Ellie’s Legacy
By
Ginger Simpson
ISBN: 978-1-927111-95-6
PUBLISHED BY:
Books We Love Ltd.
192 Lakeside Greens Drive
Chestermere, Alberta, T1X 1C2
Canada
Copyright 2012 by Ginger Simpson
Cover art by Michelle Lee 2012
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Chapter One
Sparta, Tennessee
1860
“Doggone men,” Roselle Fountain muttered under her breath. “By the time they get done with breakfast the cattle will have strayed all over the place.” Not in the mood for a heavy meal, she pushed away her empty plate.
No one at the table paid her any attention.
She’d awakened extra early to assure that the men didn’t leave without her. They were moving cattle to a new pasture today, branding some new arrivals, and she aimed to be part of the work team. Roselle refused to allow Tyler Bishop, the ranch foreman, to outshine her in her father’s eyes any longer.
He draped an arm over the back of his chair and said something that brought a chuckle from the men…including her pa.
Ellie’s jaw tensed.
The way Pa idolized Ty galled her, and she was bent on doing something to change it. But what?
She fidgeted in her chair, feeling invisible. Smoke hazed the air over the hired hands who puffed on rolled tobacco. She wrinkled her nose at the smell and glared down the long kitchen table at the men hunched over their coffee cups. She rolled her eyes in disbelief. They hung onto Ty’s every word. Some boss he was. Shouldn’t he be ordering everyone to work?
“Are ya’ll almost done?” She raised her voice to be heard.
“What’s your rush?” Ty drawled, not even turning to acknowledge her. “Keep yer britches on. We’ve got plenty of time.”
Ellie stewed at his dismissive attitude and grew tired of listening to the endless prattle. She grabbed the last piece of bacon and a biscuit from the nearest serving plate and left unnoticed through the back door.
On the porch, she paused to lick away the oily sheen left on her lips by the crispy piece of pork. Her disdain with Ty still rumbling in her belly, she finished the last bite of bread and gazed to the east.
For a moment, she forgot her anger. A brilliant variegation of oranges and reds stretched across the horizon and mirrored matching hues in the pond adjacent to the house.
She walked down the steps while eyeing the glassy pool, and feeling child-like, bent to pick up a small flat rock. With perfect pitch, she skimmed it across the water. The resulting ripples disturbed the sky’s reflected image and sent a flock of ducks scurrying up the far bank. Within seconds, the pond’s surface calmed, and the downy birds slipped back into their morning bath, as if nothing happened.
The sun peeked over the distant mountains and highlighted all the shades of green in the landscape. At that moment, Ellie held her breath and wondered what the rest of the world looked like. Certainly, Tennessee had to be the most beautiful place, even amidst all the rumblings of a possible war and the call for volunteers to form Confederate regiments.
What was it about men that made them want to fight?
She didn’t know much about government issues, but she’d listened to the men talk over supper about some fellow called, Abe Lincoln—who vied for the presidential nomination. She wasn’t quite sure what they meant about his “rail-splitting” attitude, but some felt it contributed to the growing unrest in the south. A recent article in Pa’s weekly paper, written by a Mr. Horace Greeley, strongly suggested Mr. Lincoln would be a much better leader for the country than his rivals, Seward and Douglas.
Of course, she had no idea who they were or why they wouldn’t be suitable, but it didn’t matter what she thought anyhow. Such boring matters were better left to the men folk.
Pa usually picked up a newspaper each week, but Ellie steered clear of reading the depressing stories and bad news that filled it. She wondered why a person couldn’t find something good in the world to write about. Who wanted to read the graphic details about John Brown’s hanging for raiding a federal arsenal in Harper’s Ferry and giving the weapons to Negroes? She only knew about it because Pa choose to read that story aloud at the breakfast table, saying it was just one more thing made public to fuel the growing discontent about owning black folks.
