by Stacy Henrie
“Things aren’t always so black-and-white,” Tate said, his gaze falling away. “Some heroes fail and some villains prove far less dastardly than one might think.”
Essie sniffed. “Not in my books.”
“I love a good hero,” Isabelle gushed, fluttering her eyelashes at Tate.
“Even if he turns out to be a villain?” he countered. The hint of bitterness in his tone surprised Essie, though Isabelle didn’t seem to notice.
Instead the other girl smiled. “As long as it’s true love...”
Essie resisted the urge to gag, the food in her stomach souring. There was no way she could eat another bite. Not while Isabelle kept making eyes at Tate and cooing about true love and heroes. That was all well and good in fiction, but Essie hated watching the scene play out in real life. Thankfully, Fletcher changed the topic of conversation when he asked how things on the ranch were faring. She wanted to hug him in gratitude.
Still, it was several laborious minutes before Mrs. Paige announced it was time to clear away supper. “We’ll get started on the dishes, if you boys want to collect yourselves water for a bath and a shave out in the bunkhouse. Then and only then are you welcome to join us women in the parlor.”
Most of the men fingered the growth on their chins with a laugh or a smile, but not Tate. He seemed to be trying to tell Essie something with his eyes, but she couldn’t figure out what. Ignoring him, she stood and picked up her plate.
“You’re welcome to wash up, as well, Essie.” Mrs. Paige began gathering the dishes into a stack. “We can put the tub in your room. And I think Isabelle has a dress or two you may borrow.”
The younger girl wrinkled her nose as she shoved back her chair. “You can keep them. I’m not going to want them back.”
Essie swallowed a retort to the other girl’s baited comment about her appearance. Or the lack thereof. Her traveling dress and jacket were covered with three days’ worth of trail dust. So was her hastily-braided hair that she felt sure still held a few tiny sticks from sleeping on the ground. But she wasn’t here to dazzle anyone with her beauty. She was here to save her writing career.
Standing, Tate approached her from the other side of the table. “Essie, can I have a word?”
She grabbed up her plate and cup and shook her head. “I’m going to help clean up.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Mrs. Paige said as she moved toward the kitchen door.
“No, I insist. I can wash up later.”
“You can’t avoid me forever,” Tate murmured, his hand coming to rest for a moment on her elbow. The warmth of it seeped through her sleeve, but instead of calming her as his touch had before, this time it refueled her anger.
Pulling her arm away from his grip, she replied in a low voice, “I can certainly try. Besides, I don’t need to hear any more. I’ve seen enough to know what’s going on.” She threw a pointed glance at Isabelle, who followed after her mother, her hips sashaying a little too much to be natural.
“It isn’t what you think...”
“Why should it matter what I think?” she countered. “Good night, Mr. Tex.”
He let her go, much to her relief. But Essie still felt a painful hollow in her chest as she stayed in the kitchen, drying dishes. The ache was made worse by Isabelle’s incessant prattling that centered on Tate. How handsome he still looked. How nice it was to see him again. How he’d promised to come back someday and he had.
By the time the last of the supper things had been dried and put away, Essie’s head hurt and exhaustion overwhelmed her. But she didn’t want to forgo a bath for sleep.
“Do you mind if I take that bath now?” she asked Mrs. Paige. Winnifred was in the dining room wiping the table, but Isabelle had, thankfully, disappeared outside. Probably to see Tate. Essie forced herself not to frown at the thought. It shouldn’t—it didn’t—matter how much time the other girl spent with him.
“Let me start heating some water and then we’ll carry up the bathtub.” Mrs. Paige filled two kettles from the pump inside and set them on to boil. Then she wrestled a large tub out from behind the stove. Essie grabbed one end and helped her lug it up the back stairs to the second floor.
“Men don’t understand what trail life can do to a woman,” Mrs. Paige said with a shake of her head. “How much she misses the niceties of a real home. Course, even they can’t resist something other than camp food and the hard ground to sleep on.” She chuckled as if she knew the great mysteries of the outlaw life. Maybe she did. Clearly she had some connection to outlaws, to allow them to use her home as a refuge.
