Sherwood nodded to Gwen. “Thank you, Mrs. McKinley, for the delicious meal.” Then he turned toward Griff. “And you, sir. Thank you for your hospitality. I hope you won’t regret having me as one of your employees.”
“I’m sure that I won’t,” the older man answered.
Sherwood didn’t try to hide his limp or to walk faster than was bearable when he and Morgan left the house. He was too tired to make the effort. And besides, he didn’t care what anyone thought of him just now.
They still couldn’t think less of him than his own father did. That much was clear.
FOUR
Although invited to accompany the Arlingtons into Bethlehem Springs the next morning to attend church services, Sherwood declined. The last thing he needed was to meet more strangers. Besides, all he wanted to do was sleep. Sleep and hopefully wake up to find the past few weeks were nothing but a bad dream.
None of it was a bad dream, of course. When he opened his eyes late in the morning, he was still lying on an uncomfortable, narrow bed in the bunkhouse. The three cowboys who worked for the Arlingtons—the ones who would be his roommates for the next year—were nowhere to be seen.
He stared up at the ceiling and wondered how he’d allowed his life to reach this low point. When he’d joined the army, he’d thought he would return from France a hero. He’d thought he would make his parents proud of him. But war hadn’t been quite the adventure he’d expected. If he hadn’t been wounded, perhaps…
He closed his eyes, remembering the first time he’d looked in a mirror while in the hospital. His gut had twisted at the sight of the ragged, angry scar, and he’d known in an instant how the young ladies of his acquaintance would react when they saw him. If he’d been the heir to a dukedom and its fortune, perhaps the disfigurement wouldn’t matter to a female in want of a husband. But he was not the heir.
His looks hadn’t mattered to Lady Langley, nor had his limp. The beautiful divorcée wasn’t looking for a husband, only evenings filled with fun, and as long as he was paying for the entertainment, she was content to be with him. But he wasn’t fool enough to think she missed him now that he was gone. Nor, truth be told, did he miss her or any of the other hangers-on. Deep down he knew that’s why he hadn’t fought his father’s decision to send him to America. Because he was tired of the kind of life he’d lived since his release from the hospital. Or maybe he was tired of living altogether. Better if he’d died on the battlefield. Perhaps then his father could have been proud of him.
Sherwood’s stomach growled as he sat up. No surprise that he was famished. He hadn’t eaten much supper and he’d slept through breakfast. He hoped he would find something in the kitchen to tide him over until the next meal was served.
Without glancing in the mirror above the basin, he washed his face and combed his hair. Then he donned clean clothes and set off for the main house. He’d been informed that the ranch hands took their meals in the kitchen when they weren’t out on the range. Not a new experience for him, actually. Many a time during his youth he’d joined Davis Bottomley, the overseer of Dunacombe Manor, for tea in the kitchen. There’d been a wealth of information in that man. It was the overseer, not the duke, who made the Dunacombe lands thrive. Sherwood had understood that even as a schoolboy.
Arriving at the side entrance, Sherwood rapped on the door. “I say, is anyone about?” When no answer came, he stepped inside.
The kitchen wasn’t anywhere near as large as the one at Dunacombe, but it was good sized all the same. The room was tidy, and there was no indication that breakfast had been prepared a few hours earlier.
He spied a loaf of bread on the counter opposite him and headed for it. Taking up a knife, he cut himself a slice, slathered it with butter, and began to eat.
“I see you’ve made yourself at home,” someone said from behind him.
Sherwood turned. The man in the doorway looked to be in his fifties or sixties. Average in height, he had a shiny pate and a generous paunch. The white apron tied around his waist identified him as the cook.
“You must be the fella from England.”
He nodded. “Sherwood Statham.”
“Everybody calls me Cookie.”
“Delighted to meet you.”
The older man chuckled as he pointed toward the large table on the opposite side of the room. “Sit yourself down and I’ll whip up some grub. That bread won’t be enough to hold you until suppertime. Griff and Cleo always have Sunday dinner in town with Morgan and Gwen.”
