Papa has left for good. He and Mama had another one of their ‘disagreements,’ this one going on for days. He said he was leaving and that he would take me with him, but I refused. I couldn’t leave Mama alone and she won’t go back to Indiana. As she said, she won’t return with her ‘tail between her legs,’ defeated as all her family said she would be. Papa said two women alone can’t make a go of it in this country and that we would soon return.
He kissed me goodbye before he departed and I suppose we’ve seen the last of him. Perhaps a girl should feel bad to see her father go away forever, but I feel only relief. I am not a person to enjoy constant discord and now it is very peaceful with just the two of us on the ranch. Papa would never acknowledge the fact that Mama and I have doing most of the work anyway since we first bought out the claim from the original settlers. We have shown that two women can do anything they want if they work at it.
I must admit, though, that there has been little time for anything else but caring for the garden and the chickens, the few head of cattle we own and, of course, my beloved horses. Mama insists on my studies in the evening, but there has been little time to write in this journal. I promise faithfully, however, that from now on I will make at least weekly entries. This journal is my message to my future self.
Edward stopped by for a while this evening. We sat in the living room while he helped me with my sums. Mama is having me keep the books for the ranch as a way of study so I am very aware of what a shoestring we are running our lives on, but we produce most of our own food and that for the animals and make enough to pay the taxes. Still it is a worry that is turning Mama old before her time and making my youth a time of concern. Mama says I have been required to grow up early, but sixteen is not that young. Many girls marry at sixteen or seventeen here on the prairie.
Marry? Lynne wished the writer had given more details about this Edward, the boy who had given her Salome, the mare she so treasured.
Chapter Four
Being seventy was not so different from being seventeen, Maud thought, taking a rare glance into the vanity mirror in her bedroom. Not until you took a good look at yourself.
She still felt full of juice and looked forward to each day that lay ahead. She still rode, still looked after cattle and horses, visited occasionally with her neighbors and wrote her books.
She was alone, of course, with all her family long gone, but she’d even learned to like the hours to herself when she didn’t have to worry about pleasing anyone else. There were so many interesting ways to fill the hours.
Only when she looked in the mirror she saw the old woman who had replaced her youthful face and form. The Maud of today was spare of body where the youngster had been slim. The features of her face were fined down, the shape long and lean like stone sculptured to its essence, the skin brown and wrinkled, showing long years of exposure to sun and wind.
Nobody would call her pretty, though they never had not even when she was seventeen. Edward had said she was striking. Mama said her face showed character. Back then she would have rather been beautiful. Now it didn’t matter much. She didn’t have to look frequently at her own face.
It was a little harder to get her body going in the morning. Old bones and joints ached at night, especially the knee she’d twisted years ago in a fall from her mare. Salome, dear Salome, she thought wistfully. It wasn’t only the people who were gone from your life that you missed.
It was her blessing and her curse that she could remember so clearly what it had been like to be seven and seventeen and even thirty seven. It was the writer’s gift, that terrible ability to remember and to be for moments at a time back there where she had lived before.
She’d learned long ago not to indulge these thoughts of past or future anywhere but in her writing. For her personally, it was today that counted and she had a whole lot to do on this particular Tuesday.
It wasn’t like Maud to waste so much time in the house after breakfast. Quickly she washed her cup and plate and hurried outside, putting on her hat as she went.
At four-thirty in the morning there wasn’t much need of that hat, but she wouldn’t have time to go back to the house when the sun came up and this summer day after day had been predictably hot and bright. When she was a girl, Mama had made her wear the bonnets she’d made herself, but as soon as she was old enough to choose for herself she’d gone to what she thought of as Texas cowboy hats. These hats didn’t enclose the face the way the bonnets had so that she could catch no breath of a breeze.
She loved early morning almost as much as she loved late at night. The outside world was cool and dark as she began her chores, a day full of promise. She woke the rooster up, as usual, and he began to crow even though the sun wasn’t peeping over the horizon yet. Sometimes she thought it embarrassed him not to be first up on the ranch.
She put out feed in the milking stanchion for the first of the three Jersey cows and while they munched, milked them one after another. After she released them to the pasture, she ran a little fresh water into the tank to fill it to the brim, than took enough milk for her daily needs to the house, putting it in a jar in the refrigerator.
Then she fed the young calves their share of their own mama’s milk and spilled some into the pan she kept for that purpose and watched while the three cats made their breakfast.
Her beloved old dog, Michelangelo, had died last winter and so far she hadn’t the heart to acquire another. She needed to do that soon, though, a dog was not only a companion, but mighty useful on the ranch. For most of her life, she’d kept a Collie, sometimes two, and greatly respected that breed for its intelligence, loyalty and herding abilities.
When the sun came up she loosed the chickens, letting them range around the farmyard where they would keep down the grasshoppers that liked to eat up all her greenery during a hot, dry summer. They’d get their grain tonight, but in the meantime they had to forage for themselves.
