“I’m telling you, we oughta be fighting right now. I don’t care what that Sussex Pledge is about. We oughta be over there.”
“But the Germans have agreed to stop sinking liners and merchantmen that aren’t resisting them.”
“We shouldn’t even be talking to ’em. Oughta throw ’em out of the country. Spies. I’m tellin’ you. The Germans livin’ in America are all spies.”
“I’m afraid I don’t agree, Mr. Smith. But here’s somebody who knows a thing or two about fighting the Germans. Mr. Statham, come over here, if you don’t mind. Settle something for us.”
Sherwood had caught enough of the conversation to know he didn’t want to become involved, but he saw no way to escape. Reluctantly he walked toward the counter.
“Mr. Statham here’s from England, and I learned he fought in France before he was wounded.” Bert Humphrey, owner of the mercantile, patted him on the back as if they were long-lost friends. “What do you think, Mr. Statham? Shouldn’t America be fighting alongside the Allies? If we’d get in there, we could bring the whole thing to an end in a few weeks.”
How many times in the early days of the war had Sherwood heard someone say almost those same exact words? In August of 1914 nearly everyone in England had thought it would be over by Christmas. Almost two years and thousands upon thousands of casualties later, there was no end in sight. The position of the Western Front seemed rarely to change from week to week or month to month, no matter how many brave men fought and died trying to win a battle.
“A little American ingenuity. That’s what’s called for,” said the youngest of the three other men. “We can end what the Germans started.”
Oh, the bravado. The self-confidence. The swaggering, bragging dialogue of the young, of those who knew nothing.
“Well, Mr. Statham,” Bert said. “What do you think?”
“I’m sure your government is using every diplomatic means at their disposal to assure the safety of its citizens.”
The younger man grunted. “Who needs diplomats? All they do is talk. The Germans have sunk ships and killed Americans. They’re the ones who started this war. We shouldn’t be wasting time on words. We should give them what they deserve. We should drive them back to Germany with their tails between their legs.”
Two years ago Sherwood had probably said something similar. But he had no stomach for it now. Not for war or talk of war. Looking at Bert, he said, “Mr. Arlington asked that I pick up a few supplies.” He handed the proprietor the list on a slip of paper. “If it’s all right, I will come back for them in half an hour.”
“Sure. That’s fine.”
Sherwood nodded toward the other two men. “Good day to you, sirs.”
When he was outside again, he paused on the sidewalk long enough to draw a deep breath. He hated the sudden racing of his heart, the cowardly dampness in the palms of his hands. For several weeks after arriving in America, he’d been able to keep memories of the war at bay. Even when the therapist at the spa was working with him, he hadn’t thought about what had caused his injuries. But yesterday, standing in the paddock with the sounds and the smells of the branding assaulting his senses, the details of the battlefield had returned with a vengeance. And now these ignorant men with their brave talk had done it again. He wanted to be free of it. He wanted to forget.
With a shake of his head, he turned on his heel and followed the sidewalk down Idaho Street until it met with Washington Street. Somewhere to the left of him must be the Methodist church. Yes, there it was. He could see the steeple beyond the rooftop of the Gold Mountain Restaurant. That gave him a little better idea of where he was.
He turned right on Washington, passing the hotel and the post office on the opposite side of the street and a bank, a shoe store, and a millinery shop on his right side. He stopped at the latter to look at the hats in the window facing Main Street. Stylish bonnets with feathers and ribbons were artfully displayed against a white cloth. He thought that brown hat would look rather nice on Daphne McKinley, and that dark rose one would flatter Gwen McKinley’s coloring. But the one he liked the best, that simple straw boater with its narrow brim and a blue ribbon that matched her eyes, would be perfect for Cleo in her—what had he heard her call it?—her Sunday-go-to-meetin’ dress.
The tension eased from his shoulders as Cleo’s image filled his thoughts. Picturing her in that straw hat—smiling, laughing, rolling her eyes at something he’d said or done—made it easier to forget other, less pleasant, things.
