by Jill Gregory
Slightly disconcerted by the bold, appraising way the wranglers were regarding her, Bryony crossed the shaded porch swiftly and slipped inside the open doorway of the adobe ranch house.
Inside, to her surprise, it was remarkably cool. And the decor of the house—in striking contrast to the rugged simplicity of the exterior architecture—was lavish with tasteful, expensive luxury.
Her father had obviously spared no expense in furnishing his home, she realized. The hallway in which she stood boasted as fine a parquet floor as she had ever seen in St. Louis. Its gleaming wood was polished to a high bronze, and its rich color reflected off of the finely paneled walls which extended all the way through the other rooms.
A large parlor branched off to the right of the hallway, and Bryony caught a glimpse of handsome, carved oak furniture, and a beautiful Indian-woven rug of intricate geometric design in colors of brown and tan and beige hanging upon the far wall. Another rug—even larger and in sunset colors—graced the parquet floor. Brass lamps and colorful Indian pottery brightened the handsome room, which looked as if it had just been freshly cleaned and polished. Everything in the house seemed to glow with a rich, elegant beauty that bespoke a man’s solid good taste and an abundance of wealth.
Straight ahead through the hallway rose a carpeted staircase leading to the second floor bedrooms, as Judge Hamilton informed Bryony. And behind the stairway was the kitchen and the room in which Rosita, her father’s Mexican housekeeper, slept.
Beyond the parlor there was a large, formal dining room furnished with a long oak table and finely carved chairs, a massive china cabinet, and an oak sideboard. The sideboard and china cabinet displayed lovely dishes and trays of pewter, French crystal goblets, and several bowls and candlesticks of fine sterling silver. A highly polished silver coffee service sat in the center of the long oak dining table, glittering proudly. It was a splendid room, and Bryony felt a rush of pleasure as she surveyed it. Delight filled her as she noted that the French windows along one entire wall opened onto the porch and the rear courtyard, where the orange groves clustered prettily against a distant background of the mountains.
After a brief tour of the downstairs rooms, Judge Hamilton ushered Bryony into her father’s study, which branched off to the left of the front hallway. The moment she stepped into the study, she stopped short in complete amazement.
It wasn’t that the room wasn’t as carefully appointed as the others in the ranch house—it was—but her attention was claimed by the gaping hole in the wall above the dark walnut mantelpiece.
There was a large, jagged black cavity where perhaps a painting should have been—and wasn’t.
She stared in astonishment until Matt Richards came up behind her and spoke ruefully over her shoulder.
“Not a very pretty sight, is it? I’m afraid Judge Hamilton and I didn’t really know what to do with it—I mean, whether you’d want us to have another safe installed for you, or to just repair the wall and cover it with a painting, or what...” His voice trailed away.
“I don’t understand. What happened here?” Bryony turned to face him.
“Someone broke into the house shortly after your father’s death. A few things were stolen, I’m afraid—and the wall safe your father had installed in this room was blown wide open with dynamite. Whatever money he had in that safe was stolen, too. We’re really not sure how much was there.”
“I can’t believe the ranch was robbed.” She drew in a breath. “Was anything else of value stolen?” Then she caught herself up short. “No, of course not. The silver coffee service and all those beautiful things are still in the dining room where they belong, aren’t they?”
“That’s the odd thing about it.” The Judge frowned. “The place was turned upside down, but only the contents of the safe were missing.”
“But how was all this allowed to happen, Judge? Didn’t anyone hear the commotion and come to investigate? There are ranch hands here—why didn’t they do something to stop the thieves?”
“It happened on the wranglers’ night off. All the men were in town, whooping it up at the Silver Spur. Rosita was here alone, sound asleep. When she heard the explosion, she jumped up to find out what was happening, but she was knocked unconscious from behind before she could see anyone.” He shrugged, regret in his eyes.
“I’m right sorry, Miss Hill. I have no idea who those hombres were who ransacked the place. And believe me, they really tore it apart. It took Rosita nearly a week to clean everything up.”
