by Tera Shanley
Bill hopped from the buggy and sauntered around the house, yelling out Roy’s name, to no answer. “Well, he still lives here, I can promise you that. He runs cattle and he’s probably out with them, is all.” He hoisted himself onto the wagon seat and tipped his hat. “I wish you well, miss, but I’m losing daylight. That old coot won’t mind a bit if you just went on in there and made yourself at home.”
She reached for her small coin purse. “At least let me pay you for your troubles.”
He waved her off and slapped the reins against the backs of the two horse team. “No need.”
“Thank you,” she sang out with a wave but if he heard her, he didn’t show it.
When she opened the door to the cabin, a hundred memories from childhood assaulted her. Every piece of furniture seemed to be in the same place. The small oval dining table was surrounded by four ladder backed chairs and the deep slate sink that took up most of the kitchen still boasted the same old hand pump. The small bookcase had not moved from the shadow of the stone fireplace and the faded floral curtains Mother had hung lifted lazily in the breeze from the open window. Even the smell of bacon grease and yeast bread seemed familiar.
A smile curved her lips. There, beyond the front porch and yard lay the prairie grass so tall it would tickle her waist if she had a mind to stand in it. She’d imagined this a thousand times. Home.
She lugged her baggage inside, set it near the front door, and bit her bottom lip. A change into a dress with lighter skirts would be a relief, but it felt odd to make herself at home when Roy didn’t even know she was there. Padding around the cabin, she picked up a glass perfume bottle Mother had left behind and a folded drawing of an atrocious looking grasshopper she’d done as a child. She touched blankets, curtains, and furniture to re-familiarize herself with the place. In the mirror over the washbasin, she straightened her prim, cream-colored hat. She re-pinned a couple of curls that had come loose during the jarring trip from the train station and plopped onto one of the chairs at the dining table. Weakened with hunger and exhausted from traveling, Maggie lowered her head to her arms on the table. Her eyelids were too heavy to fight to keep open. Eventually, the hours of waiting lulled her into a fitful sleep.
* * * *
The door creaked open. Slam! The wall shuddered with the force of it. Maggie lurched awake to find a pistol pointed directly at her face.
“Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” the man holding the gun said in a gravelly voice.
“Roy?” she said, still half dazed.
The gun was pulled away and clicked loudly as the man uncocked it. A bewildered look crept over his older, yet still familiar face.
“Magpie?” he asked.
The old nickname warmed her. Roy had only called her that when her mother wasn’t around to scold him for not calling her Margaret. “It’s me, Roy. I’m back.”
She stood up in time for him to give her a crushing hug. He was still as tall and gangly, but gray now streaked his dark hair and beard. His brown eyes danced as he looked her over incredulously, and the crinkles of his face deepened when he laughed.
“What’s happened, darlin’? Where’s your mother?” Roy asked after he regained his speech.
Deep sadness welled up inside her, and she swallowed the urge to weep to the only other person who’d understand the depth of her heartache. “She passed about six months ago. I’m sorry to have waited this long to tell you, but I couldn’t bring myself to write it in a letter.”
He was quiet, gazing vacantly somewhere beyond her, then said, “Is that why you’ve come? To tell me your mother has passed?”
“I’ve come to stay, Roy.”
“To stay?” He let go of her shoulders and took a step back. “What about your kinfolk?”
“You mean Aunt Margaret, I suppose. I can’t go back to Boston. Not now, not ever. Boston was never my home, no matter how I tried to make it so. This is the only place I have ever belonged.”
“It’s not safe for you here. This town just got the railway in. It stops here now, but sooner or later they’ll work to continue it. There will be teams of rough men out here. And ranchers from all around drive their cattle here and blow off steam in town. Half the danged town is saloons now. Things have changed since you left.” Roy shook his head. The look in his eyes pleaded with her to understand. “You look fair proper now, Margaret. You’ve built a life in Boston. Best you not ruin that by staying here.”
“It’s Maggie now,” she said, tears stinging her eyes at the rejection. “I can’t go back to Boston. I can’t hear that I’m plain, or lazy, or unwanted, or a bastard child, or a thorn in the family’s name anymore. I’ll take my chances here, where I have a fraction of a hope at happiness.”
Roy heaved a sigh. “I don’t think this is the place for a lady such as yourself, but I’d be mighty disappointed to see you leave again. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”
Hoofbeats echoed off the hard packed ground outside. Roy cocked the pistol and opened the door, and she trailed him. Three figures charged the yard on horseback, riding as if they were melded to their mounts as one being. Stunning. Their thunderous entrance made a gray gelding tied to the post out front pull unsuccessfully against his knotted reins. After Roy got a good look at the threesome, he holstered his weapon and waved. The trio came to a stop in front of the porch and the leader tipped his hat to Roy.
He was beautiful, though she had never before coined that term for a man as masculine a creature as he. The man had shoulder length, dark brown hair under his hat and short, dark stubble on his jaw. Tall and trim, he had piercing blue eyes that seemed to bore into her very soul. They didn’t make them like that in the city. Her heart pounded when his gaze swung to her and drank in her dress, face, hair and hat.
His horse was still fidgety from the run, sidestepping. The man tilted his head toward a corral filled with cattle and addressed Roy. “Those the ones you’re driving into town?”
Roy nodded. “Yep, sure are. You drivin’ some too? I heard the prices are decent right now.”
“Yes, sir. Day after tomorrow. We only have eight hundred head so I figured we could take yours up too, if you want. Tell me how many you have and I’ll get you the money after we get back. Save you the trouble.”