Essie repositioned her hold on the heavy tub. “Have they ever brought a woman here before?”
“No.” She backed into the open doorway of one of the bedrooms. “My girls were a bit surprised to see you ride up with them,” she said with a light laugh. “I think they were worried you’d stolen the hearts of their men.”
Winnifred had looked worried and surprised—Isabelle hadn’t cared about anything or anyone but Tate. Essie’s cheeks warmed at the unkind thought and Mrs. Paige’s assumption. “I’m only here to interview them, I assure you. Once I’m finished, I’ll be heading home.”
They set the tub on the floor in the middle of the room. “Where’s home?”
For a moment Essie’s thoughts filled with images of the ranch and her family. But she pushed them aside. She’d made a new home, a good home, for herself. “Evanston.”
“Had you met Tex before?”
Essie shook her head. “No, ma’am. Not until three days ago. How come?”
Mrs. Paige glanced out the window, her hands on her hips. Then she shrugged. “Just curious. The two of you act as if you’ve known each other longer than a few days.”
Unsure how to respond, Essie kept quiet. That morning she would have said she felt as if she’d known Tate for weeks, but she’d been wrong about him.
“I can’t put my finger on it, but he’s different than he was the last time he rode through here.”
“Different how?” Essie asked more out of politeness than interest. She didn’t want to talk about Tate anymore. For all she cared, he and Isabelle could run off together and she wouldn’t mind one bit.
The older woman gave a self-conscious laugh. “I don’t know, exactly. Last time he was more charismatic and certainly more attentive to Isabelle.”
Essie refrained from stating her opinion of his attentiveness to Isabelle. After all, he hadn’t looked too uncomfortable during their kiss in the yard. Just the thought of it resurrected her earlier anger. Still, she did find it interesting that Mrs. Paige’s opinion of Tate coincided with her own and contrasted with what Essie had read in the newspapers.
“Perhaps he’s more trail-weary this time,” Mrs. Paige said, moving toward the door. “Winny and I will bring up the water and a clean dress for you.”
“Thank you. May I help with the water?”
Mrs. Paige waved her away. “You already helped with the dishes. Just make yourself at home now.” She disappeared into the hallway.
Moving to the window, Essie pushed aside the curtains to look down into the yard below. A few cowhands moved around, but there was no sign of Fletcher or his men or Tate. Not that she was looking for him.
She let the curtains fall back into place and turned around to study her room for the night. It was simply furnished but boasted pretty wallpaper and an iron bedstead. She fingered the beautifully sewn quilt, thinking of her mother. When Mrs. Vanderfair hadn’t been cooking or cleaning, she’d had a needle and fabric in her hands. Essie could sew a decent-looking stitch, but she hadn’t inherited her mother’s remarkable sewing abilities as her older sisters had. Clearly sewing had been to her mother what words and stories were to Essie.
The realization brought a pang of sadness that they hadn’t understood that about each oth
er when Essie had been living at home. But she also felt a pinch of hope that perhaps someday they could find common ground in their shared love of creating.
A knock sounded at the partially open door. “Come in,” Essie called.
Winnifred entered the room, a large kettle in hand. She shot Essie a smile and poured the steaming water into the tub. “Mother has another kettle-full she’s bringing up. And I’ll go get a dress for you.”
Mrs. Paige came into the room as her daughter exited. “There’s soap on the bureau there, and I’ll pour some of this into that pitcher so you can wash your face.”
“That sounds wonderful. Thank you ever so much.”
“Truth be told, it’s nice to have another woman around. We don’t get much female company here. Not like when Jett and I were first married and living closer to town.” A wistful expression settled on her pretty face.
Winnifred returned with a pile of clothes and placed them on the bed. The dress she’d chosen was simple in design, but Essie liked the cheery blue color and the sprigs of leaves covering the fabric.
