Where Eagles Fly

by Lisa Norato

  He hesitated, thrown by her question, then drew his brows together and returned her searching gaze as though he thought if he looked hard enough, he might recognize her.

  “I think I’d remember meeting you. But I wouldn’t be opposed to getting more acquainted once I’ve had a bath.”

  Jorge stepped forward to sniff Michael’s boots. Er, Hugh. No, Michael. She was almost sure of it. But her Pomeranian’s tail no longer wagged, and Shelby sensed he was feeling as uncertain as she.

  “Are you positive you don’t know who I am? C’mon, please tell me this is just another of your pranks.”

  “I have been known to do some monkeying around. But I wouldn’t razz a lady, and presently my exhausted state will not allow for much gaff. I’m sorry. I am not Michael, and if you don’t believe me, feel free to ask my ma and pa standing over there.”

  He gestured to his parents. Charley had joined the onlookers and was smoothing his salt-and-pepper mustache thoughtfully. Then Holden entered the parlor sipping from a coffee mug and rendered the family gathering complete.

  “There seems to be a whole heap of tension in this room,” Hugh observed, “and I don’t rightly understand why.”

  “Maybe Miss McCoy wouldn’t mind explaining why that is.” Ruckert’s deep voice echoed in the stillness.

  “I remember now,” Rose interjected on what sounded like a sigh of relief. “Michael Ketchum, yes. You asked me whether I knew someone by the name of Ketchum yesterday morning, isn’t that right, dear?” As she approached, she took Shelby’s hand.

  Shelby noticed the men’s expressions relaxing. All except for Ruckert, who had grown very intense. Somewhere in the back of her mind it registered he’d actually been addressing her, but she had too much going on inside her head to react.

  She nodded, unable to get over the resemblance. “Uh-huh, but . . . he looks. . . .” turning to Hugh, she insisted, “You could be him, you know. You could be Michael.”

  Minus the beard and grime, Hugh was a dead ringer for her brother-in-law, not only in appearance, but in his facial expressions and posture.

  “Is this Michael Ketchum your beau, Miss McCoy?” Hugh inquired.

  “No, Michael Ketchum is my sister’s husband, and I thought—”

  “You always greet your sister’s husband that way?”

  “Wylie.” Rose hushed her son with a look.

  Holden chuckled behind his coffee mug, disguising his smile but not the dimple.

  “I’m sorry. I know this seems strange to you all, but, you see, I’d been expecting to meet my sister and her husband when I first arrived here, and when Hugh walked through the door just now, I thought, well. . . .” Shelby shrugged in embarrassment, a gesture of apology. “I was mistaken, obviously.”

  And so a quick reminder of her surroundings confirmed. This whole, other-worldly, alternate-reality experience hadn’t been orchestrated by her brother-in-law for a laugh. This was no joke. This was the nineteenth century.

  “Well, we won’t speak of it again,” Rose said with a finality to end further discussion.

  “Fine by me,” Hugh quickly agreed. “I say we quit this jawing and go make ourselves a feast of Ma’s cooking. I’ve got a hunger in my belly that’s burning a hole down into my boots.”

  Rose smiled. “You go on now, Hugh, and get cleaned up.” Reaching up, she cupped his bristly cheek. “It’s good to have you home, son.”

  With a wink, Hugh drew away and headed for the staircase, while everyone else made for the big plank table laden with food. Halfway up the stairs, Hugh paused to lean over the balustrade. “Tell you what, Miss McCoy. Have a seat next to mine at the table, and I’ll be happy to look at you some more so’s there’ll be no mistaking you next time we meet.”

  “Go on, Hugh,” Rose admonished in an affectionate, longsuffering tone.

  Holden started to chuckle, which got everyone laughing, all except for the surly Ruckert who, surprise of surprises, had followed the family into the dining room.

  As everyone moved to take their places, it looked as though the St. Cloud dinner table would be full at last. Rose, for one, looked pleased, and Charley announced, “This calls for a drink. I’m going to open us up a bottle of wine.”

  Wine, excellent. Shelby could do with a glass or two.