When first hearing about the story, a horrid image seized her mind. That same mental picture returned and made her shiver again. Her hand flew to her throat, and she swallowed hard. What a horrid way to meet one’s end.
She walked to the water’s edge, pondering why one person should be allowed to own another. She thanked God that Pa, like most in the area, didn’t believe in slavery.
Plucking a cattail, Ellie shook it, and watched the compacted brown flowers come apart and sail away. It made her mindful that people should be just as free to drift wherever the wind blew them. Her gaze followed the last fluffy piece as it wafted to earth before she walked back toward the compound. Patience with nature came easy, but not with malingering ranch hands.
She cast a fretful look at the house and released a breath hard enough to flutter her lips.
Maybe, if she carried a bag of tobacco and some of those small rolling papers, she could lollygag after each meal like they did—smoking and drinking coffee.
In an effort to mask her annoyance, she picked up a long, skinny tree branch and began drawing a continuous line in the yard’s red dirt. A momentary pang of shame gripped her. She should be inside helping Cook clean up, but Ellie grimaced at the thought. Housework didn’t interest her. For as long as she could remember, she hated being a girl. Pa wanted a son, and being born one would have made her life a whole lot easier. He wouldn’t need Ty.
As an obviously female stick-figure emerged in the dirt, Ellie summoned back what little memory she had of her mother. Always, the same haunting question came with the recollection: what would it be like if Ma had lived?
Typhoid fever had claimed her when Ellie was only three. The small portrait in the living room and another on her night table were her only recollections of Ma’s face. Pa often commented how much alike they looked, and as Ellie grew, the more she saw it.
Both were small in stature, with thick curly hair and bow-shaped lips. Of course Ellie was always reminded how they shared the same copper-colored hair and green eyes. She sighed, and with the toe of her boot, rubbed out the drawing, but not the pain of a mother long dead.
Ellie etched her full name in the dirt and drew an “X” through the part she disliked—a name shared with a great-grandmother she’d never known. As soon as Ellie was old enough to make a choice, she insisted everyone drop the “Rose” and simply call her Ellie. The name Roselle suited someone older and more ladylike, and she was neither. Much to Pa’s dismay, if given the option of riding the range with the wind in her face or airing out feather beds, Ellie picked mounting up any day. She nodded. Yep, she was a tomboy through and through, and she loved being one.
The earlier guilt passed, replaced with the excitement of riding out to the north forty to check the herd—if the men… She screwed her face into a scowl and eyed the kitchen door again.
When she was a youngun’, as Pa called her, being around the ranch hands hadn’t been much of a problem. Every morning, she rose at dawn and followed the men wherever they went, staying out until the sun went down.
She learned to rope, brand, fix fences, and even replace a thrown horseshoe now and then, but turning seventeen changed things.
For whatever reason, Pa insisted she spend more time inside doing woman’s work rather than hanging around the barn. It seemed he didn’t want her around anymore, and his attitude confused her. He’d suddenly taken issue with her dressing in denims. For heaven sakes, she’d worn them for as long as she could remember; save the few times she’d gone into Sparta on a special Sunday to attend church.
Ellie glanced down at her well-worn pants. The time had come for a new pair with a little more breathing room. But, what was wrong with what she wore?
Pa wanted her to be more feminine, to wear women’s clothing and act the part. Ellie rolled her eyes, thinking about petticoats and such. How much cleaning could one person do, and why gussy up for that? She easily juggled her chores and still found time to saddle up with the hired help. You couldn’t do that in a dress.
She kicked dirt over her name. Being born a boy would have solved so many problems.
Ellie walked over to a large tree and leaned against the trunk. She gazed up at the remaining leaves fluttering on the branches overhead. Yep, being a girl came with too many challenges.
Thank goodness for Betty Jo—her friend who lived about an hour’s ride away. Had she not explained that sudden amount of blood in Ellie’s bloomers, Ellie would have certainly thought she was at death’s door. Women’s ‘issues’ weren’t the kind of things she discussed with Pa. What did he know about such matters?
