He turned his horse in the direction of the church and approached the preacher’s small house. Located behind the church, it was whitewashed with black shutters beside the windows on either side of the door. A covered porch protected the entranceway, and Lance scraped his boots on the boot scraper, although there was no mud this time of year in arid Nevada. After taking a deep breath, he took off his hat and knocked on the door.
A broad-shouldered, austere-looking woman with gray hair pulled back into a severe bun answered the door. She looked Lance up and down and then motioned for him to enter. He recognized the silent, severe looking woman as the reverend’s wife. He left his hat on a peg by the door and followed her into the immaculate dining room next to the entryway. On the other side of the entryway was a small living area. Closed doors to the rear of the house separated the rest of the living quarters from visitors.
The dining room had two windows, covered in a thin, gauzy curtain to afford privacy but to allow light to enter. An intricate lace tablecloth covered the round table, and Lance fought a grimace at potentially spilling his tea on such a pristine item. The table had been set with a delicate tea service of china. On the walls were two photographs of what he assumed were relatives, and there was a cased cabinet to hold the fine china.
He remained standing as she bustled from the room. After a moment, he turned at the sound of footsteps and smiled as Reverend Brown entered the dining room. “Hello, Reverend,” Lance said with a deferential nod of his head. He held out his hand when the reverend extended his.
“Mr. Gallagher, such a pleasure to see you on this fine day.” The reverend’s brown eyes twinkled at delight at his visit. “Please, sit.” He motioned to the table, and Lance sat at one of the places set for tea.
Lance noted three place settings. “Will your wife join us?”
“Aye, she will. She enjoys meeting the new arrivals to town.” He beamed at his wife as she entered the room with the pot of tea. “Adeline, I believe you’ve met Mr. Gallagher.”
She nodded at Lance and set the pot of tea on a tile. “Welcome to our home,” she said as she sat down. She passed around a plate of raisin bread and then filled up teacups. She noted Lance’s grimace and frowned. “Do you not like tea, Mr. Gallagher?”
He flushed and then smiled with embarrassment. “I’m unaccustomed to drinking it on such a warm day.”
She smiled and added a dollop of milk to it. “I find the best discussions occur over a cup of tea.” She looked at her husband as though daring him to disagree with her.
Reverend Brown chuckled. “I would have said whiskey, but I’m inclined to agree with her. Although, whiskey can elicit the truth where tea doesn’t.” He saw his wife’s mouth twitch as she fought a smile. “I fear we will always prefer to have tea in the afternoon, due to our roots.”
“Do you miss Scotland?” Lance asked.
Reverend Brown shrugged. “It seems we were destined to live in a place of rain for part of our lives and a desert for the other part.” He smiled as he sipped a cup of tea and then clasped his wife’s hand. “It can be difficult to be separated from family.”
Lance nodded and played with the silverware in front of him.
“Come, Mr. Gallagher, tell us where you’re from,” Adeline Brown asked in a no-nonsense voice.
Lance took a small sip of his tea and looked from the reverend to his wife and then back again. “I suspect the sheriff should hire the two of you as detectives.” That earned a chortle from Adeline. “I was most recently in Deadwood. I found I had no desire to remain after the outbreak of smallpox.” He shifted in his chair as they watched him intently. “I wandered and ended up here. Thankfully, Mrs. Ferguson’s advertisement appeared in the paper here as I was passing through, and I visited her ranch that day. I enjoy my work.”
The reverend sat back and crossed his hands over his belly as he studied Lance. “How providential you should drift through town just as her advertisement came out.”
Adeline nodded. “It was her fourth.”
Lance shifted in his seat again, feeling much like a recalcitrant school child awaiting punishment. “Yes, it was quite fortunate.”
The reverend paused and then said, “You seem taken with her boys.”
Lance raised his eyebrows and then scratched at his forehead as he attempted to decipher the question that had not been asked. “I enjoy her boys, yes. They are good helpers at the ranch.”
