by Lisa Norato
Rudy jerked a thumb in Ruckert’s direction. “Hoss Man’s the reason the Flyin’ Eagle’s got a reputation for bein’ one of the best outfits in Wyomin’. Take my hoss, Hogan. He’s the finest carver there is. Just you ask Hoss Man. He’ll tell ya. He can tell ya lots of things ‘bout hosses. He studies the way they move. He can sense what they’re thinking and how they’re feeling. To hear him explain it, all animals, all life, share the same force. Somethin’ to do with God and nature and how our spirits are—”
The door slammed loudly. Everyone turned toward the disturbance. Hoss Man had left the building.
A ruddy faced, auburn-bearded puncher rose slowly to his feet to address the dumbstruck Rudy. He was older than most of the others and the hardiest looking of the bunch. “I distinctly heard the lady say she wanted to ken a wee somethin’ aboot ourselves. Ye shou’nae be bringin’ Hoss Man into the matter, Rudy, lad.”
The beefy Scotsman grinned at Shelby with small white teeth and an apology in his eye. “Ye’ll find ye no’ be gettin’ much in the way of conversation from Hoss Mon. Ye dinna ask questions of the mon, lass. He prefers to keep to himself, he does, but if there’s somethin’ he wants ye tae ken—dinna worry, he’ll tell ye in his own time.”
“I see. Well, thank you for setting me straight, Mr.—?”
“Duncan,” the red-bearded puncher said. “Duncan MacDonnell. I mean nae disrespect, lass. But I’m thinkin’ our breakfast on the stove yonder grows cold as a dogie’s nose. Why, if I thought I could squeeze oonder this table, I’d wrestle that half-chewed biscuit from yer wee dog.”
The punchers enjoyed a collective chuckle while Shelby remained temporarily distracted by something Rudy had said. He’ll tell ya. He can tell ya lots of things ‘bout hosses.
Now, how could Hoss Man tell her anything, if Hoss Man didn’t speak to humans? Except perhaps to whisper while their backs were turned. Obviously, though, Ruckert conversed with Rudy and Mr. MacDonnell and the other cowhands. Shelby was beginning to see clearly that it was her and her alone that had Ruckert tongue-tied. And he was keeping silent because there was something he didn’t want her to know. Now what could that something be?
Hmmm, curious. Very curious. But then, what wasn’t curious about Ruckert St. Cloud?
In all her torturous dating experience, no relationship had ever seemed so hopeless, or so potentially this good. No man had ever been this cool, or so hot. No situation this awkward, or this exhilarating.
Forcing herself back to the moment, Shelby saw the punchers were smiling and joined in their laughter. Now that Duncan MacDonell had voiced the collective sentiment of the group, Shelby would have expected everyone to make a beeline for the food, but they politely kept their seats.
“All right, guys. I get the message. Grab your plates and step on up to the cookstove. We’ll finish the introductions another time.”
What had she been thinking to stand between a group of hard-working cowboys and their first meal of the day? This wasn’t high school, and she wasn’t their teacher. No, after this morning, Shelby felt more like the student. In fact, she found she was learning something new every moment.
* * *
Ruckert saddled Chongo and rode north for the open range where the Flying Eagle’s wild ranch horses grazed. He rode at full gallop into the wind, but try as he might, he could not escape the frustrated rage that’d been festering inside him since his hasty departure from the cookhouse.
He pulled Chongo up on the crest of the saddleback and cantered along the ridge, searching for the herd. Hundreds of mustangs roamed the unfenced range of Wyoming Territory. The Flying Eagle was home to its own range stallion and herd, bearing the “Flying-E” brand, a capital E with wings.
Ruckert breathed deeply of the clear mountain air until it filled his lungs. The ease with which Miss McCoy and those boys had conversed reminded him of his own inadequacy, and the need to escape had choked his confidence to where he could scarcely draw breath.
But up here, there was nothing to torment him. Only the singing wind, voluminous clouds and blowing grass.
His gaze swept the endless plains, which, at this elevation, extended over a hundred miles. Directly below lay a great, green valley of the finest tubular grasses in the country.