Raised voices carried to him from across the street. Near the entrance of the High Horse Men’s Club stood a man and woman, arguing. The woman was young and large with pregnancy. The man looked vaguely familiar to Sherwood. Where had he seen him before? And then it came to him. He’d seen him at New Hope the night of the grand opening. He was the fellow who’d upset Cleo.
Why? Sherwood wondered, just as he’d wondered that night but hadn’t asked. What was he to Cleo?
The woman turned her back to the man and held a handkerchief to her eyes.
“Criminy, Henrietta!” His words carried across the street. “Can’t you let me have a bit of peace? Just a little time alone. I come home to you, don’t I?”
A spat between husband and wife, it would seem.
Sherwood was about to turn away when the man looked in his direction, saw they’d been observed, and then seemed to recognize Sherwood. The fellow released a string of curses before spinning around and walking into the club without another word to his crying wife. Although Sherwood felt for the young woman, he decided it would be better if she didn’t catch him watching as her husband had. He moved on down the sidewalk.
Delicious odors wafted through the doorway of another restaurant, the South Fork, according to the lettering on the window. “World-Famous Pies” was the claim made below the name. Sherwood decided to go inside and see if the assertion was true.
Cleo waited at the station until the train pulled out. God willing, the cattle in those cars would bring top price at market. They’d better or else she would keep wondering at the wisdom of selling off cows that produced good calves year after year. She hoped her father had made the right decision, and she sure hoped he hadn’t made his decision based on Woody’s urgings. What did Woody know about cattle ranching, after all? Next to nothing.
Wanting something cold to drink to wash away the dust of the cattle drive, she rode Domino into Bethlehem Springs and stopped the gelding in front of the South Fork. After dismounting, she tied him to the hitching post, and then stepped onto the sidewalk. That was when she saw Henrietta King walking toward her. She was close enough for Cleo to see she’d been crying. Her eyes were watery, her cheeks damp, and her nose red.
When Henrietta saw Cleo, she stopped and lifted her chin, as if daring her to speak.
Cleo spoke anyway. “Good day, Mrs. King.”
“Miss Arlington.” Henrietta’s chin tilted upward another notch. She knew, apparently, that Tyler had courted Cleo at the same time he was seeing her. She knew and resented Cleo for it.
Cleo felt something unexpected: sympathy. She felt sorry for the girl. Sorry in more ways than she could enumerate. “How are you feeling? Well, I hope.”
“Okay, I reckon.” Henrietta looked down at her enlarged abdomen. “I’ll just be glad when this is over. It’s no fun.”
Cleo thought of her sister, of the perpetual joy she saw in Gwen’s eyes whenever the subject of her pregnancy arose. But then, Gwen and Morgan had married first and started their family second, quite the opposite of Tyler and Henrietta King.
“You’d better keep away from him, if’n you know what’s good for you.”
Cleo felt her eyes widen. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“He’s my husband. I’m Mrs. King, and I don’t want you or Tyler forgettin’ it.” Henrietta, her face now red with anger, clenched her hands into fists at her sides. “You keep away from him.”
“I’m not sure what you mean—” That was untru
e. She understood what Henrietta was suggesting. “But you’ve got my word, I’m not interested in seeing or talking to your husband. Any interest I had in Tyler King ended when the two of you got married.”
“Then why’s he always bringin’ you up to me? Throwin’ you in my face all the time. As if he was sweet on you.”
Cleo was stunned into silence. What could she say to that?
The door to the restaurant opened, drawing her gaze. She hoped Henrietta had the good sense not to repeat her insinuations in front of others. It was bad enough the two of them had had this discussion on the main street of town. All she could hope for now was that no one inside the South Fork or any other business had overheard what was said. She didn’t think their voices had been raised, but she couldn’t be sure.
To her surprise, Woody appeared in the restaurant doorway. “My dear Cleo, are you coming in or not?”
