Phoebe greeted the women as they drew closer.
“Ryan, what are you doing here?”
“Finished my business early. I thought you said you’d be here.” He didn’t even try to keep the accusation from his voice.
His mother stiffened. “I am not the child, son.”
“Forgive me, Mama, but there’s much to worry about when I know we have enemies.”
His mother gave him a tight smile then turned to indicate the woman at her side. “I want you to meet my new employer, Miss Olivia.”
Ryan’s head whipped upward, and the woman his mother pressed forward gave him an awkward smile. “I believe we’ve met.”
“You crossed the road without looking.” He tried to inject humor into his voice.
“Thank you for caring.” Her words were mild, but her eyes flashed.
He dragged in a breath. She had whiskey eyes, though he was sure she would hate that description. Her eyelashes swept down over cheeks splashed pink from sun, exertion, or natural color—he didn’t know which. Ryan stood to his feet, more aware of her than he wanted to be.
“Let’s sit down and eat,” his mother said. When he caught her eye, a twinkle sparked in those familiar brown depths. One of those amused looks she shot him every time he’d let loose with a lie as a child. Why, then, was he surprised when his mother sat across from him, leaving Olivia the spot beside him as the only choice. “Ryan, would you help. . .”
“Why is there a. . . ?” He followed Olivia’s eyes as she took the seat he held for her and realized evidence of his sloppiness—soiled napkin and palm print in the potatoes—lay for all to see. And laugh at. “Perhaps you should watch where you place your hand, Mr. Laxalt.”
❧
Too late Olivia felt the heat of a blush as she realized how that comment might sound. She pointed at the potatoes to emphasize what she referred to. Ryan Laxalt’s eyes shone. Whether with mischief or guarded amusement, she couldn’t quite tell, but at least he didn’t offer a leering look.
Shoving back the offending plate, he resumed his seat. Despite his earlier terseness, she noted that he was able to admit his wrongs. Well, at least to his mother. His earlier flash of anger stuck in her mind like a burr.
“Miss Olivia asked me to sew some dresses for her,” Mrs. Laxalt said. “She needs proper clothes for the West.”
“Especially this heat.”
Ryan’s eyes rolled over her, touching what he could see of the gown. When his eyes raised to hers, a stab of awareness tilted her world off balance. It had to be his eyes. Curious eyes. Pale yet not pale at all. His dark hair curled at the ends but was longer than she’d seen most men wear.
“Papa Don said he would allow me to set up shop in that back corner of the store where he keeps his materials. I can work there and be out of your way, son. Others might even ask me to sew.”
“If that is what you wish, Mother.”
The hard clench of his jaw contradicted his easy statement. Olivia wondered at his reluctance. Was his displeasure aimed at her working in general? Or maybe at Josephine working for Papa Don or even herself?
“You are God’s blessing to me this day, Miss Olivia,” Josephine said.
Phoebe chose that moment to materialize with tall glasses of lemonade. “It’ll clear the dust from your throat. Hello, Mrs. Laxalt. Your son was just asking after you.”
Josephine favored Phoebe with a smile and reached to pat Ryan’s hand. “He is a good boy to worry over his mama. I was to come to you and ask for work, but this young woman has asked me to sew for her.”
Phoebe’s smile seemed to sag.
“All will be well, Phoebe,” Josephine soothed.
Not understanding Josephine’s words to Phoebe—almost a reassurance of sorts—Olivia looked to Ryan. His silver eyes flashed, and his dark brows lowered like clouds heavy with storm.
Josephine seemed eager to smooth the moment, and before Olivia could form a question that might clear the fog, she smiled. “I’ll be in town tomorrow to begin. Will you be able to come in and be measured?”
“I have work to do on the ranch.” Ryan formed the words on stiff lips.
Josephine’s hand reached to pat his shoulder. “I can get into town by myself. No use you thinking you have to escort me in and out.”
