by Reina Torres
She felt her throat close and tears spring to her lashes. What must he think of her? Of her father? The stage company had certainly condemned him for his suffering.
But she saw a soft smile on his lips and a slight nod of his head. “I can take it from here.”
Delia could not have been more surprised than if the ground beneath her had opened up and swallowed her whole. With an answering nod she stepped back and waited.
Even though Ransom was only a scant few inches taller than her father, he easily lifted him and set him in the back of the wagon. Her father, unused to such treatment, grumbled but easily put it behind him, turning on his side and pillowing his hands beneath his cheek.
The soft clap of wood told Delia that the saloon door had been closed and the warm glow of light that had aided their descent to the ground sputtered out, leaving them in the glow of the moon.
“If you’d like,” Ransom met her eyes again and spoke slowly as if he was thinking through his words, “I can saddle my horse, and ride along.”
She started, shocked by his offer. Her hand reached out and grasped the side of the wagon.
“To help him into the house,” he continued on, with a hesitant shrug of his shoulders. “Or will there be someone-”
“James,” she blurted out his name before remembering what had happened earlier that morning, but there was no sense in correcting herself now, “my brother. He’ll help me get Pa inside.”
Drawing in one gasping breath after another, Delia moved around the wagon to the front. Gathering her skirts in one hand and taking hold of the wagon seat with the other, she managed to climb up without losing her shawl or her composure. Taking the reins in hand, she felt the leather in her hands and let the familiar texture ease some of the tension. Turning toward the soft tread of Ransom’s footsteps she looked down at him from the seat and tried to memorize his features with one last glance. “Thank you, Mr. McCain.” She heard the soft whisper of her voice and tried to do a bit better with her next breath. “I am so very grateful for your help.”
“Happy to help.” And the smile on his face said he told the truth. “I hope to see you soon, Miss Burroughs. It will be a comfort to see a friendly face on the trail.”
“And you shall have it,” she raised the reins and gave the horse a soft command, sending him forward, “good night.”
She heard his reply, but she had already set her gaze on the road ahead. It would only be too tempting to look back at him, but she couldn’t give in. If she had any worries about finding something to keep her awake and busy, it wasn’t a problem. Her mind was fixed on replaying the scene outside of the Saloon. Any ideas that she might have had about making a good impression on Ransom McCain had blown away like the wind that followed her out of town.
Chapter 4
When Levi walked into the barn the next morning, he wasn’t surprised to see Ransom at work in the stalls. Seated on a bale of hay, Clay worked on the tack. “Morning.”
They greeted him in turn before going back to their work. Levi stopped beside Jackson’s stall and gave the gelding a quick rub down his neck.
“Looks like you’re both hard at work.”
Clay looked over at Ransom before answering. “We’re the early risers of the group. Figured we’d just get things started before breakfast.”
Levi’s smile was a reward for both of them. “I’m glad to hear it.” He moved on, pausing at Fletch’s stall. The black Morgan pony stepped up to front and nudged Levi’s hand. “Sorry, boy, no treats today.” The gelding tossed his head and gave Levi’s arm a bump. “Well, looks like I’ve learned my lesson.”
The two riders laughed along with him, but it was Ransom that Levi turned to as he stepped away from the horses. “Ransom,” he waited until Ransom stopped for a moment and turned his head, “son, I’d like to speak to you for a moment.”
Setting the shovel aside, Ransom looked over the wall of the horse stall and shrugged. “Sure, what do you need?”
Levi tilted his head toward the door. “Outside, if you don’t mind.”
That got the attention of both riders. Clay sat up a little more, the bridle in his hands lowering to his lap.
Ransom moved to the end of the stall and ducked under the rope they’d stretched across the opening. He set aside his shovel. “Sure, I can finish when we’re done.”
“I’ll finish up in here.” Clay set the bridle aside and stood, dusting the loose bits of hay off of the back of his pants. “There’s only a few stalls left.”
Ransom followed Levi outside, blinking a little as the early morning sun cut across the horizon and flared in his eyes. He waited until they were stopped beside one of the corrals to ask the question that was on the tip of his tongue. “Is something wrong?”
Levi pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the back of his neck. “No, not that I can think of. I just wanted to speak with you.” With an audible sigh of relief, Ransom leaned on the top rung of the corral, turning Levi’s head in his direction again. “Did you think I meant to reprimand you?”
Shrugging his shoulders, Ransom replied, “I wasn’t sure what you had in mind, sir.”
“Sorry, if I gave you that impression, son.” Nodding, Levi leaned on the wooden rung beside the younger man. “I was meaning to do it last night, but with all the extra people in town,” he chuckled, “things got a bit out of hand.”
Ransom lifted his head to look down the street. “The town does feel bigger this morning.”
The two men shared a smile.
“That it does, son.” Levi passed his kerchief under his chin. “I wanted to ask if you’d like to take on a bit of responsibility for me.”
Straightening, Ransom nodded. “Sure. I’d be happy to.”
“Don’t you want to ask what it is first?”
Ransom shook his head. “No, sir. I’m sure you have a reason for asking me. Happy to help.”
