Drifting from Deadwood: The Pioneer Brides of Rattlesnake Ridge, Book 6

by Flightner, Ramona

  She gasped, her hand rising to clasp her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “Who?”

  “My wife,” he whispered. “My daughter.” He cleared his voice as it broke as he mentioned them. “Died from the typhus while I was away, trying to sell our cattle for a decent profit four years ago.” He shook his head as he looked at her. “Nothing was worth the loss of them.”

  “Oh, Mr. Gallagher,” she whispered as a tear tracked down her cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

  He gave a sharp jerk of his head in acknowledgment of her sympathy. “The point is, everyone has had their share of sorrows, Miss Eleanor. We all carry hidden wounds we’d rather not lay bare.”

  She gave a bitter laugh. “Yes, but my sorrows are the source of town gossip and ridicule.” She rubbed at her temple and hunched her shoulders as though to protect herself. She looked at him with confusion as he knelt in front of her and took her hands in his.

  “Do you know that, those few days I spent in Rattlesnake Ridge, no one spoke of you in anything but the most complimentary terms.” He shrugged. “Men die in card games. It’s an all-too-frequent outcome when you gamble your common sense along with your money.”

  She shook her head and ducked her chin. “You wouldn’t hear the gossip,” she whispered, her voice laden with anger.

  “I don’t understand. The men in the saloon mentioned your husband and quickly moved on to another topic.” He squeezed her hand in encouragement.

  Eleanor’s blue eyes shone with anger as she met his inquisitive gaze. “Women won’t gossip with men, but they truly run the town. They determine who is accepted. Who is deemed worthy. And if you aren’t, then you will be shunned.”

  He shook his head in confusion. “Who would dare shun a woman who has the gumption and intelligence to run a successful ranch?”

  She rose, breaking her contact with him. “Thank you for your conversation, Mr. Gallagher. I will always be indebted to you for the service you did my boys today.”

  He clamped his jaw tight in frustration. “I care for them, Eleanor. You know that.”

  Her startled gaze met his at his use of only her first name. “I do. And I’m ever so grateful you do.” She grabbed the lantern and brushed past him, scurrying back to the ranch house.

  He watched her hasty retreat, replaying their conversation over and over in his head, but unable to decipher what she had wanted to tell him. “Why can’t she speak plainly?” he muttered as he listened to the door slam shut at the ranch house.

  He sat again in the rocking chair and allowed the soothing motion to ease his tension. He fought, and lost, the battle of recalling his wife. A petite woman with shiny black hair, his wife, Amy, had taken great pride in their homestead in the Colorado Territory, in his plans to expand their small holding. When their daughter, Laura, a spitting image of his wife, had been born, he had fallen to his knees in thanksgiving because he knew he would never again know such immense joy as seeing his wife holding their child in her arms. He took a deep breath as he’d never known a greater sorrow than when he’d had to bury them four years later. He bowed his head and whispered, “I’m sorry,” to the wind.

  Thinking about his wife and daughter brought back the longing for family he attempted to suppress. For home. For a sense of belonging. He feared he was becoming too attached to Peter and Simon and would need to move on soon. “For they aren’t mine,” he whispered. “And they never will be.”

  * * *

  The following morning, Lance sat on his front porch, sipping a cup of coffee as he watched the sky change color. Streaks of pink chased away the darkness until it was replaced by a gentle glow. He sighed and was about to heave himself up for another day of work when he saw Simon racing from the house in his direction. He settled again in his chair, waiting for the boy to arrive.

  “Simon,” he said with a welcoming smile. “I never expected you to be awake this early.”

  Simon climbed onto the other rocking chair, the one his mother had occupied the previous night, and rubbed at his eyes. “I’m not generally. But Mama and Mrs. Wagner woke me.”

  Lance saw the boy curl into himself with his worry, and Lance reached a hand out. “Peter will be fine. He hit his head, but you heard him screaming at the top of his lungs when the doc was here to patch him up. He’ll recover and toss you into a horse trough soon enough.” He frowned as Simon failed to smile, and a tear leaked onto Simon’s cheek. “Simon?”

