George rose and walked to the open door. “I don’t know where those cowboys are. I thought they were coming out to help today. Good thing we didn’t wait on them.”
“Cowboys!” Mary swatted at a fly with her dishcloth. “Bunch of no-good rabble-rousers! Rosa, if those boys show up, don’t you have a thing to do with them. They aren’t fit company for ladies.”
“That includes our oldest son, Bailey, most days, but the ladies don’t seem to mind.” George stood a moment longer and then roused himself. “Well, let’s go, boys. Them sheep ain’t gonna crawl out of the fleeces by themselves.” He shuffled toward the door. “You coming, Rosa?”
She didn’t hesitate. Rosa loved to handle the greasy warm fleeces, so heavy and soft. Staying inside on such a beautiful day would be a tragedy. The sky was the same brilliant blue as her blouse, the coreopsis crowded around the barnyard gate as bright as the yellow embroidery she had whipped into her clothing while lounging during languid Mexican evenings.
As she passed through the gate, there was a commotion ahead of her.
“Tuck! Catch her! She’ll lead them all out!”
“I’m trying, Pa.”
Caught by surprise, Rosa stepped out of the way as a heavily fleeced ewe barreled past her red skirt, Tuck hot on her heels. To her horror, the whole flock was following behind. She raced to the end of the wooden gate and lifted and rotated it into place to halt the exodus, but it was too late to catch all of the runaway sheep.
Tuck managed to head off the followers, but the lead ewe made a beeline toward her home pasture. Samuel and George were there in an instant to help Tuck turn the flock.
“Sorry. I let them get by,” Rosa gasped as she raced past them after the lone fugitive.
Once clear of the yard, she lengthened her stride. Her legs stretched and greedily ate up the fresh grassland between the errant animal and her. The crisp spring air was invigorating. On the long train ride home, Louise had taught her not to fidget, to sit properly and move gracefully, but she hadn’t explained what a lady did with raw energy. If the answer was chasing sheep, then Rosa was behaving perfectly.
The wily ewe slowed to a trot as it entered a copse of trees. Mimicking Tuck, Rosa stalked around the trees to get in front of the animal.
Weston spotted a house on the hill. He hadn’t been there since he and the owner had traded bulls. He couldn’t remember which bull he’d obtained in the bargain, but he did recollect the man’s two daughters—silly things, whose faces looked like they’d been in seed ticks. Sure enough, as he approached, he saw one young lady on the porch. She dived inside and returned with her sister. There they stood, whispering behind their hands as he passed.
Well, that wasn’t unusual. When he’d been a young man, it was hard to separate the belles who were interested in his estate from those who were preoccupied with his looks. Since then, the years had wiped away the smooth naïveté of his adolescence, leaving a weathered countenance—not exactly what most young gals were hunting for, but it didn’t matter. He’d removed himself from the marriage market, to the expressed displeasure of matchmakers throughout the war-torn state.
Love, marriage, disaster—that’s how it read in his book. He wouldn’t put another woman through that no matter how handsome they declared him to be.
Then again, he shouldn’t be vain. The two girls were probably laughing at his hair, but if he stared at ladies in the same manner, he’d have some explaining to do.
He tipped his hat as he continued on the road toward home. No, not home, not yet. If he remembered correctly, Uncle George would be in the middle of sheep shearing. They’d be grateful for an extra pair of hands. Yep, a trip to Uncle George’s might keep the regrets away a while longer.
He and God hadn’t been on speaking terms until lately, primarily because of Wes’s guilt. Should he blame God for the tragedy or himself? For a time he told himself he’d rather be in the dark than to know he was liable, but he finally reached a point where nothing else mattered. He’d tried a life separated from his God, and it was no way to live. He’d rather be a son who was chastened than a stranger who was ignored.
On top of that, his sister, Eliza, would soon return home from a trip he was too yellow to take. He should’ve gone to St. Louis and taken Cora’s mementos back to her family. Five years mourning was long enough, but instead, Weston had found excuse after excuse. No more. Time to get back in the saddle and start living. He couldn’t go home and be the same man who had left.