  As she took her seat beside Wylie, the boy darted her a wary glance as one might a recent escapee from the looney bin. Ruckert, meanwhile, sank his tall frame into the chair directly opposite. He studied her with a look that seemed to suggest, I will get the truth out of you one way or another.

  The truth? That was a laugh. All the hoopla he’d made talking to animals and whispering in her ear, pretending he had some legitimate reason for his weird silences, when clearly he spoke just fine.

  Tucking back her hair behind one ear, Shelby turned from him and waited for Charley to return with the wine. When at last all were seated and ready to eat, she followed the lead of the St. Cloud’s and bowed her head for grace, but to her surprise, it was not Charley’s voice she heard.

  “Thank you, Lord, for this our food and our many blessings. Most especially that we are together. Thank you for bringing Hugh home safe and for sending us Miss McCoy, who has been a big help.”

  “Amen,” proclaimed Charley.

  “Amen,” echoed the others.

  Shelby lifted her head and ran smack into Ruckert’s gaze from across the table. His eyes smiled with a tenderness that filled her with longing, and she was regretful of her previous harsh thoughts.

  Conversation began with Holden. “You know, Pa, we should start thinking about a short roundup to get the early spring calves branded. Before the cattle has time to scatter over the range. We could finish in two days if’n we push the herd toward Grandpa St. Cloud’s old cabin. Those corrals are still in good shape.”

  From there, talk turned to cattle.

  Ruckert only half-listened to his family plan a roundup. He cut into the meat on his plate and chewed on more than beef.

  Let the truth be known, he resolved. Pride had kept him silent, but silence wouldn’t win him Miss Shelby McCoy. Oddity that she was, she had his heartstrings tied up in knots. Something in his gut wouldn’t let him be, as though some power greater than his own will drew him to her. The best he could hope was that she’d accept him, stutter and all. Thing was, up till this moment he hadn’t stuttered. That was good. What wasn’t so good was the tension of anticipating when it would happen, because as surely as he breathed, it’d happen.

  Hugh returned in due time, looking like a new man. Clean-shaven, slicked-back wet hair and a fresh set of duds. Despite the circles of exhaustion beneath his eyes, he smiled as he took the empty seat between their father at the head of the table and Shelby.

  Talk of cattle resumed, along with Hugh’s recounting of the general roundup.

  “Why do you stare at her like that?” Wylie asked Hugh during a break in conversation.

  Ruckert had noticed it, too. He felt satisfied in the belief Hugh had no romantic designs on Shelby, any more than Shelby had an interest in Hugh, other than mistaking him for her relation. It was all part of the mystery surrounding her.

  “I’m still trying to figure if’n she looks familiar,” Hugh said.

  Charley reached for another biscuit. “I thought you swore you’d never met Miss McCoy.”

  “That’s right,” Shorty agreed. “She thought you were someone else, only you’re not that fellow, so what makes you think you know her?”

  Hugh scowled thoughtfully at his plate. “Oh, I don’t know. Six weeks on the trail has left me more dead than alive, and she got me confused.” He shoved a chunk of beef into his mouth and chewed as though he would say no more.

  Ruckert rumbled with quiet laughter.

  Shelby eyed him indignantly before addressing his brother. “Are you married, Hugh?” She didn’t see a ring.

  Ruckert coughed, choking on a mouthful of food. Shelby darted him a glance to check he was okay, while Hugh turned to he
r with amused interest and the slight blush of flattery. He lay down his fork, swallowed. “No, ma’am, I’m not.”

  “Any special lady friend?” Not to pry, but Shelby was thinking of her sister. She was still mystified at being seated next to the physical incarnation of Michael Ketchum living in the century before he’d been born. And if a clone of Michael, why not one of Caitlin?

  Hugh shook his head. “No, ma’am.” Her questions seemed to be embarrassing him. And may have brought embarrassment down upon herself, judging from the raised eyebrows directed her way. She reached for her wine glass and took a gulp.

  Holden’s chuckles dispelled the awkwardness. “Hugh, there’s one thing you are bound to notice about Miss McCoy. She’s her own woman, with her own ideas about things.”

