Chapter 2
Western Dakota Territory
November 1885
That’s the last one, boys,” Hiram McGregor shouted, kicking the gate closed with the toe of his boot. Staring after the bobbing heads of the longhorn steers, he drew in deep of the crisp, clean air and whispered a grateful prayer.
A line rider’s life was hard work in any terrain. Wintertime in the Dakota Badlands meant bitter conditions for man and beast. The weather had proved mild for November in Medora, but a deep chill was on the way.
The cattle would spend the night in a holding pen on the Maltese Cross Ranch. At dawn they’d drive them to the prairie east of the Little Missouri River. From there the ranchmen would set up camps along the line to keep the herd in check.
Roy, the wide-eyed greenhorn Bill Sewall had saddled Hiram with, rode up fast and spun in beside him. Hiram cut his gaze to the boy’s beaming face. “Don’t look so relieved. That was the easy part.”
“You think we’ll lose any? Mr. Sewall claims the cows and heifers fare better than the bulls. Why’s that?”
Hiram flipped up his collar and ducked lower into the warmth of his woolen coat. “They’re more likely to eat through the snow and gnaw frozen stumps or the roots of prairie grass. The bulls tend to crawl off and die. I can’t say why.”
He scowled, gazing toward the vast gorge behind them. “But I don’t intend to lose a single head, and you’d best entertain the same notion. Mr. Roosevelt is counting on us.”
The little politician from New York had a big stake in the thousand-plus head of cattle he’d purchased to raise on his two ranches, the Maltese Cross and the Elkhorn. Since the livestock fared so well last year, he figured to start up cattle ranching in earnest.
To Hiram’s way of thinking, the man’s instincts were good, and the Little Missouri River Valley was an ideal location. With no shortage of clean water or rich grass and with ample gullies and coulees for shelter, the land took care of the animals for a rancher. Until the first blizzard. With the howl of the wind and the relentless cold, the land became a frightening enemy.
Hiram and his pa had survived many a Dakota winter. Unlike Texas, where he was born, the Dakota Territory had four distinct seasons. They reminded him of passing grub at the table. If you didn’t like what was on the platter, sit back and wait for the next round. It was bound to be different.
Hiram slid off his horse and squatted at the edge of the bluff, staring across the canyon at the banded clay buttes. Jagged peaks in assorted shades of purple, brown, and red stretched across the rocky ground clear to the horizon. “It’s like the Almighty ladled out the rock in layers.”
Roy tethered his horse and joined him, easing to the ground and dangling his feet off the cliff. “It’s as pretty a sight as I’ve ever seen.”
They sat together in silence, gazing at the soaring flats and weathered ravines.
Hiram nudged Roy with his elbow. “In a few weeks, those scarlet crests will disappear under a clean white blanket of snow. Makes a man feel like all that’s wrong in the world is erased to give him another chance.”
Roy hooted and slapped his leg. “Listen at you. I’m riding the range with a poet.” He chuckled under his breath. “Partner, you’ve got stars in your eyes.”
Firing a warning glare, Hiram stood. “No more time to waste. We’ve got to meet the supply train.”
Swinging his legs around, Roy struggled to his feet and caught Hiram by the sleeve. “Hold up there. I didn’t mean to poke fun.” He offered a shy smile. “You really love this place, don’t you?”
A reluctant smile tugged at Hiram’s lips. “The way a man loves a faithful wife.”
Laughing, they saddled up and ambled toward town.
The overland into Little Missouri, or Little Misery as the townsfolk called the faded outpost, generally met with an enthusiastic welcoming committee, and today was no different. The big engine pulled in loaded with much needed supplies and a smattering of travelers, the majority of them bound for somewhere else.
Careworn men stood along the tracks, their shoulders stooped by hard work, their gaunt faces lined by harsh sunlight and ruthless wind. For the most part, they were farmers and settlers awaiting shipments of grain or catalog orders for their wives. Hiram and Roy worked their way to the door of the boxcar and took their place in line while rail men unloaded stacks of crates and burlap bags.
Roy whistled, two soft, measured tones. “Will you look at her?”