“We’ll leave you to it,” Mrs. Paige said, motioning for Winnifred to follow her. “There’s a brush in one of the drawers if you need one.”
“I actually have my own, in my valise.” In her shock and frustration over Tate, she’d completely forgotten to bring her bag inside. “It must still be with my horse, though.”
Mrs. Paige led Winnifred into the hallway. “Winny will get your bag,” her mother volunteered, “and leave it outside your door.”
After thanking them again, Essie shut the door and went to test the water in the tub. It was the perfect temperature, though it wouldn’t stay that way for long. Good thing growing up in a large family had taught her to wash and scrub quickly. And it was a habit Essie hadn’t been able to shake, even after three years of living on her own.
In no time at all, she’d finished and was doing up the last button on her borrowed dress when she heard Winnifred outside the door. Essie crossed the room and opened the door to find the girl setting the valise against the wall. “Thank you for getting my bag.”
Winnifred jerked to a standing position then laughed. “Did you even take a bath?”
“Yes,” Essie said with a smile as she picked up her valise. “I’m one of nine children. I can wash in three minutes or less.”
“One of nine? I can’t imagine.”
Essie moved back into the room and pulled her brush from her bag. The scent of soap floated off her hair as she began brushing through the wet tangles. How glorious it felt to have clean hair. “You can come in, if you like,” she said to Winnifred when the girl hesitated in the hallway.
“If you’re sure you don’t mind.” She took a seat on the bed. “You have pretty hair.”
Spinning to face her, the brush motionless in her hand, Essie studied the girl’s expression. Winnifred didn’t appear to be teasing. “You really think so? It’s not quite as lovely a color as my sisters’, but it’s what God gave me.”
“Washed and brushed like that, it’s a real nice shade of blond.” Winnifred splayed her hands on the quilt and gave the bed a little bounce, likely unaware of how much her sincere compliment meant to Essie. “I think Isabelle is a little jealous of you.”
“Of me?” Essie resumed brushing her hair. She certainly couldn’t compete with the other girl in terms of beauty, though she had hoped Tate would appreciate a girl with more sense and propriety. “Why would she be jealous of me?”
Winnifred glanced up, an almost impish smile on her face. “She didn’t like the way Tex kept looking at you.”
Frowning, Essie turned to face the mirror. Had Tate been watching her through dinner? Every time she’d looked up, he’d seemed too consumed with Isabelle’s attention to notice anyone else. But if he had been looking at her, what was the reason? Regret? Frustration that she refused to talk to him? Or was it something more?
A flutter of hope filled her heart, too strong to snuff out right away. But practicality eventually pushed it back down. She liked Tate—as a friend—and she hated the thought that he’d lied to her. Still, their relationship could never be anything more than respectful friendship.
As if thinking something similar herself, Winnifred asked, “What do you think of Fletcher?”
Essie pulled the brush through her hair several times, considering how to answer. “I don’t know him...not very well,” she responded truthfully. “What do you think of him?”
The girl rose to her feet and went to stand by the window. “He’s different when he’s here, or so I’ve heard. Less intense and angry. He can be downright sweet and helpful when he wants to be.”
Fighting a look of disbelief, Essie simply nodded. She would have to take Winnifred’s word when it came to Fletcher.
“But he’s not the only one I like.” She parted the curtains to stare down into the yard. “Our ranch foreman, Luke, would like to court me.”
“What have you told him?”
Winnifred shrugged, her smile sad. “I told him I didn’t know what I wanted. I love Fletcher, but there are times I’m certain I love Luke, too.” She brushed at her eyes. “It’s all so confusing.”
Essie set down her brush and went to place a comforting hand on the other girl’s shoulder. “What does your mother advise?”
“Oh, you know mothers.” Winnifred gave an embittered laugh. “She doesn’t want me to live a life as the wife of an outlaw. And I understand why.” Essie could somewhat relate. Her mother and father hadn’t wanted her to move so far away and live on her own. “If I marry Luke, we can stay here and he has a job for life on the ranch. I also wouldn’t have to live every day wondering if Fletch will make it home or not.”