And there, in a pasture over fifteen miles away, he spotted them. Nothing more than a bunch of black specks, but for a fact, Ruckert knew those specks to be Barklay, the range stallion and his herd of mares.
A deep swell of pride and love hit him square in the chest.
Royal blood flowed through the veins of these small, hardy horses. With bloodlines from the Arab and the Barb, they were descended from horses of the Spanish conquistadores who’d brought them to Mexico during the sixteenth century. Over the years, they’d increased and spread across the great plains, then northward to the high tablelands of Wyoming.
Rudy Hirsig’s little bay gelding, Hogan, had been bred from this herd, as had all the boys’ horses. They were intelligent, quick to develop cow-sense, and each with its own individual personality and markings. Somehow these ponies knew just what a cow would do next. They made a man a better cowboy. They shared his life and his work, and above all, made for a loyal partner and companion.
“Just you ask Hoss Man,” Rudy had told Miss McCoy.
Everyone in that room knew Hoss Man avoided women because of his busted talk box. Everyone except Shelby. She did not suspect his flaw nor savvy how unattractive it could get.
But for an hour or so, Ruckert had enjoyed the companionship of a beautiful woman. He’d kissed her. Briefly, pride was forgotten and passion had fueled his tongue, and he’d spoken without stuttering. What heaven.
He admired the way she challenged him at every turn. Unlike most folks, she wasn’t put off by his ominous silences or icy stares. She spoke her mind, and in so doing, had put a crack in the protective shell of his pride.
He was ready to chuck up his good sense and start spooning her like a regular gentleman caller. Maybe at last he’d found the woman he could be his true self with, a woman to love and cherish, who would care for him in return, the way God designed love to be.
But would any woman love the real Ruckert St. Cloud? Frankly, no woman had ever known the real Ruckert St. Cloud. When a man is unable to speak regular, he can never reveal the person inside for fear he might stutter. A fellow could hide other handicaps, but not his speech. And Ruckert knew in hiding his stuttering, he was also hiding himself.
The hatred he had built up over the years for his stuttering returned. He didn’t want Miss McCoy to regard him as a weirdo. He wanted her to see him as a whole man.
* * *
Chickens clucked in the yard outside. Warm, golden sunshine streamed through the window pane, and the scent of fresh brewed coffee and baked bread wafted through the kitchen.
Shelby sat on a low stool at one corner of the large worktable, munching on the crusty heel of a warm loaf. Usually, breakfast was a bowl of microwaved oatmeal with almond milk, but here she sat, devouring homemade bread and buttered eggs. Rose, in her flour-dusted apron, punched down her third batch of risen dough.
“Mmm, that smells good,” came a bass voice from the back door.
“Howdy, son,” Rose called over her shoulder as Ruckert strode inside and grabbed a cup off a nearby shelf. He poured himself coffee from the pot on the stove.
“Shelby’s been telling me what a help you were to her in the cookhouse this morning.” Rose jerked her head at where Shelby sat quietly chewing and added, “I’m proud of you, son.”
Ruckert paused with the cup halfway to his lips. Once his surprise at seeing her there had worn off, he nodded cautiously in greeting.
“You disappeared in a hurry,” Shelby tossed out in hopes of an explanation. She challenged Ruckert with her stare. He met her stare, but said nothing.
To Rose, Shelby clarified, “One of the punchers had just been praising Ruckert’s skill with the horses.”
“Ruckert’s never bee
n comfortable talking about himself, and even more so when it’s others doing the talking,” Rose remarked without glancing up from her kneading, mumbling as an afterthought, “He’s just not comfortable talking, period.”
* * *
Ruckert swallowed his mouthful of black coffee. He wanted to tell Shelby himself why he was the way he was.
He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth to get his talk box ready to utter the necessary sounds, but it just stuck there, then seemed to swell to three times its size until it felt like a sock wadded up inside his mouth.
He’d never actually had to come out and explain his problem. Stuttering had always been a hazard of conversation.
One misspoken word and Shelby would learn of his secret torment. One misspoken word, a bad block, and her desirous stare would turn to one of revulsion.