Adeline took a sharp intake of breath. “Do you mean to say that Mrs. Ferguson is allowing those boys to aid you?”
Lance nodded and took a bite of bread in hopes of being able to skip answering a question.
“Remarkable,” she murmured. “She’s swaddled them as tight as newborn babes since her husband died, and I’ve feared they’d grow up not understanding the meaning of good, honest work.”
Lance choked on the dry bread and took a hasty swallow of tea. “Well, Mrs. Brown, they seem to relish whatever task I put before them. Except for mucking out stalls.”
The reverend laughed at that. “Oh, how wonderful. And Zachariah? How is he managing?”
Lance looked at them with confusion. “Well. He’s a fine foreman.” He frowned as he saw them exchange glances. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Perhaps you could help me with something, Reverend. I remain confused as to the ferocity of your recent sermon and the unease it provoked in Mrs. Ferguson.”
Adeline grunted with displeasure. “It is because some in this town are blind to the facts and prefer to listen and promulgate falsities so as to hear their own voices.”
Lance stared at her with his mouth agape as he attempted to decipher what she had just said. “Do you mean women like to gossip?”
Adeline gave a swift jerk of her head in assent.
“That’s a universal truth. Heck, most men I know like to gossip as much as any woman.” Lance stared at the couple, still puzzled.
“Perhaps,” the reverend said as he took his wife’s hand in his. “However, there is a difference between idle chitchat about someone’s dog eating a pie cooling in the windowsill and attempting to ruin a woman’s reputation and future.”
Lance stiffened. “Who would attempt to harm Mrs. Ferguson?” He glowered at the couple. “And who would be foolish enough to believe the rumors?”
Adeline watched him appreciatively. “Exactly. Only fools. Or those bored with nothing better to do. It’s the devil’s work to stand around all day and gossip.” Her cheeks flushed with her anger.
Lance traced the handle of his fine teacup. “I know this sounds like I am gossiping, but I am trying to understand. It seems as though everyone in the church understood your sermon but me. What is the gossip?” When they remained closemouthed, he sighed. “I fear I can’t help dispel ridiculous notions if I don’t know what is being said.”
“To speak such untruths gives them credence,” Adeline said. “Mrs. Ferguson knows what is being said about her in town. If you wish to know, you should speak with her.” She looked at Lance with approval. “However, I am most impressed by your show of loyalty today.”
She poured him another cup of tea and nodded to her husband. The reverend cleared his throat. “Now, my boy, tell us more about yourself.”
Lance soon found himself the subject of a not-so-subtle inquisition where he felt compelled to answer each question. Toward the end of the barrage of questions he said, “I sold my homestead, rather than live on it alone. The solitude of such a place, when I’d had my dreams dashed…” He cleared his throat and looked at the crumbs on his plate. “It was more than I could bear.” He looked up as Mrs. Brown made a commiserative noise. “I never want to hurt like that again,” he whispered.
“To live is to hurt,” the reverend said. “You must hope that you have someone by your side who helps ease the ache.”
Lance looked up sharply to meet his gaze and then nodded in understanding. He rose to leave the table and stared at Mrs. Brown with reluctant admiration. “If I didn’t know better,
I’d swear you slipped whiskey into my tea. You have a powerful way of urging those around you to speak the truth.”
Adeline beamed at him. “It’s why my husband and I make such a formidable team.”
Lance shook the pastor’s hand and then walked to the front door with Mrs. Brown where he smiled his thanks. When he stood outside, he took a deep breath and shook his head as he thought about all he had discussed. He put his hat on and approached Amaretto, eager to return to the ranch and to escape the inquisitive couple.
* * *
Eleanor opened the rickety gate to her kitchen garden and sighed. Somehow a rabbit had found its way in and had decimated an entire row of sprouting cabbage. She looked around and saw a gaping hole in the wire fence. “How could that have happened?” she muttered to herself.
Securing the gate behind her, she walked to the barn. “Why I bothered to shut the gate is beyond me,” she muttered to herself. “Any creature smaller than a bear could squeeze through that gash.”