Hiram followed his spellbound gaze to the passenger car. A lovely young woman stood next to the conductor, one hand on the rail, the other extended to a big fellow on the ground.
The color of her hair was like a tin of coffee beans, with warm reds, browns, and near blacks in the mix. The unruly waves shone in the distance as if she’d doused them in shellac. He couldn’t see her eyes from where he stood, but he’d bet his last dollar they were green.
Followed off the train by a young girl with blond curly hair, she stepped down beside the man Hiram assumed was their father. Her face the color of wood ash, she spun in a slow circle, taking in the squalid scatter of dingy shops and ramshackle hotels. Turning a fierce glare on the burly man beside her, she muttered in an irate tone.
In response, his voice raised a notch, but he shrank from her wrath.
The little blond girl added fat to the fire with waving arms and shrill cries.
Hiram had never found the private affairs of strangers the least bit enticing, but he couldn’t pull his gaze from the lovely high-strung lady. He handed off a box of goods to Roy. “Handle the rest of the load. I think they may need help.”
Roy glanced past Hiram’s shoulder with a twinkle in his eye. “Sure thing, partner.”
Striding toward the squabbling group, Hiram nearly changed his mind. Someone had sure put a bramble in the berry patch.
“This is Theodore Roosevelt’s promised land?” the scowling girl demanded. “There’s not even a proper platform. They’ve cast us out alongside the tracks.”
“Now, love…” The man reached out a shaky hand, but she withdrew.
Utterly charmed by her peculiar manner of speech, Hiram took off his hat and cleared his throat. “Excuse me? Is there something I can do for you folks?”
The big man spun with an impatient frown. “What’s that?”
From a distance, while shrinking under the gaze of an angry woman, he had appeared less threatening.
Hiram gulped and fingered his hat, briefly meeting the lady’s flashing eyes—bright green, as he’d suspected, and swimming with tears. “My apologies. The name’s Hiram McGregor, and I live around here. I noticed you just rode in, and I wondered if I could assist you.”
The stranger’s smile eased the angry lines on his face and melted the tightness in Hiram’s chest. “Jonathan Nancarrow here. You might point the way to Medora’s livery. I reckon we have need of a wagon.”
Hiram shifted his feet. “Well sir, I would. But this isn’t Medora.”
Mr. Nancarrow’s brows crowded together. “But the conductor said—”
Hiram motioned him aside a few paces and pointed across the banks of the Little Missouri. “Medora’s the new settlement right across the river. I can take you there, if you’d like.”
The man smiled over his shoulder at his daughters. “Our curse has lifted, girls. The Lord sent Moses to deliver us.”
Chapter 3
The obliging ranch hand offered to take them wherever they needed to go. He left his friend with instructions to hire a wagon for the goods they’d loaded off the train, and then Noela, Beatrice, and their father climbed aboard his chariot for a trip across the Red Sea.
More accurately, they crowded into his buckboard for a ride across the Little Missouri River. Despite the scenic backdrop, the rustic, squalid town of Little Missouri gave Noela a chill that had little to do with the climate. The difference, once they’d crossed the river, was encouraging. On the eastern bank beneath a wide bluff stood proud structures fashi
oned with new lumber and an atmosphere of hope.
They rumbled past a scattering of houses, and the young man beamed with pride. “This here’s Medora. It was founded by a Frenchman, the Marquis de Mores.”
He smiled over his shoulder at Noela. “He named the town after his wife. In fact, he built a house for her not far from here. The Chateau de Mores we call it. It has twenty-six rooms in two stories with twenty servants to run it.”
A French nobleman? A chateau manned by servants? Noela’s heart greatly eased. With the primitive railroad town behind her and the promise of a genteel society close by, her father’s trip began to make more sense.
Noela longed to ask questions, but she’d forgotten the name their “Moses” gave when he introduced himself. Gazing at his profile while he continued talking to Father, she realized for the first time how handsome he was.
Was his hair really so black, or did the shadow of his hat create the striking illusion? He wore facial hair, an overgrown brush on his chin bleeding into a light moustache, over full, expressive lips. Overall, his eyes were his best feature. Lively and kind, they were deep set and a warm shade of brown. And at the moment, staring right at her.