“Si, es true. A whole week it took—mucho trabajo!”
The heavily accented Mexican voice spoke softly from the doorway, and Bryony turned curiously to meet Rosita, her father’s housekeeper. The woman was short and plump, with a full, pretty brown face, dark hair braided severely atop her head, and eyes that held no friendliness as she gazed at her former employer’s daughter.
She wore a loose-fitting white blouse that hung limply over her sagging breasts, and a long, colorful print skirt that almost touched the floor. Her thick brown arms were crossed in front of her, and this, added to the indifferent expression on her broad face, gave an impression of sullenness.
“Howdy, Rosita. This is Miss Bryony Hill, your new mistress.” Judge Hamilton grinned at Bryony. “Miss Hill, you’ll find that Rosita Lopez is the best housekeeper in the territory. My landlady at the boardinghouse in town has been trying to steal her away for the longest time, and so has Edna Billings at the hotel—but I guess they can’t match the money your pa paid out. Rosita’s worth it, though, every cent of it. Right, Matt?”
The rancher nodded, while Bryony smiled politely, wondering if Rosita’s housekeeping skills were worth the price of having her sour face continually present in the house. She decided to wait and see—perhaps she could eventually melt down some of the woman’s aloofness.
She spoke with a sincere effort at friendliness. “How do you do, Rosita? I’m happy to meet you. And I can see that the Judge isn’t exaggerating—the house absolutely sparkles. I do hope you’ll stay on here with me.”
The woman shrugged stoically. “Buenas dias, senorita. Si, I will stay.” Then she lapsed into sullen silence, as if waiting for further orders.
“That’s fine, Rosita, just fine.” The Judge filled the uncomfortable silence with his hearty voice. “Now why don’t you start rustling up some supper for Miss Hill? This desert air stirs up an appetite, and I don’t think she’s had a bite of chow since breakfast.”
Without a word, the woman turned and lumbered away, her sandaled feet moving with remarkable quietness for so large a woman.
Bryony glanced hesitantly at Judge Hamilton. “I don’t think she likes me very much.”
“Oh, Rosita’s not the talkative type. And besides, she’ll like you just fine after she’s been paid. I reckon once she sees the pesos owed her after all this time, she’ll find a way to bring a smile to her face.”
Bryony started. “Pesos owed her? What do you mean?”
The Judge sighed. “Fact is, the woman hasn’t been paid since a week before your pa died. Neither have any of the ranch hands. The truth is, Bryony, they’re all about ready to up and quit. No one was here to take care of the payroll. You see, all the money was locked in the safe.” He nodded toward the wall with the gaping hole.
“Do you mean that the entire payroll was stolen from there?” Her eyes widened in dismay. “That’s... that’s terrible. How am I to pay Rosita and the others?”
This new problem was worse than all the rest. It was bad enough that the ranch had been broken into, but a missing payroll and disgruntled employees were even more unsettling. What was she going to do?
“I’m sorry, Miss Hill, but it looks like you have another pressing problem.” Matt Richards spoke from the window, where he was gazing out toward the corrals.
“A whole pack of wranglers are on their way over here right now—with Rusty Jessup, your father’s foreman—in the lead. And they look madder than a band of Apache braves on the
warpath.” Turning from the window he shook his head. “I’m afraid they’ll want their pay before the day is out.”
“But that’s ridiculous. I don’t have that kind of money with me!” Bryony rushed to the window to see for herself. Sure enough, about a dozen men were stalking purposefully toward the ranch house, their chaps flapping against their denim jeans and high, pointed boots. Beneath their wide sombreros, their dark-tanned faces were set in hard, determined expressions, and Bryony’s heart jumped at the prospect of a confrontation with such fierce-looking men. She spun about to stare wildly at Judge Hamilton.
“What am I going to do, Judge? I don’t have the money with which to pay them!”