  He winked at Shelby, and she realized he was quoting from Nana Tinkler’s letter. “And if she appears a little strange at times. . . .” He paused to whisper, “No offense ma’am,” before telling Hugh, “Well, you just rest easy that you are in the company of an educated, honest and well-brought up young lady.”

  Holden leaned back in his seat and nodded to his younger brother. “So don’t get the notion Miss McCoy has taken a liking to you because of what she may say. Miss McCoy is just being Miss McCoy. She’s curious and not shy of voicing her thoughts. She’s got her new dress on tonight, but it’s not for you she’s wearing it.” He jerked his head at Ruckert, seated on his left.

  “Oh?” Hugh’s light brown brows shot upward. “Heavens, you don’t say,” he drawled, looking from Shelby to Ruckert, who was busy devouring the food on his plate.

  “Wait till you see the new additions Miss McCoy has made to Cookie’s cookhouse laws,” Shorty informed Hugh. “I had myself a regular chuckle over them, but I won’t say no more so I don’t spoil the fun for you.”

  “And if you boys think Miss McCoy looks pretty tonight, wait until she wears the new dress I’m planning to sew her,” Rose added. “We’ll get started measuring you tomorrow, dear,” she told Shelby.

  Charley told Hugh, “Miss McCoy has promised to fry us up a batch of her grandmother’s potato doughnuts.”

  Turning in his seat, Hugh slung an arm over the back of his chair and addressed Shelby. “Well, it appears my family thinks mighty highly of you, Miss McCoy, and here you’ve only been at the Flying Eagle a day. And did I hear Holden right? He said you were educated. Where did you go to school?”

  “I studied music at the University of Denver.”

  “Music. I can savvy that. That was no ordinary piano playing I heard.”

  Shelby bit her bottom lip and nodded. “Yes. Those pieces are, er, fairly modern and aren’t well known yet. Do you know music, Hugh?”

  “I did take a course in music while I studied at Northeastern University.”

  “Really, you went to Northeastern?” Shelby was amazed, then realized she had jumped to the same stereotypical conclusion about cowboys as they had done about her being a woman.

  “That’s wonderful.” She’d once dated an economics major from Northeastern. She almost asked Hugh if he knew Jim Coleman, before she remembered Jim Coleman hadn’t been born yet. Jim Coleman’s grandfather hadn’t been born yet.

  “Holden and I both graduated from there, and Shorty’ll be starting at the new University of Wyoming in Laramie when it opens next year.”

  “You all are full of surprises.”

  Shelby beamed at Shorty, then turned to Ruckert, curious as to where he’d studied, when Wylie announced, “Ruckert’s got a new horse.”

  By his pointed tone, Shelby suspected there was something deliberate about his quick change of subject.

  “A new horse?” Hugh mused dryly. “Now there’s news you don’t hear every day.”

  Wylie recounted Ruckert’s latest rescue, and from there discussion turned to naming the filly.

  “Mr. Farthing suggested we should call her Mabel,” Wylie told his brother, “but Ruckert said no. He’s always told me, it takes time to name a horse. You’ve got to observe her to pinpoint that something special that sets her apart, so’s every time you call, the sound of her name speaks to the individual she is. Ruckert’s asked us all, and Mother thought maybe Pepper might be a good name.”

  With a shake of his head, Wylie screwed his face into a puzzled frown. “But that’s not right either. He was hoping to ask you, Miss McCoy.”

  After popping a last forkful of beef in his mouth, Ruckert smiled at her with those straight white teeth, admiring her beneath thick black lashes.

  Shelby’s own smile took off on autopilot.

  “So, ask me,” she invited.

  He chewed, his eyes sparkling with pleasure.

  “I have been a-wondering,” he said at length, “whether you had any th-thoughts as to what w-we shshshshsh—”

  Shelby tensed at the strain on Ruckert’s face. He could no longer speak, his breathing obviously inhibited. An instant ago he’d been fine. Then he’d taken that last bite of roast, and now a vein was starting to bulge in his neck. Was he choking?

  Oh, no, he was choking. Something had lodged in her throat, too. Her heart. “You okay?” she asked.

  Ruckert answered with a look of desperation, and Shelby appealed to the table as a whole. But as she glanced at the St. Cloud faces, she was not met with the fret and worry she’d expected. They were unmoved. Charley was sopping up the remaining gravy on his plate with a biscuit.