All things considered though, for once in his life, Ruckert wondered if maybe stuttering wasn’t something he needed to do.
Chapter Eleven
Later in the afternoon, Charley and Shorty sought Shelby out with an offer to help prepare the punchers’ evening meal.
They taught her a few tricks of the trade, and in the process, Shelby learned nothing impacted a cowhand’s job performance more than the skill of the ranch cook. Not the outfit he worked for, not the horses he rode, not the wages he earned. It all came down to the grub. A well-fed cowboy was a happy cowboy, and a happy cowboy was an efficient worker.
Nothing like working under pressure. But with their help, Shelby served yet another meal without complaint. Then she retired to her room. She was done in, but she carried the satisfaction of having successfully tackled her first day on the job.
The sky had begun to darken. Stretched across her bed on her stomach, Shelby watched the sun descend like an orange fireball behind the Medicine Bow Range. The evergreen foothills shimmered in a twilight haze of turquoise and deep purple heather, while a gentle breeze from the open window caressed her face.
She felt drowsy and was tempted to nap, when Jorge gave a high-pitched, inquiring bark.
There, on the green two stories below, Ruckert walked with Monroe the half-blind hound. Poised beside her, Jorge bristled with excitement, straining to see. A pair of deer had just emerged from the wood.
“Remember to use your inside voice,” she whispered.
Jorge contained himself to a low, throaty growl.
Shelby positioned herself for a better view and joined him in spying on Ruckert.
The doe separated herself from her partner to trail after him. Ruckert turned to shoo her away. She balked and shook her head. She rounded her back and stomped her forefeet. He shrugged, and Shelby noted the resignation in his body language as Ruckert continued his walk with Monroe, wild deer following, until the entire group rounded a corner and disappeared from view.
Talk about your animal attraction. It seemed Hoss Man was capable of communicating with any living creature but her. And yet something about that wacko hunk of manhood made her feel excited to be a woman. Go figure.
Maybe she’d ask him to go riding. Maybe, while she was at it, she’d have him escort her to the county road for one more look around. Why? she asked herself. Why search for something that clearly wasn’t there? Her abandoned SUV was back in the present and had probably been towed by now.
A couple of things she knew. Well, she didn’t know anything. She merely had a feeling. She had the feeling her purpose here was connected to Ruckert, and she believed that if she were ever going to see home again, it would happen on that road.
And if she were stuck in the nineteenth century forever?
Well, it wasn’t so, so bad, really. Her greatest concern was not being able to communicate with Caitlin and the rest of her family to let them know she was okay.
Scooting off the bed, Shelby dressed for dinner in a white petticoat and her brown gingham dress. She applied a light dusting of blusher to her cheeks and mascara to her upper lashes. Just enough to enhance her features without anyone being able to detect she was wearing makeup.
Downstairs she followed the smell of country home cooking to the kitchen. Rose stood before the stove, lifting the lid off a large Dutch oven. A delicious, savory aroma filled the room.
Shelby had spent all day cooking, yet had absolutely no appetite for her own food, but let someone else prepare the meal, and suddenly her stomach was ready to growl.
“What’s for supper, Rose? It smells yummy.”
Rose turned, her startled expression brightening into a smile as her gaze fell on Shelby. “Oh, don’t you look lovely. Come see,” she invited, indicating the pot with her head.
Shelby lowered Jorge to the floor before joining Rose. Inside the Dutch oven, a large pot roast simmered in a thick, rich gravy surrounded by carrots and onions. She inhaled the scent. “Ah, comfort food, and if anyone’s in need of comfort, it’s me. What can I do to help?”
“Oh, no, dear, you’ve already helped plenty. Dinner’s nearly ready. I have only to drop some dumplings in to boil. Won’t you go in the parlor and play me something pretty?” Her tone sharpened as she added pointedly, “You’ll not be disturbed this time.”
Tempting, Shelby thought. She hesitated, having no desire to get her fingers smashed. But with assurances from both Rose and Ruckert that it was okay to use the piano, she agreed. “All right, I will. I’ll play you something pretty, something I know you’ve never heard before.”