She blinked. “I’m sorry?”
Tiny wrinkles formed between his brows, and he offered a shy smile. “I was wondering what you think.”
Her face on fire, she glanced away. She couldn’t exactly tell him what she’d been thinking.
Her father peered over his shoulder. “Noela? Mr. McGregor’s asking how you like Medora.”
Beatrice giggled.
Noela gave her skinny leg a swift bump with a knee. “Forgive me, Mr. McGregor. I didn’t mean to ignore you.”
“Call me Hiram. We don’t stand on ceremony out here.” He lifted questioning eyes to Father. “If your pa doesn’t mind, that is.”
Father shook his head. “Not at all, mate. You may call me Jonathan.”
He twisted around. “Noela, the man’s still waiting for your opinion of Medora.” He shot her a hopeful smile. “I wouldn’t mind hearing it myself.”
She pretended interest in her surroundings. “I find this part of town quite nice.”
Hiram’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’m glad. It’s the only part we’ve got.”
Beatrice leaned her arms on the back of his seat and flashed her perfect teeth. “I like it, Hiram.”
“Well that’s fine, Beatrice.” His winsome grin stirred Noela’s heart. She could imagine the effect it had on her sister at such close range. Beatrice romanticized the smallest gestures.
Ignoring Noela’s warning pinch, the impish girl raised her dainty chin and batted her lashes. “Please, call me Bea.”
Hiram’s chuckle rang out in the cold, thin air. “All right, Bea.”
Noela jerked her sister’s arm, pulling her back to her proper place.
Hiram grinned and glanced at their father. “Where am I taking you folks?”
Father pulled a folded paper from his breast pocket and opened it on his knee. “It says here we’re to go to a place called Vine House.”
Noela smiled to herself. It was the first he’d mentioned of their prospective quarters. Vine House brought to mind a quaint cottage with moss-covered roof and trailing plants on the walls.
Hiram frowned and tilted his head at the typewritten page. “Are you certain you have that right?”
Father peered closer at the document and tapped it with a forefinger. “That’s what it says.” He shot Hiram an anxious look. “Why, son? Is it far?”
“No sir. Just a few miles out of town.”
“Can you take us there?”
Hiram cleared his throat. “Well sure. If you say so.” Had the man grown slightly pale?
They passed a few more houses before the road curved away from Medora. Sick with curiosity and dread, Noela perched at the edge of her seat. Too nervous to relax and too embarrassed to ask the questions her father should be asking, she rode in frustrated silence.
At last, Hiram broke the stillness. “Jonathan, forgive me if you find this impolite, but may I ask why we’re headed to Vine House?”
Father folded the curious paper he’d been studying and returned it to his pocket. “I don’t mind your question. The girls and I will be lodging there for a spell.”
Hiram’s head whipped around. “Are you jesting?”
“I’m entirely serious.”
“Sir, you can’t stay there.”
Father’s jaw twitched. “Why not?”
“It’s not a proper house.”
Beads of sweat dotted Father’s brow. “By what definition?”
“It’s a soddie, Mr. Nancarrow. A sorry excuse for one at that.”
Escaping Noela’s grasp, Beatrice wriggled forward. “What’s a soddie, Hiram?”
Father seemed to age before their eyes. His throat worked furiously, and when he spoke, his voice cracked. “Yes, son… What the devil is a soddie?”
Hiram propped his boot on the rail and nudged back his hat. “Trees are scarce out here in the plains. The settlers had to find other ways to build shelter. They came up with sod houses, homes built out of bricks cut from the earth.”
“Dirt houses?” Beatrice said, her eyes aglow.
He nodded. “Dirt and grass. It’s a fine idea really. Cheap to build. The home is cool in the summer and traps heat in the winter. ”
Father scratched along his jaw. “What holds them up?”
“The roots grow together and bind the blocks. They become fairly strong in most cases. Not so for Vine House.”
Narrowing his eyes, Father appeared to chew on the question before he spat it out. “Why not?”