  “I think Ruckert may be choking!”

  “It’ll pass,” Wylie assured her.

  Shelby reeled with disbelief. “No, I think we need to do something.” She used her firm, insistent, high school administrator voice and beseeched them.

  Holden frowned, sadly. “If’n there was something we could do, believe you me, we would have done it long ago.”

  They’re all nuts. She moaned, feeling the weight of responsibility fall heavily on her own shoulders. In fairness, she reminded herself that no one else here was certified in CPR, trained in first aid to spot the warning signs of a choking victim in distress.

  She jumped to her feet. If she’d thought traveling through time had been a nightmare, well, it was nothing compared to the terror filling her now.

  Rose waved her off. “It’s best if you don’t draw attention to it, dear.”

  Ruckert was now desperately trying to tell her something, and Shelby’s heart ached for him, imagining the pain of an obstructed windpipe, of not being able to breathe while precious seconds ticked by and family members refused to interrupt their meal.

  She made her way around the table. She hadn’t become a school teacher without proper training in emergency procedures and keeping up on her certification.

  “What are you going to do, dear?” Rose asked, and for the first time Shelby heard a modicum of concern from a St. Cloud.

  Ruckert was so stunned he didn’t resist as she urged him to his feet. Shelby didn’t know how she would have lifted him otherwise. She secured her hands tightly in a double fist beneath his rib cage, just above where she imagined his navel to be, embarrassed for noticing the awesome tightness of his abs.

  Then she squeezed for all she was worth. One good thrust, upwards and inward into the middle of his flat, solid abdomen.

  Ruckert exploded with a noise from deep in his throat that sounded very much like the word “should!”

  As his body relaxed in her arms, Shelby was tempted to hold on a bit longer and rest her cheek against his strong back. But, ah, sanity prevailed and she released him, then stepped back. Ruckert was breathing freely now, breathing heavily, glaring at her with a look of disbelief and agitation.

  His brothers erupted into gales of laughter.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Wh-what . . . were you t-t-trying to do?”

  “Duh. Save your life,” she cracked in a voice dry with sarcasm, but even as she spoke Shelby could find no evidence he’d so recently been struggling for air. All strain had disappeared from his face, and there seemed to be n
o soreness in his throat.

  She began to suspect she may have jumped the gun.

  “By breaking my ribs?” he accused.

  “Nooo, I wasn’t trying to break your ribs. That was a Heimlich Maneuver.”

  At his look of total incomprehension, she explained, “It’s a first aid technique used to stop someone from choking.”

  The laughter ceased, and in the silence, the St. Cloud family gaped, stupefied.

  “You weren’t choking, were you?” she asked Ruckert.

  Rage darkened his face like a thunderhead casting its shadow over the plains. He turned heel and quit the room. Moments later, the front door slammed.

  “First aid,” Hugh reflected. “Shucks, we’ve tried everything from pebbles under his tongue to lazerwort to lung-strengthening exercises, but not a one of us has ever thought to use first aid.” He chuckled and laughter rippled around the table until Charley silenced his sons.

  Hugh’s drivel made no sense to Shelby, except she understood she was being made fun of and it got her mad.

  “Would someone please mind explaining the joke to me?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Rose pushed herself from the scrubbed pine table and got to her feet. All eyes turned, and at her somber expression, the grins fell from her boys’ faces as thoroughly as if they’d never found Shelby’s faux pax amusing.

  Rose removed herself from their midst and started for the kitchen. “Come with me,” she called behind her.

  It was obvious to whom she was speaking. Shelby decided then, if any of this evening’s drama resulted in a clearer understanding of Ruckert St. Cloud, her present embarrassment would be well worth it.

  In the kitchen, she found Rose holding a bottle of brandy and reaching for two small glasses from the built-in cupboard. “This way,” she instructed with a jerk of her head.

  Shelby followed without comment from the kitchen to a small windowless office tucked underneath the hall staircase.

  As she entered behind Rose, she felt a tingle of foreboding, as though something important were about to transpire here, something to impact her profoundly.