  Simon vaulted from his chair and clambered onto Lance’s lap. “I know I’m too big,” he muttered as he curled into the man’s embrace.

  “No, boy,” Lance whispered as he held Simon and rubbed at his back. “Peter will be fine.”

  “This time,” Simone whispered. “What about next time? What happens if you’re not around? Or Zachariah? Or Mama?” His voice hitched with his panic. “I couldn’t have saved him. He would have di-i-ied.” He burrowed his head against Lance’s chest as he cried.

  “Shh,” Lance whispered as he held the sobbing boy. “You and Peter did nothing wrong. You played in your swimming hole, and there was an accident.” He looked up as he saw Eleanor race onto the ranch house porch, her gaze frantic. He raised his arm, and she seemed to calm when she saw him cradling her son. After a moment, she returned inside.

  When Simon quieted, Lance kept his hold on the boy. “Here’s the problem as I see it, Simon. Your mother will now be even more worried about you than before. She will want you and Peter to do even less than you did.” He saw Simon nod. “Is that what you want? To be in the kitchen or the garden with your mother?”

  Simon shrugged and rubbed at his nose. “I like the kitchen. Mrs. Wagner gives me more treats now that Mama spoke with her.”

  Lance chuckled. “I can see it has its merits.”

  Sniffling, Simon said, “But I like being in the barn with you. Learning how to work with horses. Running around with Peter.” Simon frowned as he looked at the older man. “Why can’t I do it all?”

  Lance nodded. “Exactly, Simon. You should do it all.” He gave him a pat and urged him to rise. “Come, let’s wash up and join the others for breakfast.”

  They walked to the pump in front of the barn and washed their hands and faces. When they arrived in the kitchen, no scent of bacon or eggs greeted them. Lance tilted his head, and he heard the women speaking upstairs. “Come, Simon. It’s our turn to help your mother and Mrs. Wagner. I suspect they’ve both slept very little.” He urged the boy to the kitchen, where he pulled out two frying pans.

  He stoked the wood in the kitchen stove, adding wood so their food would cook, and then searched for a bowl. When he looked around for eggs, he sighed. “Simon, will you collect the eggs?” He handed the boy a basket and nodded to the back door. He smiled as Simon raced away. While the boy was gone, Lance brewed coffee, sliced up thick slabs of bread, and readied the bacon for frying.

  Soon, Simon dashed into the kitchen, and Lance winced as he looked into the basket. However, none of the eggs had cracked in Simon’s sprint from the chicken coop. “Well done, Simon,” Lance said as he taught Simon how to crack the eggs and then scramble them. Soon, he flipped the bacon and had the eggs cooking in the other pan. When the bacon was close to done, he fried the bread to make toast.

  “How’d you learn to cook? I thought only women knew how to cook,” Simon asked as he watched with curiosity and fascination as he knelt on a chair to better see the frying pans on top of the stove.

  “I would’ve starved many times if I hadn’t learned how to cook basic things,” Lance said with a smile and a wink to his young friend. He took a long sip of coffee and sighed with pleasure. “It’s a luxury for me to live in a place where I eat such good food every day.” He watched Simon with curiosity as he made a face.

  “Except for the pickled cabbage,” Simon grumbled, and Lance laughed.

  “Shh,” Lance whispered as he leaned over in Simon’s direction. “I agree with you, but you would never want to offend such a good cook.”

  A f
ew moments later, Mrs. Wagner bustled into the kitchen area. “What are you doing, working at my stove?” she demanded, her hands on her ample hips. The darkness under her eyes was a testament to her fatigue.

  “Simon and I feared you and Mrs. Ferguson were tired after caring for Peter all night,” Lance said.

  “We made breakfast!” Simon said as he thrust his hands up in a celebratory way.

  Mrs. Wagner smiled and nodded. “Good. I had feared we would make do with slabs of bread with butter this morning.”

  Lance winked at his collaborator. “That’s what we feared too.”

  Mrs. Wagner sat with a deep sigh at the table.