“Shoddy workmanship maybe, or the roots failed to knit. The house is drafty, shaky, and subject to collapse. Your family won’t survive a Dakota winter there.”
“Can’t we go someplace else?” Beatrice asked.
Father shook his head. “There’s nowhere else to go.”
He sat in silence for so long, worry niggled at Noela’s mind. She sat forward and touched his arm. “Are you all right?”
“I haven’t told you girls the truth,” he muttered. “We haven’t come to Medora for a holiday. We’re here to stay.”
Her hand slid away from him. “What?”
He spun on the seat with terrible fear in his eyes. “Forgive me, Noela. I couldn’t tell you before. You wouldn’t have come.”
Her stomach heaved. She’d been kicked in the chest by a mule. Trampled by a runaway team. She fought the urge to bolt from the buckboard and run clear back to the station.
“We live here, now?” Beatrice cried. “In this pretty place?”
Hiram reined in his horse and pulled to a stop. Shifting on the seat, he studied their father with a troubled gaze. “I don’t know what’s going on here, Jonathan, but you can’t live out there. Not at Vine House.”
Dismal silence descended. Father drummed his fingers on his knee. Beatrice watched, her mouth parted in anticipation of what he’d say next. Hiram cast worried glances at Noela.
Ignoring him, she lurched forward and gripped the seat. “It’s not a catastrophe, you know. We’ll just go back to the city.”
Father’s raised a stricken face. “Noela—”
“We don’t have to stay another day. We’ll go home to New York on the next train out.”
Tears tipped over her father’s bottom lashes, cascading down his ruddy cheeks. “There is no home in New York, Noela. I lost the house.”
“What are you saying?” she whispered. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m saying I trusted a dishonest bloke with an investment.” His head drooped to his chest. “We’re flat busted and homeless because of me. If we can’t make a go of it here, we’re doomed.”
Hope drained from Noela and pooled at her feet. Fury warred in her chest with heartbreaking pity. She stood in the wagon, her clenched hands itching to pummel him, her heart longing to comfort.
She squeezed past Beatrice and gath
ered him in consoling arms. “No worries, now. We’re Nancarrows, aren’t we? We’ll be all right in the end.”
Admiration shone from Hiram’s eyes.
Noela flashed him a weak smile. “After all, God sent us our own Moses. He can surely help us find a way out of this wilderness, can’t He?”
“Noela’s right, Daddy,” Beatrice sobbed behind them. “You’ll see.”
He spun on the seat, one arm tight around Noela, the other groping for Beatrice. “I don’t deserve my girls.”
When the tumult settled to sniffs and sighs, Hiram cleared his throat. “If you’d like, Jonathan, I can help you find another house.”
Shaking his head, Father patted the pocket where he’d slid the folded document. “I’m contracted to Vine House through the government’s Homestead Act. I’m committed to live there and farm the land for the next five years.”
“Five years?” Noela’s voice quavered along with her courage.
“Yes, and then it will be ours, all 160 acres.”
Father sniffed and raised his chin. “I’m sorry to involve you in our shameful business, young man. If you decide to unload us here and not look back, I won’t fault you.”
Despite the chilly air, Hiram took off his hat and swiped his brow with his sleeve. “Not a chance, sir. My offer to help still stands.”
Father placed a trembling hand on his shoulder. “Then we’d best complete our journey. I reckon we Nancarrows need to take a gander at our new home.”
Chapter 4
Gloom crouched over the buckboard for the remainder of the ride.
Beatrice ceased her chatter, watching the countryside pass with buttoned lips and folded hands. Grateful for her sister’s silence, Noela spent the time trying to picture a house made of sod, but she couldn’t conceive of it.
“Is it much farther, young Hiram?” her father asked.
“Just ahead, sir.”
Father shaded his eyes and peered toward the horizon. “She’s out in back of nowhere, ain’t she?”
They crossed a barren plain, the long brown grass rippling in the wind. Hiram pointed toward a gentle rise and steered the wagon toward it. “Vine House is right over there, tucked in the bottom of a coulee.” He grimaced. “A good thing in this case, or the wind would bring it down.”
A Pioneer Christmas Collection Page 38