“That’s good of you, Cookie. I’m obliged.” He walked to the table and sat as he’d been told.
Still chuckling—Sherwood didn’t know what the man found so amusing but was certain it had something to do with him—Cookie went to work. It wasn’t long before he had a concoction simmering in a skillet. The scent of onions soon filled the air, and Sherwood’s stomach growled in complaint. He might not have acquired a taste for American cuisine, but at the moment he’d be glad for whatever Cookie prepared.
Cleo and her father arrived at the McKinley home on Skyview Street before her sister and brother-in-law. Looked like All Saints Presbyterian had run longer than Bethlehem Springs Methodist. That was fine with Cleo. It would give her a chance to get out of her dress and into some comfortable clothes.
But changing into trousers and a shirt wasn’t her only reason for wanting a moment alone in one of the upstairs bedrooms. It was the need to quiet her thoughts that drove her up the steps in such a hurry.
Tyler King had attended the Methodist service that morning. Tyler and his very pregnant wife. It was the first time Cleo had known him to darken a church door. Why did it have to be her church’s door?
Not that she still cared for Tyler. Mostly what she felt was foolish for falling for his charm. But seeing him again was unexpected. It stirred up memories of the hurt she’d felt following his betrayal. Six months had passed since he quit his job at the Arlington ranch, and his path hadn’t crossed Cleo’s since. But she knew what had happened to him and to Henrietta. Gossip, like bad news, rode a fast horse.
Lord, I sure wish You’d send me someone to love. Someone who’s right for me.
Clothes changed, she took a moment to fold her Sunday dress and place it, along with her best shoes, in the satchel that had held her jeans and boots on the way into town.
Voices drifted to her up the stairs, and she knew Gwen and Morgan were home at last. She finger combed her short hair away from her face, then went downstairs, where she found the family, including Morgan’s younger sister, Daphne, in the front parlor.
“Hello, Cleo,” Daphne said, a twinkle in her eye. “Morgan tells me you have a new ranch hand working for you.”
“Don’t remind me.”
Daphne laughed. “Well, tell me about him. What’s he like? My brother has completely failed to satisfy my curiosity.”
“Nothing much to tell.”
“But he’s an English lord. Don’t you find him even a little fascinating?”
Cleo rolled her eyes. “No.”
Daphne turned toward Cleo’s father. “Mr. Arlington, it seems I must beg for an invitation to visit your ranch. It appears that shall be the only way I can see Lord Sherwood for myself.”
“Dear girl, you know you never need an invitation to come out to see us. You’re a member of our family now and always welcome.”
The conversation turned then, as it did every Sunday, to the sermons that had been preached that morning in the Methodist and Presbyterian churches. Gwen and their father loved to discuss theology.
Most Sundays, Cleo was willing to be drawn into the conversation, but today her thoughts remained stuck on the so-called ranch hand who had piqued Daphne’s interest. What was she going to do with him? She understood from her father that he was to be treated like any other cowboy who worked for them. But at the same time, she was supposed to make allowances for his injuries. Even without them, she figured he wasn’t cut out for manual labor. Probably hadn’t done a lick
of work his entire life. And that meant she would end up doing her chores and his too.
She looked at Morgan. You’ll owe me for this, brother-in-law.
Sherwood entered the barn, pausing inside the doorway. After his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the interior, he saw that the barn held eight stalls, four to the left and four to the right. Only three of them were occupied. Two contained mares with young foals. The third held a horse with its left hind leg wrapped in bandages, its weight shifted to the right. A large room near the entrance held saddles and other tack.
Not all that different from the stables at Dunacombe—except the manor employed eight or ten men to tend the three dozen horses housed within and to keep the tack cleaned and polished at all times.