  “Simon, sit with Mrs. Wagner,” Lance said, filling three plates with food and setting two on the table for them. “I’ll bring Miss Eleanor a plate and see if Peter is awake and hungry.”

  He pushed the frying pans to a cooler part of the stove where the food would stay warm, but not overcook, and then left the kitchen. He ascended the stairs and paused as he heard a lilting singing from Peter’s room. He closed his eyes as he battled memories of his wife singing in a similar manner to his daughter. After a moment, he took a deep breath and made a loud noise with his boot heels. “Miss Eleanor?” he asked in a loud whisper.

  He poked his head into Peter’s room to find the boy sleeping. Eleanor sat in a large chair at the foot of his bed, her knitting needles and a ball of yarn forgotten at her feet. Her reddish-brown hair tangled around her shoulders, and her blue eyes had a glassy look to them. He recognized an exhausted woman and knelt by her chair, setting the plate of food and cup of coffee next to him on the floor.

  “Miss Eleanor,” he said in a soft voice. “Please eat and drink some coffee. And then go to bed. I’ll sit with Peter while you rest. Simon is fine and with Mrs. Wagner.” He saw her delayed attempt to formulate an argument. “Any work, I might have, can wait. Nothing is more important than you or the boys.”

  She nodded and then leaned forward, her head resting against his chest. “I’m so tired. So tired of worrying on my own. Of having no one to lean on.”

  His breath came out in a stutter, and he ran a hand over her shoulder. His fingers became entangled in her hair, and he held her in a sort of embrace for a few moments. “You’re strong, Miss Eleanor.”

  She leaned away and shook her head. “Forgive me. That was…uncalled for.” She flushed and refused to meet his gaze.

  “I disagree. We all have limits, Eleanor, and there’s no shame in admitting that.” He waited for her to nod and frowned when she continued to avoid his gaze. When she stood, he rose and stepped away. “Your food.”

  “I’ll make another plate downstairs,” she murmured, pushing past him.

  Lance watched her leave, his hands fisted as though forcing himself not to reach for her as she scurried away from him and out of the room. He sat with a sigh in the chair she vacated and stared at the slumbering Peter. After a moment, he heard Eleanor’s soft voice downstairs as she spoke with Simon and Mrs. Wagner. He berated himself for separating himself from the shared meal but then focused on the fact he had given her a respite from her caregiving duties.

  A few minutes later, he picked up the plate of food he’d prepared for Eleanor and dug into it. He grunted with pleasure to realize his food was good, although not nearly as savory as that prepared by Mrs. Wagner. When finished, he set the plate on the bureau and stretched his legs out again. He held the cup of coffee between his palms and settled in to watch Peter.

  After he had drained his cup of coffee and set the cup on the floor, he crossed his arms over his belly, closed his eyes, and began to whistle. He whistled tunes he learned from the army, from cattle drives, and from his wife. The ones from his wife were the sweetest and brought a slight ache to his chest. When he finished one song, he opened his eyes to find Peter peering at him.

  “Hello, Peter,” Lance murmured in a soft voice. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’d be doing better if you stopped that horrible noise,” he complained, holding a hand to his bandage. “My head hurts enough as it is.”

  Lance chuckled. “I’ll see if it’s time for more willow bark tea.” He rose and rested his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Rest and recover, Peter. You’ll be fine.”

  Peter looked at Lance and gave a subtle nod, grimacing as that movement made his pain worse. “Thank you for saving me yesterday.”

  Lance smiled. “I’d do it again without a moment’s hesitation.” He smiled at the boy and headed out to find Mrs. Wagner and some tea for his young charge.

  * * *

  That evening, Eleanor walked across the barnyard to the paddock where Lance stood facing away from her. She saw him stiffen at the sound of her footsteps, and, although she faltered in her approach, she joined him at the rail. A halfmoon lit the barnyard and paddock, and horses snuffled as they dozed in the covered structure. She sighed as she lifted her face to the stars and closed her eyes with pleasure at the slight breeze that cooled her face. “Heaven,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  She opened her eyes to find him watching her rather than the stars or the surrounding scenery. She flushed at the implication of what he had just said.