Some people said chickens were stupid, but Maud hadn’t found them to be so. She raised them for eggs. For the table she bought her meat in town these days, not liking to be personally acquainted with it. It hadn’t been like that in the old days, however, they wouldn’t have had food if they’d hadn’t raised it themselves.
Her favorite part was next. Val had been calling her from his stall for the last ten minutes, anxious to be out and about. The big gelding was a glossy black and greeted her with a mixture of feelings. He was distinctly annoyed that he’d had to wait so long to be loosed and tried to ignore her as she deserved. But Val was soft at heart underneath his bad boy exterior and, after eating the apple she had in her pocket just for him, he nosed her affectionately and stood patiently while she got him ready for their ride.
Her body was not quite as flexible as it used to be so these days she climbed up on the wooden corral fence and got into the saddle from there. She didn’t sigh for the old days when she could have leapt up there with little thought and less effort and tried to be grateful that at an age when many had taken to riding a rocking chair, she still could ride on Val’s back.
She would spend the morning riding the ranch, checking cattle to make sure all was well in their world, and visiting all her favorite spots until lunch time. At noon she would come back to the house to cook her biggest meal of the day, eat, wash dishes, then read and nap for a couple of hours, taking a siesta in the heat of the day.
When she awakened she would begin her writing day, working on her current novel until time for evening chores and then a light supper. Then she would watch the news on TV and maybe a favorite program or two. Afterwards she would read or write again until she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer.
This schedule was a reversal of her early years when she’d done her writing first thing and then went about the work of the farm. That had started when she’d lived with Mama and wanted privacy for her creative efforts. These days she was alone most all the time.
This morning didn’t go as expected, however. One of t
he Hereford cows was having trouble calving. She’d pulled many a calf in her time, but these days she called for help when the situation looked to be a troublesome one. She’d have to ride to the house to phone Edward’s great-nephew, who had set up a veterinarian practice near town. He’d either come himself or send one of his helpers.
She urged Val to a gallop as they raced toward the farm house.
Moss couldn’t help being surprised when he floated toward the surface again only to find he was still alive and hurting. Mentally he indulged in a few words chosen from the extensive vocabulary he’d developed during his early days in prison when he’d been working hard to convince hardened criminals that he wasn’t a man with whom it was wise to mess.
The people looking after him didn’t seem to notice whether he was there or not since he couldn’t as much as flicker an eyelash, but he could hear their voices, hazy and distant as though coming to him through a layer of insulation.
“Poor man and he was so handsome too. Maybe he’d be better off to just go ahead and die.”
“Some people think they can hear what’s being said around them,” an older voice reprimanded.
“I just can’t believe that,” the younger one responded. “You can tell by looking that even if that man woke up, he’d never be himself again. Just a vegetable. That’s all he’d be.”
“Mary Ann, please,” the older woman said. “Show a little sensitivity.”
“Well, I just think it’s an awful waste, a good-looking guy like that. I’ll bet his family is just devastated.”
“It doesn’t look as if he has family,” the gentle older voice sounded sad. “So far they haven’t been able to locate anyone.”
Moss felt indignant. “Hey,” he wanted to say. “I don’t need anybody. I’m doing just fine by myself.” Then he had to laugh silently. Yep, he was doing great all by himself. He only wished to see the young woman from last night just one more time.
He had no sense of floating this time. He didn’t look down on himself, didn’t move down hospital corridors, nor did he get a glimpse of motion across country. Instead he was suddenly and inexplicable inside the farmhouse where she lived.
He would have called her name if he’d known what it was. He resolved it would be the first thing he learned when he saw her again. Please, God, he would see her again.
He walked cautiously as he moved through the house so as not to startle her awake. In his eagerness it was hard to keep from running. There was the scent of coffee in the air, rich and delectable and he was grateful that he could smell it.
He looked into the bedroom, but she wasn’t there. The coverings on the bed were undisturbed so she hadn’t been sleeping and then gotten up. He wondered if she was having trouble going to sleep. Maybe she was as anxious as to whether he would come as he’d been about whether he’d be able to make the journey.
He looked in the kitchen and living room, passed by the bathroom where the door stood open and she wasn’t there either. Then he saw a tiny light in the little back bedroom that had been outfitted as a study. Good! She was at work studying the journals. Perhaps she would not mind a little interruption.
Stepping up his pace, he hurried down the hall and stood in the doorway, looking at a thin, gray-haired woman bent over an old Underwood typewriter such as he’d not seen since he was a very young boy. Everybody used laptops these days, even in the prison.
At first he felt indignation that she should be here in the young woman’s place, then he saw that she looked weary, her face tired and strained even as she focused intently on the work before her, lighted by a little lamp.
“Don’t just stand there,” she snapped in a voice that sounded rough with fatigue and accumulated years. “Come in and sit down.”
Instinctively he obeyed. There was a wooden, straight-backed chair of ancient vintage near the desk and he took his place there.
She glanced up, allowing her gaze to linger. “You’re new here. I haven’t seen you before.”