“I…Y-yes. I…I’m coming.” She looked at Henrietta. “Excuse me, Mrs. King. I…I hope things go well for you.” She turned on her heel and entered the restaurant.
Woody’s hand alighted on the small of her back. “Our table is over here.” He motioned to the one beside the window.
So that was how he’d seen her.
He pulled out a chair for her, then sat on the opposite side.
Cleo felt heat rise in her cheeks as she asked, “Did you hear what she said to me?”
“No.”
She breathed a sigh of relief.
“But I could see you were upset. This seemed the best way to be of service to you.”
She was silent for a while before saying, “That’s the second time you’ve come to my rescue.”
“Is it?”
“Remember the night of the party up at the resort?”
“Oh, that. It was nothing. I could tell the bloke was bothering you.”
“You’re wrong, Woody. It wasn’t nothing. It was a help to me. That time and this one too.”
Was that understanding she saw in his green eyes or just curiosity? She wished she knew.
The waitress arrived with a slice of pie and a glass of milk and set them in front of Woody. He looked at Cleo. “Would you like something? This is supposed to be world-famous.” He pointed at the pie while giving her a smile.
For some reason, the way he looked at her made the disagreeable minutes outside seem not quite as horrid. “I’d like a slice of that good lemon-crème pie, please,” she said to the waitress, “and a large glass of lemonade.”
Tart. Cleo preferred tart over sweet. Sherwood found it an interesting discovery. Right up there with learning that she wasn’t always sure of herself and that sometimes she appreciated the help of another. Even help from him.
Cleo and the other cowboys had driven the cattle from the ranch to the holding pens near the railroad station early this morning, and by now the livestock had been loaded into the cattle cars and were on their way to market. But while Cleo’s clothes still bore evidence of the drive, her face and hands were dirt free. She must have taken the time to clean up in the railroad station’s washroom. The cowboys she rode with most likely wouldn’t have done the same. It was just one way she was different from those with whom she worked.
“What brought you to town?” she asked, breaking into his musings. “Didn’t you go to the spa today?”
“Yes. I told Griff I would pick up supplies before I returned to the ranch. The wagon is over at the mercantile now.”
Cleo turned her gaze out the window. “I suppose we might as well ride back together when we’re done here.”
He grinned, pleased that she seemed to want to spend more time with him. Although why it should please him was a mystery.
That evening, Sherwood sat on a chair in the bunkhouse, spinning a coin on top of the table. “Stitch?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you know anyone named King?” The two men were alone, a good time for Sherwood to ask some questions of the older man.
“Yeah, I know him. Why do you ask?”
“I observed something in town this afternoon. Cleo met a Mrs. King, and the encounter seemed to upset her.”
Stitch joined Sherwood at the table. The expression on his wizened face was difficult to read.
“You needn’t tell me if you’d rather not.”
“No. I reckon there’s no reason you shouldn’t know the story.”
Sherwood placed his fingers over the spinning coin, dropping it to the table’s surface, his full attention now focused on Stitch.
“Tyler King came to work here at the ranch about a year ago. He wasn’t from around these parts. He was a good-lookin’, smoothtalkin’ cowboy, I’ll say that for him. Cleo took a shine to him, and he let her think he returned the feeling.” Stitch’s eyes narrowed and his voice hardened. “Only she wasn’t the only gal in these parts he set his sights on. He spread himself a little thin with the women, if you get my meaning.”
Of course. Why hadn’t he guessed the problem was romantic in nature? It was as plain as the nose on his face. The rascal had broken her heart.
“Got a young gal pregnant and was forced to marry her at the end of her father’s shotgun. He tried to say he wasn’t the baby’s father, but he’d been seen with her once too often for anybody to believe him. He was caught in a trap of his own makin’.”
“And Cleo?”
“Well, she tried not to let on, but she was hurtin’ for a time.”