  “I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Gallagher,” she said in a low voice. “I … I can’t bear to think about what …” Her voice broke as she was unable to finish that sentence.

  “It does not bear contemplation,” he said in a gruff tone. “Your boy is well and will recover. He’ll be more cautious for a while.”

  She shivered. “I hope he is cautious from now on.”

  Lance chuckled. “He’s a growing boy. He’s meant to know no fear.” He looked at her. “Don’t steal that innocence from him.”

  “What are you afraid of?” she whispered and then ducked her head as though embarrassed at the question. “I beg your pardon. I have no right to ask you something so personal.”

  He shrugged. “You have every right to ask, just as I have every right not to answer.” He waited as he saw disappointment glint her eyes. After a long moment, he whispered, “Losing everything again. I don’t know if I’d survive it again.”

  She froze, and then her eyes filled. “I beg your pardon. I’m not generally so insensitive.”

  Lance leaned away from the paddock as though stretching out his arms and then stood straight again. “I don’t expect you to remember my sorrows, Miss Eleanor. They are burdensome enough for me.” He paused and then whispered, “What do you fear?”

  She took a stuttering breath. “Trusting a man who doesn’t merit my regard.”

  He looked at her for so long she flushed. “I fear your husband was a disappointment, Miss Eleanor.”

  She scoffed and shook her head. “I know Zachariah has already told you about how we came to be here at this ranch. That Alan won it at a game of cards.” She looked at the outline of the mountains visible under the moon’s light. “I give thanks every day for that stroke of luck. Otherwise, I fear I’d be toiling away as a seamstress or in a mill.”

  “With land, there is security.” He watched her nod. “At least you are secure in your ownership of your ranch. You don’t have to worry about a bank coming after you.” He frowned as she shifted in discomfort. “Miss Eleanor?”

  She looked at him and gripped the paddock railing more firmly. “We do have a loan.”

  He leaned toward her as though he hadn’t heard her correctly. “I beg your pardon?” he asked. “How? Why?”

  She firmed her jaw and looked straight ahead. “Did you imagine that, from the time he won the ranch to the time he died, he never gambled again?” She made a derisive noise. “He gambled frequently. When he was low. When he felt invincible. When…” She closed her eyes as though in defeat. “He never needed a reason. He had losses that had to be covered. And I refused to sell any of the land. He would have whittled us down to twenty acres.” She shuddered. “I give thanks every day that he never bartered the ranch.”

  Lance covered her hand w
ith his. “I never imagined what that would be like.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. “How were you to know?” She took a deep breath as she attempted to allow the calming evening air to soothe her. “No one was ever to know. We were the happy couple, with the perfect children, living on a ranch we never should have been able to afford. Our life was supposed to be perfect.”

  He gave a small tsking sound at the bitterness in her voice. “But it was far from perfect, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “From the moment we married, it was a struggle. It should have been wonderful. I never thought to see him, walking down the lane, thin and battered, but alive, after the war. I thought I’d mourn his memory forever. Instead …” She rubbed at her forehead with her free hand. “I shouldn’t burden you with this.”

  “It’s not a burden, Eleanor,” he whispered. He met her gaze as he said her name. “I hope you will consider me your friend as well as your ranch hand.”

  She smiled shyly at him. “I do,” she said in a soft voice. “I’ve held these truths so tight that it’s hard to let them out. I was taught to never let others see the truth of what I was feeling. To never let my disappointment show.”

  Lance watched her with tenderness. “You are a survivor. And you have thrived. You should take great pride in that.”

  She sniffled. “Yes, but I live in fear that my boys will have an overwhelming desire for risk. For gambling. As their father did.” She shuddered at the thought. “And that fear keeps me awake at night.”

  He stroked a hand over her forearm. “All you can do is teach them well. And trust that they will follow in the example that you set for them.” He paused as they listened to the evening noises of coyotes crying in the distance and an owl hooting. “What do they say about you in town?” He gripped her arm as she attempted to jerk away. “I mean no disrespect. I merely want to understand so I know what nonsense it is and can refute it.”