“I reckon you’re going to have to stall them off a bit,” he replied thoughtfully. “There’s probably plenty of cash to cover the payroll in the bank in Tucson, where your pa had an account. Once you’re settled in here, I’ll drive you over to Tucson and you can withdraw it.”
“But is that going to satisfy their demands today?” she asked nervously.
Judge Hamilton gave her a long, measuring look, taking in her slender, lovely figure, the long, ebony curls flowing softly about her shoulders, the small white hands twisting nervously together. He spoke in a quiet, serious tone to the beautiful young woman waiting anxiously for his advice.
“Miss Hill, if you’re planning to run this ranch, you’re going to have to face all the problems that go along with the job. Those men out there worked for your father, and now they work for you. You have to handle this. No one else.”
She met his gaze silently. He was right, of course. Unconsciously, she’d been hoping that he or Matt Richards would step in and pacify the angry cowboys for her. Now she saw that that would never do.
She took a deep breath as she heard pounding on the ranch house door. Then without a word she turned, her white skirts swishing behind her as she hurried into the hallway toward the front door.
Despite her calm exterior, her heart thudded nervously. She knew that this confrontation would be a real test of her ability to survive here in Arizona, where rough, brutal men and smoking guns ruled the day. It was vital that she succeed with the angry wranglers—or else she may as well give up her dream of running this ranch—of making Arizona her home. So much depended on the next few minutes...
The cowboy facing her on the opposite side of the doorway was tall and slim, in his middle twenties, she guessed. He had a thick crop of curly red hair beneath his hat, and was dressed in typical cowboy garb—denim Levis, chaps, pointed boots with intricate, fancy stitching, and a plaid shirt with a brown neckerchief tied about his throat. The expression on his narrow face was not encouraging, she thought, as she studied him swiftly.
He had sharp, hard blue eyes beneath bushy red eyebrows, and his thin lips were set in a sneer.
As she took his measure, he did the same with her, his gaze lingering long on the swell of her breasts, then traveling downward along her body as though she were not wearing any clothes at all.
When he finally returned his gaze to her face, there was a jeering expression in his eyes, not unmixed, she noted, with a look of desire.
“Yes, what is it?” Bryony asked coolly, trying to hide her inner anxiety. She had to retain control of this situation and make the wranglers respect her. If they thought she was weak and easily frightened, the battle would be lost before she even spoke a word.
“So you’re Miss Hill—the new owner of the Circle H,” the red-haired cowboy remarked derisively.
“Yes, I am. What do you want?”
He leisurely drew himself up to his full height to tower over her. “Well, ma’am,” he drawled, “I’m Rusty Jessup—your father’s foreman. And these are some of the boys who worked for your pa.”
He jerked his thumb to indicate the restless group of cowboys waiting in the dust at the foot of the porch steps. “We’ve come for our pay, ma’am,” Rusty continued, his easygoing tone toughening. “We stayed on after your pa died out of respect, but now that you’re here, we expect you to make it up to us. Pronto.’’
He leaned closer, so close that she could smell the strong, nauseating aroma of his hair tonic. “In case you don’t know, city lady, here’s a little hint—pronto means now.”
Bryony flushed at his rude tone, wishing she could slap that self-satisfied smirk off his face.
For some reason she couldn’t fathom, Rusty Jessup had made up his mind that he was going to dislike his new employer without even giving her a chance, and Bryony sensed it would be futile to try to reason with him.
Moreover, she returned his dislike, wondering why her father had ever hired such a contemptible, unpleasant man as his foreman. But she had no time to ponder that question now.
She stepped past him without another word, pausing in the center of the porch to sweep her gaze over the group of discontented range hands.
She heard Judge Hamilton and Matt Richards emerge from the house to stand silently behind her, while from the corner of her eye she saw still another wrangler making his way toward the group on the porch. She recognized him as the man who had been riding the wild mustang when she arrived, but she had no time to think further about him, for even as he loped up to join the group at the foot of the steps, Bryony became aware that everyone was waiting for her to speak.