Lance looked up from working with one of the horses. “Is someone hurt?” He was instantly alert and appeared ready to race to aid whoever needed help.
“My garden,” she said with a glower. “The fence is in need of repair.”
He smiled and relaxed. “Let me finish with Cream, and I’ll fix it.” He gave a click to the horse and urged it to trot at his bidding. When she continued to watch him rather than return to her garden, he said, “I’m making sure a few of your horses are tame enough for the boys to ride. Many of them seem a bit too…spirited.”
She fought a glower and met his curious gaze. “Alan liked horses that were a challenge. He said they would prove to live longer.”
Lance chuckled. “An odd theory.” He gave another click, and Cream slowed down. “Let me rub her down, and I’ll meet you at the garden.” He walked into the barn with Cream docilely following him.
She watched in wonderment, murmuring, “I’ve never seen Cream do that.” After a moment, she grabbed a bucket, filled it with water, and lugged it to the garden. Once there, she tugged her hat firmly over her head and knelt at the start of one of her rows of carrots. “I’m glad something interrupted the rabbit before it got here,” she said as she removed weeds. Soon, she had worked her way down one row and then up another.
With a sigh, she rose and reached for a shovel. She saw Lance approaching with wire, pliers, and another bucket of water. “You shouldn’t carry heavy buckets from the barn,” he admonished.
She swiped at her forehead and rested her hands on her hips, marring her brown work dress with streaks of mud and soil. “I saw the bucket and thought to fill it up there. I generally use the hand pump by the back door of the kitchen.” She smiled as he looked disgruntled and as though he wanted to argue further with her. “If I don’t keep the garden watered, it will die. And I like to keep the root cellar stocked as much as possible for winter.” She took a deep breath as she rested.
“Why don’t you have your boys do the chore?” Lance asked as he moved to the gaping hole at the side of the fence.
“They will help, but they turn watering the garden into a competition and waste water as they rush around.” She shook her head.
He paused in studying the fence to look at her. “A few drops of water here and there aren’t going to lead to ruin.”
She shrugged. “I live in fear the wells will run dry. It’s happened to others, and I want my boys to respect that we live in a beautiful, but harsh place. Water is one of our most precious assets.”
He smiled. “Remarkable.” He focused on the fence and didn’t comment further as she worked on hilling the potatoes. He looked up and glared as he saw her work. “You shouldn’t be doing such hard work.”
She paused, panting as she caught her breath. “Mr. Gallagher, I’m certain you’ve met many women who work harder than I. If I want this ranch to succeed, and I do, then everyone must work hard and do their part. Myself included. A little digging in the garden has never hurt me.”
He watched her with concern as he fingered the wires in the fence. “Miss Eleanor,” he called out. He flushed and hastily said, “Mrs. Ferguson, will you please look at this?”
She set aside her shovel and swiped at her forehead again with the back of her arm as she moved around rows of vegetables. When she stood on the opposite side of the fence with him, she met his worried gaze. He continued to touch the wire, and she shook her head in confusion. “What is the matter?”
He reached forward and gripped her hand, tugging her fingers free of her work glove. “Feel.” She flushed as he touched her bare hand and then focused on the wire. “I don’t understand. It’s smooth.”
“Exactly,” he said with a satisfied nod. “Too smooth.” He handed her glove back to her. “Someone cut this fence. Wanted your garden to be ruined.”
She looked around as though she could see the person who wished her garden destroyed. “Who would do such a thing?”
He shrugged as he tugged on his work gloves. “I couldn’t say, Miss … Mrs. Ferguson. I would recommend you try to determine who would wish you harm.” He cleared his throat. “And I’d consider getting a dog. It’d alert you to strangers on your land.”
She half smiled. “The boys have always wanted a dog.”
“They have good instincts,” he said with a smile. “This won’t be hard to patch up. But you want to make sure it doesn’t keep occurring. A little lost cabbage never hurt anyone.” He fought a smile as she glared at him indignantly.