“Mighty kind of you. I’d appreciate that.”
She was staring. Indeed, hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him long enough to notice the other two riders. Now he glared at her with a flash of annoyance.
Roy glanced at her and cleared his throat. “This is—”
“Maggie Flemming,” she said, smiling broadly.
The man waited a half second too long to be polite. “Garret Shaw. Come on, Roy. Let’s go take a look at the cattle we’re taking.”
Then he rode off around the side of the house. Her heart pounded in her chest and ears to the rhythm of the receding hoofbeats. Garret Shaw. Bloody hell, the man was her childhood friend.
Roy shrugged and untied the gray horse from the post. He rode off behind Garret and left her to control her shock enough to face the other riders. To her surprise, both were Indians, and one, a young woman around her own age, though her mannish dress made it difficult to tell at first.
“Háu, I’m Bear Claw,” the man, who was older, said with an amused smile.
“Is your name really Bear Claw?” How perfectly thrilling! She had read books about the Wild West and Indians, though she had never met one.
The woman laughed and Bear Claw’s mouth widened in a grin, showing white teeth against his tanned skin. “No, it’s not. People call me Cookie,” he said in a deep, velvety voice.
“But what is your real name?”
“Some people say you should never give your real name to someone else because then they have power over you.”
“Fair enough. I’m Maggie Flemming,” she said with a smile.
Cookie grinned and nodded at the woman behind him. “This is Len
ny.”
“Hello, Lenny. Nice to meet you.”
“She doesn’t have any English, but I’m sure she understood,” he said.
Garret rode around the side of the house with the confidence of a man who knew his place in the world. He was powerful and alluring, with the masculine fluidity of some deliciously dangerous, half tamed predator. And those brilliant eyes! They could trap a woman’s spirit with their intensity.
Roy appeared behind him on the gray, and she made a conscious effort to clack her mouth closed. Cookie waved, then he and Lenny headed down the dirt road. Garret turned to leave but must have changed his mind because he wheeled around to the porch so unexpectedly, his horse rolled its eyes until the whites shone. The disappointment that he would leave so soon was replaced by a fluttering in Maggie’s stomach.
“Roy, I don’t know who she is, but you and I, of all people, know a lady don’t belong out here.” Garret kicked the skittish mount under him and gave her a fiery glare, turned his mount and took off after the rest of his party. He left a trail of dust in his wake.
He didn’t remember her. Not only that, but he had, in so many words, told her to leave. Why did those words, coming from someone she hadn’t seen since childhood, sting so badly? His anger echoed through her bones. Aunt Margaret had said worse on a daily basis, but the power of her insults didn’t hold a candle to the careless reprimand that had come from his lips. It was hard to breathe.
As they disappeared, Roy’s eyes softened with sympathy. “He’s had a hard life, Magpie. After his momma died everything went south and stayed that way.”
“In your last letter you said he was still away at school.”
“He was, but his pa passed a few months ago. And as mean as that old bastard was, he did do one thing right, and that was Garret Shaw. He came back from Georgetown determined to get the Lazy S back up and runnin’ again. His pa nearly laid that ranch in the ground with his drinking, so Garret has his work cut out for him, but if anyone can save that place, it’s him.” Roy sighed and worried at a rusty porch nail with the toe of his boot. “Maggie, I know you’ve thought fondly of Garret since you were knee high to a grasshopper, but he’s different now. Hard living and too much responsibility have made him a calloused man. A good man, but not the marrying kind, you hear? Best you get him out of your head before you get hurt.”
Sound advice, but these things were always easier said.
“I daresay he certainly has changed. And for the worse, if you want my opinion.” The dust had settled enough to reveal Garret’s tall form in the distance. “Don’t worry about me, old chap. I’ll not waste my thoughts a minute longer.”
By the look on his face, the traitorous shake in her voice hadn’t been lost on him either. Roy shook his head and put his hat on. “I have to go work on that damned plow while I still have daylight. I could use some company.”
He took off walking toward one of the outbuildings, leaving Maggie to trail after him, and her billowing skirts after her.
In the hours before dark, Roy worked relentlessly on the wood-rotted plow. She did what she could, handing him new wood and proper tools, but hadn’t the faintest idea how to help beyond that. It was a miracle the old plow could even stay upright.
She cocked her head at the splintering contraption. “Looks like you need a new one.”
“No money for that and besides, she just needs a little extra attention and she’ll be right as rain by morning. Hand me that file.”
She did and he worked tirelessly to sharpen the blade. Besides the rhythmic scraping of metal against metal, the only other noise in the clearing was the first yip of a coyote. As it stretched its voice into long mournful notes, she closed her eyes against the green and turquoise streaks in the darkening sky. It had been so long since she’d heard the prairie song.
After a late dinner of dried beef and warm beans had their famished stomachs satisfied, Roy lit his pipe. Every night she could remember from her childhood, he’d smoked, the sweet smell of tobacco wafting around her while she’d played on the rug in front of the stone fireplace.
While he read by the dim candlelight, she wrote of her adventures in her journal. Tomorrow she’d start work on her dress to remove most of the underskirts and take it in, make it more appropriate for her new life. Water was precious and less fabric meant easier laundering out here. The stiff crinoline that held her dress to its full form, she wouldn’t miss at all. Her wardrobe would have to be adjusted, just as her soul and body would.
She’d show them she could be much more than just a proper lady.