Rusty Jessup was staring at her with barely disguised contempt, and the ranch hands watched her with hostility. Drawing a deep breath, she cast frantically in her mind for the right words with which to address them.
Having lived all her life in the homes of her kindly relations and in boarding schools where others made all the decisions, Bryony was unaccustomed to being in command. Desperately, she wondered what Miss Marsh would say in this situation. That slender, soft-spoken woman, for all her delicate appearance, was universally respected by all those who came in contact with her. She seemed capable of handling any situation with grace and firm efficiency.
Swallowing hard, Bryony began to speak as she imagined Miss Marsh would if faced with this problem.
“I’m glad you all have come here to see me this afternoon,” she began, her gaze traveling calmly over each listening man as she spoke. “I want to thank you all for remaining here on the Circle H during the period following my father’s death. I greatly appreciate it.”
She paused, wondering if she should smile at them, then deciding against it. She had once overheard Miss Marsh warning a new teacher at the school that she should not bestow even one smile on her students for the entire first month of the term—the students would have to learn to respect her; later there would be time for them to like her.
Bryony sensed that the same principle applied now.
“As you all know, the payroll money that was kept in the safe in my father’s study was stolen shortly after his death. Consequently, I don’t at this moment have the money that is due to you.”
A chorus of angry muttering and oaths sounded at these words, but Bryony held up a hand for silence and continued speaking, her heart pounding. “I regret this delay deeply, believe me I do, and I intend to make it up to you.”
“Oh yeah? How?” Rusty Jessup demanded. “The only way you can make anything up to us is by giving us our pay here and now! We’ve waited long enough already!”
“That’s right. We want what’s owed us!” another cowboy shouted from the crowd.
Others agreed, chiming in rowdily, discontent spreading through them as rapidly as a wildfire.
Only the tall blond wrangler who had ridden the bucking mustang remained silent, studying first Bryony and then Rusty Jessup. As the foreman continued to argue, deliberately inciting the other men, and preventing Bryony from speaking, the young range hand shouldered his way to the front of the crowd.
“Maybe if you shut up a minute, Jessup, the lady might have a chance to speak her mind,” he boomed, and instantly the other men fell silent, glancing in surprise at the angered cowboy.
“What’s with you, Monroe—don’t you want your
money?” Jessup sneered. “Or are you just more interested in making a good impression on the new boss?”
A moment later the young blond wrangler leaped forward, slamming a large fist into the foreman’s face. Jessup went down with a thud, clutching his jaw in pain and confusion. As he realized what had happened, he tried to surge upward toward the lanky wrangler looming over him, but Judge Hamilton and Matt Richards intervened, pulling the two men apart.
Bryony watched the exchange in horror. She was shocked by how quickly the situation had exploded. The range hands seemed to have forgotten all about her. They were buzzing excitedly among themselves, stirred up by the fight.
Anger rose in her. This situation had gone beyond her control and somehow, she realized, she had to regain mastery of it.
“All right, that’s enough!” she suddenly shouted, placing her hands on her hips in a posture of authority. Startled, the men quieted, staring at her in surprise.
“I won’t tolerate another instant of this conduct! The next man who speaks before I’ve finished talking will be fired—effective immediately. Is that understood?”
She paused, waiting until each man had nodded, amazement registering on their faces as their new boss showed them a side they hadn’t expected. The wranglers weren’t ready to throw in their jobs without hearing what she had to say.
It was Jessup who’d stirred up their ire these past few days, Bryony told herself. He’d kindled their uncertainty and resentment into fury directed at the new owner of the ranch. But now that they’d seen her, she thought, the men seemed to be intrigued.
Maybe they’d give her a chance.
She swallowed, knowing that everything depended on her next words.
No one made a sound as she once more began to speak.
“Within the next few days I’m going to ride to Tucson and withdraw sufficient sums from the bank there to cover the payroll for every man and woman on this ranch. I’m also prepared to pay an extra week’s salary to every person who remains in my employ without another word of complaint. But there are two things I expect from those who want to continue to work for me.”