What pesky tricks God played on girls. Monthly visitors, cramping stomachs, budding bosoms. Was there no end to the surprises of aging?
Of course, Ellie enjoyed female companionship, but other than occasional visits with Betty Jo, there wasn’t much opportunity to socialize. Once she outgrew school, her friends scattered hither and yon. Some even married. She puckered with distaste.
Oh, there were a few things to do: the seasonal picnics, a weekly quilting bee and a wedding now and then, but with Sparta a good hour’s ride away, Ellie rarely ventured out.
Cook, the live-in lady charged with running the household, was the only constant woman in Ellie’s life, and unfortunately, Cook had little time for anything other than keeping the men folk fed, and doing laundry.
Ellie doubted that anyone so old would have youthful recollections to share, anyhow.
She dropped her stick on the ground and pulled her oversized shirt tighter to emphasize her amply developed breasts. They, and the rounded behind encased in tight fitting denims, proved that like her namesake, the rose, she’d begun to blossom. She chewed her bottom lip.
Could the sudden changes in her body be what Pa didn’t like? He only wanted her to cook and clean these days. Well, she wouldn’t. And she wouldn’t bother to look pretty for anyone, either. It was true, her hair shone like a penny, but she’d rather stuff it all up in a cowboy hat than let it hang free…even if it might attract Ty.
She smacked her cheek at the thought.
Lately her emotions were like a run-away wagon. Why would she want to draw his attention? She likened him to a burr under her saddle.
Ellie tucked her shirt snugly back in her pants and heaved a loud sigh. Her newly acquired curves proved she’d become a woman, but they were a definite hindrance to riding and roping. She’d be darned if being a female would keep her from doing what she loved—hopefully Pa wouldn’t either.
She stared at the back door and clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth. Could the men jabber any longer?
A soft breeze caressed her face and gently rustled through the limbs of the huge oak, setting a few leaves adrift. It wouldn’t be long before the ground wore a colorful fall blanket.
Still fighting impatience, Ellie closed her eyes and tried to picture the seasonal beauty. She took a long, deep breath.
She jumped as an ear-piercing noise shattered the morning calm and sent wood splintering into the air. A gunshot! Her heart pounding, she dove to the ground and cowered. The bullet came way too close for comfort.
The morning dew sopped the front of her, and prickly rocks bit into her skin, but she dared not move for fear that a second shot might find its mark.
The back porch door burst open and slammed shut. Thundering footfalls quivered the ground as the men ran from the house to investigate.
“Ellie?” Her father hollered. The timbre in his voice panicky. “Where are ya?”
She raised her head cautiously. “Over here, Pa.”
Ty reached her first and knelt next to her. “Some of you get out there and check the perimeter,” he yelled over his shoulder. “Make sure the shooter ain’t gonna take anymore pot shots.”
He turned his attention to Ellie. “Are ya hurt?”
She questioned the concern in his voice. With her gone, his future would be sealed. Pa already thought of him as a son.
Ty stood, switched his rifle to the opposite hand and extended his free one to Ellie. He helped her to her feet and continued to grasp her hand for far longer than necessary, in her opinion. She couldn’t figure him out.
At his cocky grin, she jerked away and took a deep, breath. Her stomach churned from fright, but something about his eyes calmed her. She rubbed the back of her neck and forced herself to look away. She hoped she sounded convincing as she squared her shoulders and turned back to face him.
“I’m fine…just a little shaken.”
Her mind screamed for her to keep her wits in front of him. Any trace of weakness was the last thing she wanted him to see. He needed to view her as his competition. A threat.