“No, ma’am,” he said, beginning to be amused in spite of himself. This woman didn’t seem to be bothered by strange happenings in the middle of the night. “Sorry to interrupt your work,” he added politely.
She raised her hands from the typewriter in a gesture of resignation. “No matter. It was a long day, but we saved the cow and the calf and I’m simply too tired to work on my book tonight.”
“You’re a writer then.” Feeling a little thick-headed, he finally put it together. “You’re the writer. Maud something or other.”
“Maud Bailey Sandford,” she agreed, sticking out her hand and to his surprise he was able to shake it.
“You can see me clearly?” he asked, frowning as he tried to figure things out.
“Quite clearly. My vision is still quite excellent in spite of my advanced years.”
“But she said I looked like a ghost to her. You know all dim and kind of foggy looking.”
“Nonsense. I don’t believe in ghosts. At least I’ve never seen one.”
“Then I look like a real person to you.”
She hesitated as though trying to find words to explain. “Not entirely,” she finally said, “It’s always like this when we visit across the mists. Clear enough, but different in a way I can’t explain.” Her wrinkled face stretched into a warming smile. “I’m quite sure you’re not just an ordinary house breaker, but one of my friends from across time. And if I don’t seem alarmed it’s because such visits have been fairly common in my years here as though this is one of those places where the barriers are quite thin and we can stretch across dimensions.”
When he still looked puzzled, “I was only a girl when I first saw them,” she went on in a kindly voice, like a teacher trying to enlighten a student. She closed her eyes as though encountering a pleasant memory. “It was Coronado and his band, Spaniards and their native guides looking for their cities of gold. I didn’t know who they were until I asked my mother. Of course she had to make it a history lesson, that was what Mama was like. Always the teacher.”
You saw Coronado? The conquistador?”
She nodded. “Through my bedroom window that first time. It was night inside but out where they were it was day time and raining. He wrote about it, you know, mentioned seeing the Antelope Hills. They’ve been a landmark since long before his time, you know.”
“Mrs. Sandford,” he said, stumbling to find the words. “Where are you?”
Her smile came again. “In my home on the ranch near the Antelope Hills. But you haven’t told me your name.”
“I’m Moss Caldecott and I’m really lying on a hospital bed not far from here, dying from a terrible accident.”
“Maybe,” she said with bright optimism, “You are only recovering.” She paused for thought. “Well, Moss, and when did this happen?”
“On a summer day in the year 2012. I’m almost thirty five years old and I’ve spent most of my life in prison for murder. I didn’t do it, but they only just figured that out and I’m supposing this time here is kind of a bonus for all the time that was stolen from me, a last gift before I die.”
She listened as though this was the most reasonable thing in the world. “But usually there’s some connection. People don’t just come here by accident.”
He shrugged. How could he be expected to know the answer.
She got to her feet. “I’ve had too much coffee trying to stay awake to work. How about I make us some hot cocoa?”
He was quite sure he couldn’t eat or drink, not in the condition he was in, but Maud Sandford was not a person with whom he was ready to argue so he followed her into the kitchen.
He watched as she mixed cocoa and sugar and heated milk. When she gave him his mug, he found he could taste the warmth and the sweet chocolate taste and settled into his chair, comforted.
“Do you think I’m here for a reason?” he suddenly blurted out the question.
She considered for a long time, finishing her cocoa before she answered. “I’d lik
e to think so.”
“But you don’t know?”
She laughed softly. “Son, at seventy years of age, the main thing I’ve learned is how much there is I don’t know. Tell me about yourself.
Strangely he who was always so careful to keep his thoughts to himself found himself doing as ordered, but instead of telling her about how it felt to be found guilty and sent to prison when he was innocent, he told her about the girl he’d met in this same house.
“She was scared at first and then we connected somehow, though she’s way too young for me, only in her twenties, and such a cute little thing but determined as hell .” He caught himself, realizing he was chatting with a lady from the past who was no doubt easily shocked. “Beg pardon, ma’am,” he apologized.
She looked amused. “I grew up among cowboys, Mr. Caldecott.”
“Please call me Moss.”
“And I’m not ma’am, I’m Maud.”
“So,” she said, “it was love at first sight. I don’t believe in love at first sight.”
He shook his head. He hadn’t been thinking about love, but only how lucky he was to spend his last hours with this engaging young woman. Love was another thing life had cheated him out of. “Don’t suppose I do either.”
“Maybe that’s the answer,” she decided. “Before you go, you need to learn in impossible things like love. And this girl can teach you.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “You’re just making that up because it sounds good.”
Her grin was wide, exposing a missing tooth on one side. “You wanted reasons so I’m trying to come up with some. Come on, Moss, I’m doing the best I can.”
“And why am I here?” he frowned.
She laughed again. “You mean sitting here with an old woman instead of chatting with a pretty girl?”
The Ghost and Miss Hallam: A Time Travel Romance (Lavender, Texas Series Book 1) Page 4