“And yet?” Essie prompted gently.
Winnifred pushed out a sigh and turned from the window. “And yet I love them both and I can’t decide.”
She gave Winnifred’s arm a soft squeeze, not envying the girl’s decision. While she knew she could never marry an outlaw herself, the heart was a fickle master. Her feelings for Tate were evidence of that. “Keep thinking and praying about it. You’ll know what to do.”
“Thank you for listening.” Her smile no longer drooped, to Essie’s relief. At that moment, a tune floated through the open doorway. “Sounds like Mother’s at the piano, which means the men must be back. We should go down to the parlor.”
“You go ahead. I’m going to finish with my hair.”
Nodding, Winnifred left the room.
Essie brushed through her hair once more then studied herself in the mirror. Should she braid it or pin it up? She liked how it felt, hanging long and clean down her back, so perhaps she would simply pull it away from her face. Remembering a ribbon she’d tucked into her valise weeks ago, she fished it out, tying back half of her hair and leaving the rest to fall past her shoulders.
The piano tunes, accompanied by gregarious singing, grew louder as she made her way downstairs to the parlor. Through the open door, she could see Mrs. Paige at the piano. Essie slipped into the room. Her gaze wandered over those assembled until it found Tate leaning against the window frame.
Gone were his beard and hat, giving Essie an unobstructed view of his clean-shaved jaw and piercing blue eyes. She swallowed in an attempt to bring moisture to her suddenly dry throat. The descriptions about his personality might have been exaggerated in the newspapers but not those about his handsome looks. That assessment was entirely correct. Little wonder, then, that he was attracted to dark-haired beauties like Isabelle.
At that moment, Isabelle rose from her seat beside the piano and went to slip her arm through Tate’s. He threw her what looked to be a tight smile, but he didn’t shrug her off, either. Essie glanced away from the lovely picture they made, pain pinching hard at her heart. It wasn’t like she wanted to be on the arm of an outlaw.
Then why the sudden swimming of tears in her eyes?
She pressed her lips together and exited the room. Half-blind, she stepped quickly through the front door to the porch beyond. Sinking onto the top step, she allowed the stiff breeze to push the tears from her eyes.
She hadn’t had a real cry since Harrison had accused her of not being serious enough about life and told her she’d end up an old maid if she didn’t quit writing her “silly” novels. And she didn’t plan to start weeping now. There was no use wasting tears on another man, especially an outlaw.
* * *
“I’ve got to take care of something,” Tate murmured quietly to Isabelle, who clung to him like a bur he couldn’t shake.
She pursed her lips in a pout. “You’ll miss the singing. And, besides, you’re leaving tomorrow. I was hoping to have more time together.”
Tate stifled an audible groan. Exhaustion nagged at him—not from their ride earlier but from his efforts to keep up the charade of being his brother and Isabelle’s outlaw beau. Without a clue what Tex had told this girl, he couldn’t keep up the pretense of a future together. Even if he’d known what to say, the words probably would have stuck in his throat. She wasn’t the girl he wanted to make promises to.
He couldn’t tell Essie the whole truth, but he wanted her to know that he and Isabelle weren’t a couple. The tortured look in Essie’s green-brown eyes right before she’d fled the room had pierced him straight through his chest and propelled him to act. Or at least try. She’d been dodging his efforts ever since they’d arrived at the ranch.
Giving Isabelle a patient smile, he slipped her hand from his arm and gave it a friendly squeeze. It struck him then that this woman’s touch and lovely porcelain face elicited none of the warmth and happiness that Essie’s did.
“I’m sorry if I led you on tonight, Isabelle.” He kept his gaze leveled on hers. “You caught me by surprise in the yard earlier.” Complete surprise. “I can’t reveal all that’s happened since last time we met, but I think it’s best if you forget me.”