Sherwood closed his eyes and drew in a slow, deep breath, the smell of horses and leather and hay bringing with it more pleasant memories. He’d been three when he sat astride his first pony, twelve the first time he’d been allowed to ride his horse with the hounds. He’d become an accomplished horseman, and he had an eye for good horseflesh—which had at one time helped him win more often than he lost when gambling at the races.
What he wouldn’t give for another chance to take part in a fox hunt. He’d loved to ride a powerful steed over tall hedges and wide brooks again. But those days were behind him. He might still manage to mount a horse, but not without great effort and even more pain. Better to keep both feet on the ground.
He walked to the stall that held the injured horse, a tall sorrel mare with a star on her forehead and white stockings on her forelegs. When Sherwood drew near, she sent him a mournful gaze that communicated her pain, then lowered her head toward the floor and huffed out a breath, blowing a hole in the straw.
“I know just how you feel,” he said softly.
There must have been a sound from the yard, for all the horses looked toward the barn entrance. Sherwood followed suit in time to see the Arlingtons roll into view in a buggy. Cleo was once again dressed in denim trousers. Had she worn them to church? That would never pass muster in England. For himself, Sherwood avoided religious services as often as he possibly could. Then there was no need to worry about acceptable attire.
Cleo stepped out of the buggy, said something to her father, and then walked into the barn. She didn’t notice Sherwood at first. When she did, she stopped short. “Didn’t expect to find you in here.”
Where had she expected him to be? Still lying on that miserable bed in the bunkhouse?
“Just as well,” she continued as she moved closer. “This is where you’ll spend a good deal of your time while you’re working with me.”
“With you?”
“That’s right. I’ve been given the task of turning you into a ranch hand.” She gave him a look that said they were both destined to fail.
“Miss Arlington, I am not afraid of hard work.”
She opened the gate and entered the stall. “Is that right?” She ran her hand over the horse’s back, down its rump, and finally squatted and began to unwrap the bandages on its left leg. “Well, Woody, I guess we’ll find out, won’t we.”
She used that name to irritate him. He was sure of it. And it was starting to work. Perhaps it was time he put her in her place.
But before he could come up with a suitable reply, she spoke again. “How about we get started right now?” She jerked her head toward the barn entrance. “Bring me some bandages, a clean cloth, and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide. You’ll find everything on the table in the tack room there.”
Sherwood gritted his teeth. He didn’t much care for being ordered around by a girl in trousers.
I should have stayed in England.
The duke would have disowned him, but at least Sherwood had friends he could have imposed on for a time. Or did he? Most of the men who could be called true friends, past or present, were either fighting in Europe or moldering in coffins in the ground. His recent companions weren’t true friends. They were men—and women—who hoped he would loan them gambling money or who expected him to buy their drinks while idling about in clubs. No, he’d hadn’t had a choice but to come here, and now he hadn’t a choice but to stay.
In the tack room, he located a stack of clean cloths, a roll of bandages, and the dark bottle of hydrogen peroxide on a tall table. Gathering them up, he returned to the stall. By the time he arrived, Cleo had finished unwrapping the mare’s leg, revealing a long row of stitches from thigh to cannon.
“What happened to her?” He held out the supplies.
“She tangled with something on the range. Not sure what. Luckily we found her while the wound was still fresh.” She opened the bottle of peroxide and poured the liquid onto the cloth. “She’ll be stiff for a while, but she won’t have any lasting effects.”
“That is lucky.”
Cleo glanced up at him, color flooding her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…I didn’t mean—” She broke off, pressing her lips together as her gaze dropped to his right leg, then returned to the horse’s wound.
It took him a moment to understand what had caused her embarrassment. The mare’s leg. His leg. Lucky horse. Not-so-lucky Sherwood.
His spine stiffened. His voice struck like flint. “I don’t want or need your pity, Miss Arlington.”
Cleo drew in a breath as she stood and faced him. “No, I don’t reckon you do. I misspoke and I’m sorry for it.”
“Keep your apologies, please.”
Huffy, wasn’t he?