Ellie snatched the hat from her head and dusted the leaves and dirt clinging to the embarrassing dampness on the front of her clothing. Free from confinement, her long hair cascaded past her shoulders and hung in thick curls. Ty reached to pluck an adhering strand from her lip. Her heart fluttered. She brushed his hand aside and took a quick step backwards. What about his touch bothered her? Ellie lowered her eyes and swatted imaginary dust from her pants.
Ben Fountain stepped around Ty and grasped his daughter’s shoulders. His brow furrowed as he held her at arm’s length and inspected her. “Are ya certain you’re all right?”
She shrugged free and began tucking wayward tresses back beneath her hat. “I’m positive,” she said, hiding the last lock.
Whether scared or just plain mad, tears threatened to well, but she managed a sheepish grin. “Pa, whoever fired that shot either had a really bad aim, or just meant to scare me. It worked. I almost wet my pants.” Her voice creaked.
She wanted to bite her tongue for admitting fear. Instead, she forced a chuckle and struggled to dry her misting eyes. She wasn’t about to bawl in front of the men, especially Mr. High-and-Mighty, Ty Bishop. She refused to let him see her cry, and although her insides felt like jelly, she maintained a brave front.
Ellie glanced in his direction. All the men, at least the ones who weren’t out checking for the shooter, stood staring at her. Some foreman. Was Ty’s phony show of concern all the effort he planned to put forth? She needed or wanted nothing except for him to tell the men what to do. It was his job. Why wasn’t he doing it? They appeared to be waiting for instructions.
“What are ya’ll lookin’ at?” she snapped. “I’m fine. No sense wasting time, gaping. Why aren’t ya’ll finding the polecat who took a shot at me?”
“Find the bastard or at least bring me some proof.” Ben’s roar echoed his daughter’s sentiments.
“You heard the boss,” Ty barked. “Get mounted before the trail gets cold. I’ll stay here in case the shooter decides to try again.”
Ellie’s jaw tensed. In case? Then what? He wasn’t much protection the first time. She could have been dead for all his help, but as usual, he assumed the “take charge” attitude she hated.
He hooked his thumbs on his belt and pranced around like a Bantam rooster. If he was as smart as he often proclaimed, he would have already had the men in the saddle instead of stand
ing around.
All the hired hands except Ty made a beeline for the barn, and within minutes, mounted and rode out of the yard and under the large letter “F” on the gated arch. He stayed behind, shadowing her father like a calf wanting to nurse.
Annoyed, Ellie gritted her teeth and followed the two men as they walked toward the barn, discussing what had happened. Between her molars grinding and her jaw tensing, the muscle alongside Ellie’s neck throbbed with pain.
“I doubt the varmint will try again,” Ty assured Ben. “I think it was meant to scare us.”
“Us?” she mumbled beneath her breath.
If she was a hornet, she’d sting them both. They acted as though she wasn’t even there. For heaven sakes, she was the one almost hit. If the bullet had been meant to scare someone, it worked. Her neck ached as though she’d been hit. She massaged the stiffness out of her jaw while her gaze darted around the perimeter of the yard. Her near miss was an experience she didn’t want to repeat. She inched closer to the barn and out of clear shot range.
Next to the white washed building, Ty opened the gate to the corral that confined the stallion he’d been breaking. The black measured at least sixteen hands, had regal bloodlines, a long flowing mane and a shiny tail that almost grazed the ground. At Ty’s approach, the stallion snorted and nodded his head nervously, pawing the ground with a front hoof.
Ellie understood the horse’s distrust. Critters had a way of judging character that was most often right. A snake would likely cause the horse to react in the same manner. She poised herself on the top fence rail, waiting for the amazing Mr. Bishop to put on a show, or at least, include her in the conversation.
Her father leaned against the rough-hewn fencing and patted her leg, but his admiring gaze remained firmly locked on the young man taking a rope from the fencepost and approaching the animal. Ty stopped, and while expertly twirling his lasso, glanced up at Ellie. “You must be pretty shaken up. That bullet came mighty close. Maybe you should go in and lay down for a while.”
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