Sherwood leaned forward. “Do you think she still cares for Tyler King?”
“Nope.” Stitch shook his head slowly. “Cleo’s too smart for that. She got a glimpse of his real character, and I reckon she’s right thankful she discovered what a scoundrel he was before things went any further between them.”
It surprised him, the relief he felt, knowing Cleo’s heart no longer yearned for a man who’d betrayed her trust. But had enough time passed that she might learn to care for someone else?
It was a question that would trouble him throughout the night.
SEVENTEEN
Cleo removed her Stetson and brushed her hair back from her face. Then she entered the municipal building and followed the hallway to the mayor’s office. Gwen’s secretary, a young fellow by the name of Adams, showed her in without delay.
“Cleo. This is a surprise.” Gwen came around her desk and hugged her sister. “What brings you to town today?”
“I’m training another horse and decided it was time for her to get a taste of town life. Then I decided, as long as I was here, I’d drop in and say howdy.”
“I’m glad you did.” She motioned to a couple of chairs and they both sat. “How’s Dad?”
“He’s doing lots better. He felt bad about not staying to eat with you and Morgan on Sunday, but he was done in.”
“You aren’t letting him do too much, are you?”
Cleo chuckled. “As if I could stop him if there was something he really wanted to do?”
“True, but I hope you try.”
Cleo tried plenty. Some days she felt like all she did was nag him to take it easy. It worried her that he hadn’t regained his full strength yet, but she wouldn’t let on as much to Gwen. One of them worrying about their father was enough. “Woody’s still keeping the accounts. I think Dad plans to leave it that way until Woody goes back to England.”
“That’s surprising. I thought Dad liked all that paperwork.”
“Me too. Guess he found out it was kind of nice to let someone else do it for a change.”
“Imagine if he’d asked you to do it.”
Cleo remembered her initial hurt after learning of their dad’s decision to put Woody in charge of the ranch accounts. How silly it had been of her to feel slighted, overlooked. She would have been a disaster. Her father’s choice had been the best for everyone concerned. “Good thing he didn’t, that’s all I can say.” She gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. “He likes Woody. He trusts him.” She did, too, she knew. As frustrating as he could be at times, there was no doubt Woody
was honest. And, truth be told, not quite as arrogant or pretentious as she’d first thought. He might be a bit of a dandy, but he was a hard-working one. His desire to help her father was obvious and sincere.
It was Gwen’s turn to laugh. “I can never get used to you calling him that. With his British accent and the dignified way he carries himself, even with a limp, he seems much more like a Lord Sherwood than a Woody.”
“I reckon there’s some truth in that,” Cleo conceded, “but I’m hoping he’ll seem more like Woody to everybody else by the time we send him back to England. That was the job I was given. Turn the dude into a cowboy.” She grinned as she pictured Woody in her mind, wearing Levi’s and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and a good pair of boots. So different from the way he’d looked when he arrived. “I’m having some success, if I do say so myself.”
“Cleopatra Arlington, I believe you’ve taken a liking to him.”
She felt her cheeks grow warm. “Don’t be silly.”
Gwen’s teasing smile vanished. “Oh, my. You do like him, don’t you?”
“’Course I like him. I like all the boys that work the ranch.”
“No. I think it’s more than that.” Her sister leaned forward on her chair, her gaze locked on Cleo’s face.
“You can think what you want, Gwennie. Doesn’t make it so.” She got to her feet. “I’d best get back to my horse. Don’t want her getting spooked by one of the motorcars going down Main Street. Confounded things.”
“Don’t be angry with me.” Gwen rose. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t upset me.” That was a bald-faced lie. “I’ve just got to get back to my work and leave you to yours.” She leaned forward and kissed her sister’s cheek. “See you on Thursday for lunch?”
“Of course. Morgan and I will be there at the usual time.”
Cleo hurried out of the office and the municipal building as fast as her legs would carry her and still not break into a run.
The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs Collection Page 34