“Are you implying my cabbage crop is inferior and won’t be missed?”
He laughed. “No, ma’am. I’m saying not all of us like cabbage. I won’t mind a meal without pickled cabbage. And I’m sure your boys or Zachariah feel the same.”
She fought a smile. “Well, Mrs. Wagner has always insisted that cabbage is healthy for us.”
“And it is. Just not every day,” he said. “Oh, and Miss…Mrs. Ferguson? I’ll water your garden every evening from now on.”
She looked at him as he bent to work, attaching new wire to the severed wire. “Please call me Miss Eleanor if you prefer,” she whispered. “And there’s no need for you to do the watering.”
He looked up to meet her shy gaze. “Oh, there’s every need.” He nodded to her once and focused on his task again as she returned to hilling potatoes. They worked in companionable silence until she moved inside to avoid the heat of the day.
Chapter 5
In early August, Lance watched as the two boys raced away from the ranch house and heard them chattering about swimming in the creek. He swiped at his forehead and envisioned taking time away from his mountain of chores to join them. Instead, he returned to the barn for more nails before making his way to the chicken coop. When he entered the wired-off area, he tried to coo to the chickens, but they scattered, clucking their displeasure at his arrival.
He chuckled and began to whistle as he stood on a ladder to work on the roof. Soon, he was hammering loose shingles in place before he worked on replacing missing boards. He peered into the coop through a gaping hole and shook his head at the flimsy shelter the chickens had had in the winter. Soon, he had shored up the chicken coop, and he escaped their domain with only one peck on his behind.
Dripping with sweat after working on the chicken coop, he decided he had earned a break after weeks of hard work. Gathering a worn towel, fresh clothes, and a bar of soap, he ambled in the direction the boys had scampered in. No breeze stirred, and the only sound was that of the grasshoppers clacking as they flitted away from him as he strode down the path. Each step of his boots caused small puffs of dust to rise from the parched earth. Looking to the cloudless, bright blue sky, he sighed as there was little hope for rain today. Or, he feared, any day in the near future.
As he approached the creek, he smiled upon hearing the boys’ laughter and voices. Suddenly, there was a scream.
“Peter!” Simon’s panicked voice screeched.
Lance took off at a run, his towel and clothes
forgotten as he dashed in the direction of Simon’s voice. He skidded to a halt when he reached the edge of the creek that bowed out to form a small pondlike area and frowned. “Simon, what?” he gasped as he saw the boy in the shallow area of the pond.
“Peter hit his head and fell in,” Simon sobbed as he stared at the water, his hands reaching down, searching for his brother. “He sank.”
Lance kicked off his boots and strode into the water, his hands searching for an arm or a leg. He dove under the water, blindly feeling for anything that felt like part of a body. When his lungs burned, he returned to the surface, took two gasping breaths and dove under again. This time, his hands collided with what felt like a leg, and he yanked. He grunted and pulled harder as he dragged Peter to the surface.
“Peter!” Simon screamed.
“Back up,” Lance gasped as he pushed the boy to the edge of the pond. He pounded on Peter’s back and then on his chest. “Come on, Peter,” he pleaded as he pushed on his chest again. Water spurt out of Peter’s mouth, and Lance pushed him on his side as Peter coughed when he sucked in air.
“Peter!” Simon yelled as he threw himself at his older brother.
Lance grabbed Simon, holding him to his chest so that he wouldn’t knock out what little air Peter had managed to gasp into his lungs. “Shh, Simon. He’ll be all right.” When Simon had calmed he asked, “Will you go down the trail a little ways and fetch my towel?”
Simon ran away and returned a minute later with his ratty towel. Lance wrapped it around Peter’s head, the back of which oozed a steady stream of blood. When the towel was secure, Lance stood and picked Peter up into his arms. “Simon, as we head back to the house, will you please find my spare clothes and the bar of soap I dropped?”
Drifting from Deadwood: The Pioneer Brides of Rattlesnake Ridge, Book 6 Page 6