Levi’s gaze was even, his lips curving in a smile. “I’d like you to take one of the others, your choice, and ride down the trail to the west. Do a quick ‘look see’ at the Swing Stations and see how things are progressing. “I’ll send another two toward the east for the same reason.”
Trying to read into the older man’s thoughts, Ransom narrowed his gaze toward the trail. “Are you worried about the stations?”
“I worry that people are a bit more optimistic in their reports than they should be.”
Ransom nodded. “Makes sense. I’ll take Wyeth with me,” he began, “he has an easy way about him that people like. They don’t mind talking to him.”
Levi nodded. “He does at that,” he agreed. “I’m sending you west in hopes that you’ll familiarize yourself with that route, and take the first ride when we start.”
Ransom felt the enormity of the truth behind the Station Master’s words. “The first ride.”
“I think you’re up for it.”
“Wyeth’s a better rider than I am, sir.”
“You're all good or you wouldn't be here.” Levi wiped his kerchief across his brow and then waved it in the air, perhaps hoping to dry it off.
Ransom took in the words and nodded slowly. There were only a few days left and as best laid plans went, they wouldn't be done ahead of the schedule. No, they would likely be working until the inaugural ride when the first mochilla came through their station, but if Levi needed volunteers to ride the line ahead of that day, he was more than willing to do it.
“What I'm looking for is someone who will pay attention to the little things.” He set his hand down on his knee and watched the feeble breeze wiggle the end of the square of cotton held between his fingers. “Keep an eye for trouble, alternate routes if you can find them.”
Ransom nodded. “The map that the home office sent, seems to have a few interesting choices on the route.”
“They wanted fast.” Levi got up and moved toward the next crate.
“Oh it's plenty fast,” Ransom assured him even as his voice faded into a sig
h.
Levi turned back to give him a look. “Exactly. We have a schedule to keep, but I'm not interested in anyone getting hurt.”
Ransom followed the older man and managed to step up beside him as Levi reached for the crowbar to open the crate. “And we're right grateful for that, Mr. Hawkins. I know I value having all my pieces in the right order.”
The front door opened and banged off the wall, followed by a flurry of activity. “Matthew, wait!” There was no mistaking the anguish in Mrs. Hawkins’ voice as she called after her son.
Ransom hadn't been there long, but he knew enough to step out of the way. Taking a quick side step up onto the porch, he avoided the rush of arms and elbows that always came after such a hail from Olivia Hawkins.
Matthew was on the smallish side, but he was growing fast and barreled everywhere he went. Most times he was off on some adventure that had a fishing pole in one hand and a basket in the other, but today his empty hands were fisted and pumping a wild rhythm at his sides. Ransom didn’t know where he was going, but he was going there fast.
“Matthew? Did you hear me?” The wife of their station master had quite the presence at the Three Rivers station. Her smiles could reduce the lot of them to little boys toeing the dirt with their boots on the way to school. But her frowns had more sway over them. From the moment they'd arrived at the station, and found themselves introduced to Mrs. Hawkins, they’d been wrapped around her little finger. Even Charlie Pope, who couldn't find a nice thing to say to any of the other riders, would cast his eyes down to the floor and grumble an apology if she gave him a sidelong glance.
And yet, her son seemed immune to her charm, and the young man was no stranger to angry outbursts of his own, and turning a blind eye to his parents. As he plowed past Ransom, he hissed out a few choice words. “I heard you.”
For a moment, Ransom considered reaching out and taking hold of the youngster by the arm, but there was something in his eyes that kept his hands to himself. He managed to avert his eyes when the boy tried to stride past his father and was brought up short.
“Matthew.”
Ransom admired the even tone in Levi’s voice. His own father wouldn’t have been able to do the same if he’d walked out without an explanation.
Instead, Levi stood before his son, his arms relaxed and straight at his sides as he tried to reason with the boy. “Your mother was speaking to you.”
“She can talk all she wants,” Matthew’s mouth was drawn tight, fairly spitting with anger. “I’m done listening to her!” He took a step away and then stepped back. “I’m done listening to both of you!”
The raised tones brought a few more of the riders out of the bunkhouse. Anger drew people like moths to a flame, but Ransom knew these men well enough to know that they weren’t just there for gossip, they were worried. When they'd arrived at the Three Rivers Station, they were all tired and covered in the dust of the road. Some hadn’t eaten for more than a day, but Olivia Hawkins had taken them in like family. Family, she declared, who needed a bath. She’d sent them straight off to the bathhouse and then sat them down for a meal, and didn’t stop feeding them until they were full. It was those first few hours of their lives at Three Rivers that had made them exceedingly loyal and protective of their Station Mistress.
Matthew stormed past them all and headed out behind the livery barn. They all knew that the boy would flop himself down in the shadows, mutter, and kick at the dirt with his bootheels until he’d worked out all the frustration and anger.
But that didn’t seem to ease the worry for Olivia. She would stand there, twisting the hem of her apron, her face pinched by pain until Levi would gently take her inside and sit down beside her on the settee. Today was no exception. Levi’s indulgent sigh reached his ears a moment before the older man’s hand touched Ransom’s shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me, son.”