“Doesn’t the Laxalt ranch border ours?” Olivia asked. “I could come by and pick you up in the mornings until we’re done settling on materials and. . .”
Phoebe’s panicked eyes flashed to Ryan then Josephine, and beside her, Olivia felt the stiffening of Ryan’s posture. The storm in his eyes broke, and his lips formed a thin line.
Josephine reached to squeeze her son’s hand where it white-knuckled his glass of lemonade.
“You’re a Sattler?” He spit the words.
Olivia flinched and leaned away from him, singed by the heat of his question. “Jay Sattler is my father.”
seven
“You knew, Mama.” Ryan tried his best to contain his rage and confusion as he guided the wagon along the road out of town. He stared at the horse’s ears because he could not look at his mother. “I’m trying to understand.”
“I met her in the store, and she needed clothes. I need work.”
“Not this. No. I can take care of you. The ranch will support us as it always supported you and Father.”
“It is not your decision, and I don’t want you to get involved.”
He rolled his head on his shoulders to relieve the rising tension biting into his neck. “Sattler killed Papa. That does involve me.”
“You do not know for certain.”
He couldn’t believe his mother’s stubbornness on the issue. It should have been clear to her why he had to wedge himself into the situation. What kind of son would he be if he heard the news of his father’s death and didn’t return home to care for his mother?
Josephine’s lips compressed.
“He was accused of rustling cattle. That’s stealing.”
“And you think your father would do such a thing?”
“No. Of course not. But that’s why I need to clear his name of this accusation. To find out who killed him and why the accusation was made in the first place. Until then, I ask that you not be seen with Olivia Sattler.”
“Because she’s a Sattler?” His mother’s expression grew dark with disapproval.
“And you’re a Laxalt.”
She drew herself erect. “I would hope by now that you realize the sins of one don’t reflect on anyone but the person doing the sin. Olivia Sattler just arrived in town yesterday after years spent in Philadelphia.”
“I know that.” At least he knew that she’d just arrived in town.
“Then you must understand that her role in anything involving us is only in your head.”
He stiffened at that and slapped the reins against the horse’s rump.
“Stop punishing the horse,” his mother bit out. Her hand clasped the side of the seat as the wagon lurched forward.
Chastened, Ryan pulled gently on the reins. The horse slowed. “If I don’t do this, Mama, I would never forgive myself. He was my—”
“Would he want you to ride the trail of revenge?”
“Would he, or is it your wish that I avoid the trail?”
“Then it is revenge you want.”
“Justice.”
His mother released a heavy breath, and her voice was low and terse. “They will kill you, Ryan. I can’t bear to lose you, too.”
On impulse he hauled back on the reins and set the hand brake. “You’ve refused to tell me anything. Tell me now. Convince me there is no need for me to find the truth.” He bit the inside of his cheek and his eyes scanned over the blue horizon that framed his mother’s small form.
When her dark head dipped and he heard a sniffle, Ryan clamped his eyes shut. Nothing could diminish him to a bumbling, penitent blob of boyhood like seeing his mother cry. Dutifully he yanked the kerchief form his back pocket and pressed it against the
back of his mother’s hand.
“Mama. . .”
“If something were to happen to you, my heart would break completely.”
He didn’t understand. He had been away from home for years. He could have died several times over, and she wouldn’t have known for weeks, maybe even months or years. But now, because he was nearby, she suddenly feared him dying? Maybe he did understand her point. He shook his head. No, not really.
“Do you know what it would be like to have not only my husband but my son murdered as well?”
His spine went rigid. His jaw hardened. “So he was murdered.”
Her mouth flew open. “Yes. No. Ryan, listen to me. You must not do this thing that you think you need to do. They will hunt you down as they have others—”
“Others?” If her tears had made him indecisive, the idea that Sattler made victims of others steeled his resolve. Without saying a word, he released the brake and set the wagon into motion. Rays of sunshine waned, weakened by impending evening, and a cooling breeze sifted over his neck and face. His mother remained quiet, chin lifted high, but the quiver of her lips told him her tears were just below the surface of her composure.