Jorge trailed her into the parlor, nails clicking softly on the floorboards. Shelby took a seat on the plush stool and carefully lifted the keyboard lid, wondering again what could have caused Ruckert to stop playing.
This time she paused to study the two tintypes displayed on top of the upright. One was a likeness of a much younger Rose and Charley, seated side-by-side with straight backs, hands folded in their laps and a bare hint of amusement on their expressions. They looked to be holding back a smile.
A smile, her sister once explained, was considered unfashionable in the early days of photography. For something as special as a likeness, a serious, formal expression was more appropriate.
The second tintype held an image of an elderly woman Shelby had never seen before. She wore a black gown and a feathered hat, and sat in the midst of three young boys—Ruckert, Holden and a fair-haired child. Their small heads were greased and slicked. They stood solemn-faced, the two younger boys on one side of her chair, Ruckert on the other.
No mystery solved there. Shelby pushed them from her thoughts and put her fingers to the keys. She played Jim Brickman, then mellowed out with some Harry Connick, Jr. Jazz hadn’t come into its own until the first quarter of the twentieth century, but somehow, jazz felt right at dusk with daylight fading.
As the music took over, Shelby ceased to be distracted by her surroundings. She didn’t hear the footsteps on the porch and was vaguely aware of someone entering the house. Only when she sensed she was being watched did she turn. She smiled at Wylie. He gave her a shy nod, then shot off towards the back of the house, where Shelby could hear Rose putting supper on the table. He hollered, “He’s here, Mother! Hugh’s come home early.”
Curiosity threw Shelby off key and she missed a note, then another as the bottom half of the Dutch door crashed open and a sandy-haired cowboy clopped in.
He was the dirtiest man she’d even seen, covered in dust from head to foot. His longish hair stuck out at odd angles from beneath his hat. Light brown whiskers hugged his jaw and upper lip. He paused to study her a moment, then broke into a grin.
“Evening,” he greeted. As he reached up to touch his hat brim, dust swirled in the air about him.
Shelby had totally forgotten the song she’d been playing. Jorge sauntered forward, tail swaying. They both recognized the person beneath all that dirt and hair.
The impish grin within those crinkly brown eyes. A small mole about an inch from the corner of his right eye. Never had Shelby been greeted by a more welcomed sight.
“Oh,” she moaned, at a los
s to express her surprise. Relief, joy, brought tears to her eyes, and through her watery gaze, she watched the cowboy nod to her and say, “Don’t quit playing on account of me.”
Shelby shook her head at him affectionately then rose to greet the man who’d come to save her when she’d thought the whole world had gone nuts.
“Michael,” she whispered just before she ran and threw herself into his arms. “Thank God, it’s you.”
Michael’s familiar chuckle rang in her ear. She didn’t even care that he stank of rank stock animals. She barely noticed the fact his strong hands squeezed her waist in an unusually intimate hold for her brother-in-law.
“You must be Miss McCoy,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “Always the practical joker.”
He laughed. “You’ve got my number there.”
As she pulled back from his embrace, Shelby noticed Ruckert had entered the house. He glared quizzically at her, his mouth a sneer beneath the mustache.
“What’s the matter with you?” she snapped.
Michael turned, and when he saw Ruckert’s sour expression, his hand slipped from her waist. He stepped back, and in that instant, Shelby could tell something was horribly wrong.
She saw no recognition in Michael’s eyes.
“Pleased to meet you, Shelby McCoy. Every bit as pleased as you seem about meeting me, but the name’s Hugh. I’ve heard plenty about you. Some of it good and some of it . . . er, interesting.”
Did he say Hugh? Shelby looked to Ruckert, confused, and he nodded, confirming it was true. “This is my brother, Hugh St. Cloud.”
Rose and Wylie watched from the dining area. “We heard you shout and came to see,” Rose explained.
The extremely tall Shorty emerged from the back of the house and glanced over the befuddled faces of his family. “What’d I miss?”
Embarrassment warmed Shelby’s face. Hugh St. Cloud? How could this man be Hugh St. Cloud? He was the spitting image of Michael Ketchum, her sister’s husband. She looked deep into his eyes and asked stupidly, “You mean you don’t know me?”