Approaching the property line, Weston didn’t see any ewes in the north pasture. Shearing must be underway. Pleased at the chance to stay away from Palmetto for a couple more days, he let Pandora have her head. His mare must have anticipated a feed sack, for she covered the last leg at a brisk gallop, and soon they were on family land. But was it too soon?
Maybe he should have taken more time to figure it out before turning Pandora south again.
Too late now.
A flash of red caught his eye, and at the same time Pandora’s ears twitched. He pulled up the reins. Someone was stalking through the trees. A woman crouched low was sneaking forward, her back to him. Who was she and what was she doing at George’s? He turned Pandora and crept slowly behind her, not wanting to announce himself until her intentions were clear.
4
THE EWE STARTLED when she saw Rosa in front of her.
“That’s right. Outsmarted you, I did. Time to turn around and head to the barn.” Rosa bent forward and waved her arms wide, trying to look much bigger than she was. The ewe bleated a warning at her. “No, old woman, I’m not moving. You’re going to turn around. . . .”
But the ewe didn’t listen to Rosa’s instructions. Lowering her head, the animal charged directly toward her. Determined not to step out of the way this time, Rosa held her ground until the sheep ran between her legs and caught in her red skirt. Falling forward, Rosa wrapped both arms around the cushioned body and was carried backward out of the trees and into the open field. She threw her weight to the left and toppled the ewe.
There they lay, side by side, Rosa’s arms still around the south end of the squirming beast. Now what? How could she get the animal home? Rosa gasped for breath. Between the running and the wrestling, she was winded.
She heard a horse nicker, then a man’s voice. “If you’re hurt, I’ll help. If not, I’ll pretend I didn’t see anything and go on.”
At his voice, the ewe struggled harder to get to her feet, but Rosa held on tight. “I’m not hurt, but I need to get this animal to the barn.”
Huffing, she tilted her head to get a look at the speaker, Aunt Mary’s warnings about cowboys still ringing in her ears. Besides an uneven haircut, he didn’t look scary. Instead, his looks were very nice. Pleasing even. Aunt Mary’s warning would go unheeded in the face of this handsome cowboy. She couldn’t believe the man before her was deficient in any way, or at least his rugged face convinced her to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Speaking of appearances, what must hers be? Lying on the ground embracing a dirty ewe? Rosa stifled a groan. His eyes were averted, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She pulled her legs up, hoping they were hidden by her skirt.
“I’m afraid she’ll run off if I let her go.”
“What do you propose? Are you going to lie there until she falls asleep and then drag her back?”
Rosa felt like she was talking directly up his horse’s nose. “If you have a suggestion, I’m willing to listen.” She blew some loose wool away from her mouth. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The stranger studied the horizon a long moment before answering. He didn’t seem rude, but he had yet to get off his horse and assist.
“You’re here to help George and Mary?”
Her face grew red as she nodded. Lots of help she was, lying in a pasture.
“Did I miss dinner?” He untied his bandanna from around his neck, wiped his face, and met her eyes for the first time.
What was wrong with this man? “
Yes, you missed dinner. Señor, my arm is going numb under this animal ridículo. What should I do?”
“Let her go.”
“I can’t let her go. She’ll run off.”
“No she won’t. She’ll follow me. She knows me.”
Rosa tried to read the man. As much trouble as she had catching the sheep, he’d better not mislead her. She released the ewe and rolled to avoid its sharp hooves. The animal scrambled away from Rosa but didn’t go far from the man and his horse.
Rosa stood and dusted off her skirt. What a mess. Between her soiled clothes and his shaggy appearance, obviously they’d both faced some tough times. Maybe she should have compassion on the wayward laborer. Her eyes flickered over him one last time. After accepting help from Louise’s family, she was pleased to be in a position to help someone less fortunate.
“I could fix you a plate, if you’ll come to the house.” She clasped her hands behind her back. Would he take charity from a señora?