“I would appreciate it if you would treat me as you would any other employee.”
Who was he trying to kid? His manner clearly said he thought himself better than everyone else. But she’d promised her dad she would try her best to be kind to him. Even if it killed her.
“It’s obvious you don’t need my help here, Miss Arlington. Have you something else for me to do?”
“Call me Cleo. All the boys do.”
His shrug said he didn’t care what she was called.
If he was trying to get under her skin, he was doing a right good job of it. “It’s Sunday. We try not to ask our hands to do much work on Sundays.” She glanced toward the other occupied stalls. “But if you’d get clean water for those mares and foals, I’d be obliged. Pump’s outside those doors.” She jerked her head toward the open door at the opposite end of the barn.
“I’ll see to it at once.”
Cleo watched Woody walk to the nearest of the two stalls, enter it to retrieve the water bucket, and then carry the pail toward the door. His gait was uneven and pain was written on his face, but there was something proud about the way he carried himself, something that told her he’d meant what he’d said. He didn’t want her pity. He didn’t want to be given special treatment.
Reluctantly, she allowed her estimation of him to go up a notch.
FIVE
Cleo’s charitable feelings toward Sherwood Statham were short lived.
She and her father had finished eating their breakfast the next morning when he said, “You need to take Sherwood into town to buy some work clothes. He needs Levi’s and a good pair of boots and some different shirts. Probably a hat too. I saw him in the kitchen earlier, and he’s still wearing dress trousers and a white shirt. I think that’s all he brought with him.”
“I was going to work with more of those mustangs today.”
“They can wait until you get back. It won’t take long.”
A good two or three hours, Cleo would bet.
“Well, if you object, I suppose he could take the buggy into town by himself.”
Oh, sure. Send Woody off on his own, then have to go looking for him after he got lost. That would waste even more time than going to town in the first place. “I’ll take him.”
“Good.” Her father smiled. “It’ll be good for the two of you to get better acquainted. He’s feeling unsure of himself. It’s written all over him, clear as day. Think how you’d feel if I sent you off to England to live with a duke.”
Cleo wanted to say that she and Woody would have plenty of time to get acquainted, seeing as how she’d been made his supervisor—the absolute last thing she wanted to be—but she’d already lost that argument with her dad. No point bringing it up again. “Any supplies we need, as long as we’re headed into town?”
“Nothing I know of, but check with Cookie.”
Cleo pushed her chair back from the table, wiped her mouth with the napkin, and stood. She carried her breakfast dishes into the kitchen, half expecting to see Woody still there, lingering over his food, but he was gone. Only Cookie remained.
She set her plate and glass on the counter next to the sink. “I’m going into town, Cookie. Dad said to ask you if you need any supplies while I’m there.”
“As a matter of fact, there are a few things we could use.”
“Write them down for me, will you? I’ll check back as soon as I’ve got the horses hitched to the buckboard.”
“Sure thing.”
“Where’s the dude?”
“Sherwood? I think he went back to the bunkhouse.”
“Thanks.”
She headed out the back door and crossed the yard. The bunkhouse door was open to the morning air, and through the screen she saw Woody leaning a shoulder against the wall, shifting his weight off his bad leg while talking to Stitch Calhoon and Randall Thompson.
She rapped once on the doorjamb. “Excuse me, boys. I need a word with Woody.”
The narrowing of his eyes told her how much he disliked the nickname.
“Sure, Cleo. Come on in.” Stitch stepped to the doorway and pushed open the screen. “Randall and I were just leavin’.”
Cleo moved into the bunkhouse and nodded as Stitch and Randall filed out. Then she looked at Woody. “Dad wants me to take you into town to buy yourself some clothes.” She pointed at his trousers. “You can’t wear those fancy duds while you’re working on a ranch.”
“I am aware that these are not suitable,” he answered, sounding as formal as his clothes looked, “but I am afraid they will have to do. My funds have run rather thin at present.”
The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs Collection Page 25