Ransom nodded and moved off toward the bunkhouse. The movement caught the eye of the men on the porch and when he gave them a look, they retreated back inside. Stepping inside he found Wyeth buttoning his shirt. “You ready to go?”
“Go?” The younger man looked up with an eager toss of his wheat-gold hair. “Sure. Where are we going?”
“We’re riding the trail west for the day. Grab your bedroll and a change of clothes.”
Wyeth nearly smacked his head on the underside of the bunk above his head. Laughing off the near miss, he stood up and leaned closer to Ransom. “What about the others?”
“Get packed. We leave as soon as we saddle the horses.” Bending to open his trunk, Ransom reached for his things.
Delia spent her morning tip-toeing around the house. Her back still sore from the strain of having to pull her father from the back of the wagon and getting him inside to bed. So rather than struggling to wake him up and suffering his ill-temper, she’d set the coffee pot on the stove and done the morning chores.
Horses fed and set out into the corral, she’d managed to set a couple of biscuits in a covered plate on top of the warmer before she’d gone after the eggs.
Gathering up the back hem of her dress, she’d dragged it through to the front and tucked it up into her waistband. It was a silly mass of fabric, making her walk a bit bow-legged as she struggled to find her prey. A startled cackle and a flap of wings to her left said she’d flushed out at least one of her quarry. Four chickens that they’d brought with them from Three Rivers had gotten loose in the brush over a month ago.
Her intention had been to construct a coop with the leftover wood from the boxes they’d packed their belongings in, and her brother had sworn to help her with the chore. But since they’d moved out of town and into the tiny station, miles away from anyone else, her brother’s mood had soured and soured quickly. And the chickens had needed room to forage for bugs and bits of vegetation, so they’d let them out. Even with her hand feeding scraps to them from the kitchen, the chickens were nearly wild.
And every morning, her task of finding the eggs and collecting them had become more irritating than the day before. Scuffing her boots in the loose dirt, she managed to make enough of a ruckus to startle another feathery flap, this time a bit to the front of her, near a large heap of brambles.
“I should have known,” she grumbled as she moved closer, bending her knees deeply so she could search the ground under the dark thatch of branches, “thorns.”
Her luck was holding true. There were thorns on the branches, wicked looking things that seemed to have been created to tear flesh from her arms. But there, nestled in the dirt at the base of a bush, was one of her laying chickens and a collection of brown eggs, just waiting for her to try.
She crouched down further and tried to reach her hand under the terrible scratch of thorns, but a hesitant step lifted her hand and a thorn tore into her skin.
With a hiss, she backed away, looking at the bush before her as if it was a fortress, and she was a knight of old, destined to find his way inside and rescue the princess.
“Funny though,” she shook her head as she pondered the situation, “I’m only doing the rescuing just so I can eat the princess. I dare say that won’t earn me high marks as a hero.”
The chicken beneath the bramble seemed to hear her words and with a soft babbling reproach, she waddled her wide feathery body over to the eggs and plopped herself down on the handful of eggs.
“You really do want to end up in my stewpot, hmm?”
The chicken was nonplussed by the threat, choosing only to fluff her body out even more and settle over the eggs.
“All right, then.” Getting down on her knees, gritting her teeth against the dig and prick of tiny rocks in the dirt pushing through the layers of her drawers and petticoats, Delia gave the chicken a look that bordered on mayhem and a muttered warning. “If you peck, into the pot for you, little biddy.”
Bracing her far hand on the ground, Delia leaned down until her cheek was almost to the ground. Inching toward the base of the bramble, she felt each breath as it stirred
the dust around her face and pushed against the tiny leaves that were beginning to grow on the branches. Every time a thorn passed through her line of vision, she reminded herself that in just a few months, there would be blackberries enough to push this horrible moment out of her head.
“Almost there-”
“Hello the house!”
Delia froze beneath the bramble, her fingertips a scant inch from the first egg.
“Hello!”
Her shoulders sagging, she made a quick grab and nabbed an egg right out from under the chicken, who in turn flapped and squawked like Delia had snatched her head clean off rather than just her egg. But Delia was already pulling away to stand when the third call caught her unawares.
“Hello there, Miss Burroughs?”
She stood sharp and regretted the movement soon enough as thorns snagged at her sleeve and her arm beneath it. “Stupid girl,” she admonished herself and stood, her hand clamping down on her cuts.
It was only at the very last moment, before she turned around to face the riders, that she remembered that she’d tucked her skirts up like a hoyden. “One moment!” Wrestling with her skirts she untangled the layers and managed to swish them out about her ankles before she turned. “Hello!” She moved toward the corral at the front of the property, struggling to remember if she’d bothered to take a look at herself that morning before going out of doors. The answer was a resounding ‘no,’ but still she had no way of knowing how she looked, nor did she have the luxury to care.
“Mr. McCain.” She pulled her gaze away from Ransom and focused on the other young man who was knee to knee with him on a fine red dun. “And you were, Mr. Bowles?”