He nodded. “Let me get this girl to the barn, and I’ll be there directly.” He turned south with the ewe following meekly behind.
As Weston approached the corral he heard the bleating of the lambs confused by the loss of their fluffy mammas. Suspiciously they sniffed the ewes, not believing that the lively animals bounding out of the barn, weightlessly celebrating the lifting of their burdens, belonged to them. He opened the gate to let the stray in, then provided Pandora with her long-awaited feed sack. At least she was happy to return.
Turning toward the house, he saw the woman in the doorway, but she darted inside when he spotted her. Funny that she’d be embarrassed now. She didn’t act ashamed before. If she was a pastora—a shepherdess—and accustomed to doing a man’s job, wouldn’t she know more about sheep? Besides, she sure wasn’t dressed for sheep wrestling. Stepping into the shaded room, he watched her prepare a plate of cornbread and stew. It’d be cold, but Weston wasn’t accustomed to pampering.
He took a seat at the table and hung his hat on a stave of the ladder-back chair. The lady slid the dish across the oak table to him.
He lifted his eyes from his plate to where she stood. “Are you going to stand there and watch me eat?”
She shrugged. “Until I think of something better to do.”
Her answer amused him. No coquetry, no guise—just an honest, intriguing expression. Comfortable. She didn’t seem anxious for him to leave, but she was giving him his space, too. Didn’t make any demands. But something about her made him want to dig deep and find the man he used to be. He was home and determined to do it right this time.
“Do you mind if I say grace?” he asked. She rewarded him with a genuine smile. “What’s your name?”
“Rosa.”
She obviously wasn’t schooled in proper introductions, not that he was surprised. The memory of her lying in the grass with her arms and skirts around a ewe didn’t lead him to expect much etiquette.
“Rosa.” He tried it once for himself and then bowed his head. His fist clasped and unclasped on the table before he began, his voice a little rusty. “Heavenly Father, thank you for a safe journey and thank you for your patience and mercy.” He paused, silently confessing how much he needed that mercy. “Lord, I pray your blessings for Rosa, and please bless this food and the hands that prepared it. Amen.”
“Amen,” she echoed.
Weston attacked the food with gusto, stealing glances at her as she tidied up from the noonday meal. The women must have gone straight to the barn after dinner. Having finished wiping the countertops, she moved to the table, working away from the occupied end of the bench.
He ought to be getting to the barn, but if he could have come up with a reason to stay in the kitchen, he might’ve. The lady darted around like a dragonfly, never landing anywhere long but catching his eye with her brightly colored clothing, bracketed with patterns that mimicked the latticed wings of the creatures.
True, the colors might be a little dingy from her spill, but that wasn’t all that captured his attention. The broad neck on her blouse exposed more skin than he was used to seeing before evening—and then only if the ladies were dressed for a social. As she scrubbed against a stubborn drip of beans, he noticed her delicate collarbone, which was exposed to the very point it met her curved shoulder. And the hollow at the base of her neck . . . really! How did Mexican men get anything done during the day if their womenfolk flitted around the kitchen dressed like that?
He pushed away from the table and carried his bowl to her, even more pleased that she hadn’t been hurt handling his livestock.
She was a pretty girl, no doubt about it.
“Thank you, err . . . miss.”
“Ma’am.” She lifted her chin and straightened her back.
All right, he stood corrected. She was a pretty woman.
He grabbed his hat on his way to the barn and turned his mind to the task ahead.
After she cleaned herself and the kitchen, Rosa waved Ida into the house to pass along a message to her mother. No sense in Aunt Mary worrying herself over supper. Rosa would make sure the hardworking crew had a hot meal waiting for them.
By the time the pungent aroma from the cook fire wafted through the yard, the day’s work was completed. The girls ran through the house with more enthusiasm than the food merited.
“Uncle Weston is here! Uncle Weston is here!” Susannah grabbed the stack of plates while Ida hopped from one foot to the other.
“He is?” Rosa squeaked in an attempt to match their excitement.