“I only want peace.”
He released a heavy sigh, his words soft. “Sometimes, Mama, you cannot have peace until you have waged a war.”
❧
Olivia pressed the hat down on her head and tilted it to observe the effect in the mirror. Saucy, but the look was too overconfident for her. Plus she wasn’t in Philadelphia. She doubted very seriously that Wyoming women would have need for a small hat angled to effect. Besides, if the sun was any indicator, those wide-brimmed hats she’d seen on so many since arriving would serve better to keep her fragile skin from breaking out in sun-induced freckles. Tucking the hat back into the box, she heard her father’s boots on the front porch. Her heart sank at his arrival. At the discussion she would have to have with him. She placed the hatbox on her bed and smoothed the front of her bustleless gown. Tomorrow morning and the promise of sensible clothes could not come soon enough.
Olivia took one more look at herself in the mirror and frowned. She hoped Ryan Laxalt’s dark attitude toward her would not demand his mother break the agreement for those dresses. Josephine’s sadness had been palpable after Olivia had spoken her father’s name. Ryan had left the table without so much as a “good day.” But the worst part had been the conversation with Phoebe that had followed.
As she had watched Josephine meet up with her son outside the restaurant, his face a mask of controlled rage, Olivia had demanded that Phoebe explain why the sound of her father’s name had brought such a reaction.
Phoebe had twisted her hands together in abject misery. “It’s a long story.”
“Without my dinner companions, I have plenty of time for conversation.”
Scanning the dining room with a hopeful look, as if a patron might enter at any second and rescue her from the conversation, Phoebe grimaced and sank to the vacated chair. “It’s an old problem.”
“Old? As in something that has happened since I left?”
The transformation in Phoebe startled Olivia. Her friend’s face went pale, and she slumped somewhat. “Your father is not well liked around here, Livy.”
Not. Well. Liked. A troubling thought perhaps, but some-thing Olivia felt could be shrugged off—if not for Phoebe’s reaction. That alone spelled trouble of the worst kind. “There is no need to shield me from things, Phoebe. I am not a child.”
Phoebe had cupped her hands around the lemonade. She flicked off beads of condensation, and the drops scattered and fell to the floor. Phoebe smoothed the dew from another side of the mug and rubbed her hands together, never once meeting Olivia’s gaze. She waited, calculating that for Phoebe to show such reluctance to broach the subject, the news must not be good. Somehow Olivia was not surprised. Hadn’t her father been distant? As if circumstances tied him in knots. Nothing like the jovial, lighthearted man she remembered. Or was that the ideology of a young child biased toward her daddy?
“There’s a silent war taking place.”
Olivia remained still as Phoebe hesitated. “The big ranchers seem intent on creating problems for the small ranchers. I think the attitude is that all land belongs to the big ranches, and that the little ranchers and farmers should yield their land, their cattle—everything. A small rancher south of here was found murdered about three months ago. Sheriff said he had news the man was a rustler.”
“They murder rustlers?”
“Normally hang them.”
Olivia shuddered. “How terrible.” But what does it have to do with my father and the Laxalts?”
“Couple weeks ago there was a shooting. Martin Laxalt was found dead, shot through the heart.”
Another murder? Olivia felt the blood drain from her face. Ryan Laxalt was thinking her father was responsible for the shooting that had killed his father? “Ryan’s father rustled cattle?”
Phoebe shrugged. “Depends on who you ask.”
Something squeezed her throat and shallowed her breathing. Phoebe jumped to her feet, but Olivia sucked in a great breath of air and motioned her friend down. “It’s impossible. Tell me it’s impossible. My father could never do such a terrible deed.”
Phoebe reached out and squeezed her hand. “We’re not saying your father pulled the trigger, but he might have had a hand in. . .”
Disbelief raged through Olivia. That her father could be so accused was unthinkable. “I thought you were our friend.”
