which I suggest you familiarize yourself with once you’ve finished breakfast.”

  That said, she returned to her glum and somewhat baffled-looking audience. “Now, let’s go around the table and you all can tell me your names.”

  Shelby felt the heat of a glare from across the room. Ruckert gave her a cross look that seemed to inquire, What are you doing? The corners of his mustache tugged down around his sexy lower lip and his brow creased. Shelby acknowledged his concern and flashed him a smart wink. Don’t worry. I can handle this.

  She gestured to the cowhand seated nearest to her. “Let’s start with you. What’s your name?”

  The young puncher exchanged a desperate glance with a
co-worker beside him. He hauled himself to his feet, an obvious chore that seemed to drag on for a full minute.

  “Fred Russell . . . ma’am.”

  Fred reeked of cheap tobacco. He had the narrowest set of shoulders Shelby had ever seen. His charcoal gray shirt, woven in a checkered pattern, he wore buttoned all the way up to his throat.

  Fred stuffed his fingers into the waistband of his faded black trousers and rocked back on his heels. As he lifted his narrow face, his dark, close-set eyes met Shelby’s gaze for the first time. “From Santa Fe—”

  A low, feral growl from under the table cut him off, and Fred glanced down, as did the others. He lifted his gaze and continued, “New Mexico Territory, ma’am,” then reseated himself.

  “New Mexico, great. Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Fred.”

  Shelby pointed to the young cowboy friend Fred had exchanged looks with earlier. “And you?” she asked. This cowboy had not removed his hat, and it sat far back on his forehead. Waves of thick, sandy hair stuck out from under the brim.

  He stood and greeted her with a small bow. “John Hirsig, Miss McCoy. Folks call me Rudy. You’re welcome to do likewise.”

  Unlike Fred, Rudy was not bashful to meet her gaze, and Shelby felt encouraged. He had a sweet, full face and sparkling hazel eyes. Hands folded before him, he spoke in a soft drawl. “Born and raised in Taos, ma’am. Fact is, my ma still makes her home there with my three sisters. It was in Seventy-Seven, I met up with Fred on a cattle drive passin’ through Santa Fe, and we been the closest kind o’ friends ever since. We’ve moved cattle for outfits all through New Mexico Territory and Texas before workin’ our way up to the Flying Eagle. And, why, ma’am, if I’d a-knowed there’d be such good chuck and hosses here in Wyomin’, I woulda hightailed it up north a long time ago, you bet! The chuck I credit to Cookie, and the hosses, well. . . .”