She twisted her hair up off her damp neck and pinned it. Pulling a peach cobbler from the oven, she used her apron wadded in her hand for protection against the hot cast-iron skillet, careful not to graze the darting girls with the bubbling dish.
“I can’t wait to meet him.”
And that was true. Weston and his sister, Eliza, were the closest blood relatives left of Mack’s—his first cousins. But even beyond that, she was curious to meet this man who, though younger than Uncle George and Aunt Mary, was spoken of with such respect.
“I declare, Rosa, what have you been cooking? I don’t know when this kitchen has ever smelled so good!” Aunt Mary bustled in straight from the pump to dry her still-dripping hands on the kitchen towel. She leaned out the open window. “Yoo-hoo, George. Grab the tea canister, please. Susannah, did you get enough mugs? Help your father.”
Fanning herself, Aunt Mary opened each of the wood-framed windows to let out more of the heat from the stove. Finding her efforts futile, she took four dishes off the table and carried them back to the counter.
“We’ll let the young’uns have the kitchen tonight. It’s hot as blazes in here, and there’s no use in crowding around the table. I’m eatin’ on the porch.”
The men filed through the door, dragging more heat in with them. George had the sparkling glass jar of amber tea hugged snugly to his chest. Rosa’s eyes widened at the stranger close behind him. Would Aunt Mary let the cowboy eat in the kitchen with the family? But he was listening intently as Samuel told him about his new six-shooter.
“Tomorrow I want to show you how fast I am on it already.”
“Accuracy comes before speed. How’s your aim?”
“Not bad. It’s better when I slow down—”
George cleared his throat, interrupting Samuel’s admission, and brought the room to order.
“Rosa, I’d like to introduce my nephew, Weston Garner.”
If the cowboy hadn’t stepped forward with hat in hand, she’d still be looking for the man she’d heard so much about.
“Mrs. Garner, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He was more decorous than he’d been a few hours ago but just as handsome. “I apologize for my lack of manners earlier. I didn’t realize you were kin.”
Aunt Mary gave her a questioning look.
This was Weston Garner? No wonder he didn’t get off his horse to rescue the hired help. Molly’s words rang in her ears. Yes, he had kept his distance, and yet . . . Bu
t he was waiting for an answer.
“And I didn’t realize you were Louise’s nephew. I’d always pictured someone . . . groomed?”
“Rosa!” Aunt Mary covered her mouth.
“No, I didn’t mean groomed,” Rosa stammered. “Maybe that’s the wrong word. I meant to say I didn’t expect Weston Garner to have mangy hair.” She tilted her head and studied him. “But it’s only on the one side, so maybe it isn’t that bad.”
Rosa was unprepared for the hoots that erupted from Samuel and Tuck. Uncle George just about lost his hold on the tea canister. Mary laughed tears, and Weston donned his hat, pretending to hide his offending hair.
“Oh my, oh my.” Aunt Mary choked as she caught her breath. She wiped her face with her apron as they came to their senses. “Honestly, Weston, what in the world happened to your hair?”
“Well, I was at a barber’s in Round Rock when something came up. I had to skedaddle before he finished.” He accepted the tin plate his aunt offered him.
“You’ve looked like that since Round Rock?” Aunt Mary asked.
“It wasn’t that bad with my hat, but then I stopped for church, and of course I couldn’t go in with my hat on . . . so I tried to trim it up with my knife. . . .”
Uncle George interrupted him with guffaws of laughter. “I don’t think that improved matters.”
“No, sir. It didn’t.” He pulled taut the jagged locks and grimaced.
Enough time had passed that Rosa could breathe again. Hopefully they would forget that her rude comment had started the whole cacophony. She filled her plate last and followed Aunt Mary outside.
First impressions weren’t her strong suit.
By the time the bats were swooping in the twilight, dinner had been greedily consumed, as only outdoor laborers can, Aunt Mary no exception. Rosa watched Weston stretch his long legs out along the edge of the porch, where he and Uncle George sat, and lean against the support beam with fingers laced behind his head.
Sixty Acres and a Bride Page 3