“I am your friend, Livy. But your father has changed over the years.”
Weighted by the insinuation, Olivia bolted from her seat, unable to hear more. Phoebe hadn’t tried to stop her.
The trip home had been long, but Olivia had used it to do some serious thinking. There was only one way to clear her father’s name, and her new job at the paper might be useful in allowing her to dig around and ask questions without raising suspicion. Her father had to be innocent, because the opposite was too unbearable to consider.
eight
Ryan waited out front of the store. His mother wasn’t happy with him, and he knew it. Not only had he turned a deaf ear to her talk of getting herself into town, but when she’d laid eyes on the rifle he clamped beneath his arm, Ryan had realized his error.
“You cannot do this.” She grasped his forearm.
Josephine Laxalt’s eyes held horror and pain, and Ryan felt remorse in every sinew and muscle. She didn’t understand, and no matter how hard he tried, she never would. But he should have thought better of hauling along the rifle and inadvertently showing his intentions. He did the only thing he could do. He equivocated. “I’m riding the fence after dropping you in town. I might need the protection. And if anyone troubles us. . .”
He knew by the sidelong glance his mother gave that she saw right through his words.
“Whoever killed Father might just think it best to finish off you and me. It’s our land they want, Mama, and we stand in their way.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Please, let me handle this.”
They rode to town in silence as the sun stretched higher in the sky and the cool breeze of night yielded to waves of familiar heat. Few people stirred in town this early, and those who did either affected oblivion at his presence or raised a hand in greeting. He wondered if the silent message his presence at the Lazy L sent was even now being stewed over by those who thought his father their enemy. Ryan hoped so.
“Wait for me,” his mother said as they pulled up to the store. “I will make sure Papa Don is ready for me before you leave.”
Minutes stretched, and Ryan grew restless, even fearful for his mother. He’d just lifted his foot to beat a path to the door when his mother popped out, Olivia Sattler at her heels. The red-haired woman laughed at something. Her pale skin a complement to the delighted flash of her whiskey eyes. Ryan glanced away, unnerved by the way his heart slammed at the sound of her laughter. Or was it her presence beside his mother?
Sattler versus Laxalt.
His mother’s dark eyes sought his. For a moment, she said nothing. Olivia busied herself with settling a sign in one corner of Papa Don’s store window. “Miss Olivia and I will be fine. We will get much work done, and she will return me to the ranch this evening.”
“I’ll come get you.”
Josephine’s chin came up. “There is too much work to do on the ranch. You will listen to your mother in this.”
His anger came hot, but he would not argue. Not here, in hearing distance of the Sattler woman. When he lifted his gaze, her eyes were on him. His mother took a step closer to Olivia and smiled at her as if they’d been friends forever. Confused by his mother’s rejection, Ryan lifted the reins to back the horse up when he heard Olivia’s words. “I’m so sorry.”
He stilled, jaw clenched. Silence roared in his ears. He turned. She stood by the wagon alone, sunlight glinting against her face. The apology was for him alone. She took a step forward, eyes pleading. “I know I can’t bring your father back, but you must believe I have no knowledge of. . .anything of my father’s dealings. He’s—”
Her voice broke, and she averted her face, the crisp outline of her jaw showing her struggle for composure. “It’s like he’s a stranger to me.”
Her words hit him worse than a bullet to his gut. Not because of any feelings of sympathy toward her, but because the truth of her words twisted too deep. His mother didn’t realize what a stranger he was to her. The few letters he had sent home had been truthful accountings of the type of work he’d found himself engaged in after those first wandering years. And then the offer had come to make real money.
“I want to find the truth,” she said. “Tell me what you know, and maybe we can piece things together.”
More words. These were soaked with sincerity. Her very presence twisted his insides and made him want to believe. Ryan withdrew from her gaze and focused on the window at her back—and at the small sign she had just placed there. Josephine Laxalt, Dressmaker. Inquire Within.
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