So, he tuned out the generic sermon and eyed the rest of his family, trying to guess what was going on behind their careful masks.
Blake’s father, Len Bradfield, sat with his hands folded and his eyes serious. It didn’t take much clever detecting for Blake to know what his father was thinking. Len was undoubtedly carrying on a diatribe against his own father, railing at him for abandoning the family and the ranch in order to go adventuring.
After his wife died fifteen years back, Ewell had up and left the burden of running the Yellow Rose Ranch to his only son, Len. Then he’d packed a rucksack and taken off for parts unknown, claiming that he’d always itched to go exploring.
As a boy of seven, Blake had found this incredibly exciting. He’d taken to playing explorers whenever he was released from his lessons and didn’t have any chores to do. This enthusiasm for adventuring had only been fueled by Ewell’s sporadic visits home and tall tales of thrilling escapades which he told to his captive audience of one.
Blake had plenty of memories of Len and Ewell’s heated arguments over the years. The weight of running the ranch had fallen squarely on Len, who angrily demanded that Ewell stop his foolishness and come home. But Ewell would look wistfully at the chair his late wife used to occupy and would insist he couldn’t stay.
So, now, Len was most likely taking advantage of his father’s inability to argue back. From the tightening of Len’s jaw, Blake knew he had guessed right. Poor old Granddad was getting the mental lambasting of his life.
Next to Len sat his wife, Judy. Tears streamed down her cheeks in what appeared to be a proper attitude of mourning. And, while Blake knew his mother’s motives were pure, there was more to her grief than just sadness that her father-in-law was gone. Judy was nothing if not a peacemaker, and now there was no chance that things could be smoothed over between Ewell and Len.
Blake peeked over at his older brother, Troy, who had an arm around his wife Clora. Next to the pair of them sat the youngest of the Bradfield boys, Harris. Irritably, Blake noted that both of his brothers bore twin expressions of mild boredom. They were both trying, and failing, to show their grandfather the proper respect he deserved.
Neither of his brothers had joined Blake in idolizing their grandfather. Harris could be convinced to join in and play a round of explorers now and again. However, he was more interested in chasing Troy over to the corral and riding horses.
Where Blake admired Granddad, Harris and Troy admired the cowhands employed by the Yellow Rose Ranch and their father who owned such a grand place. Neither of Blake’s brothers needed to go adventuring; the ranch was plenty of adventure as far as they were concerned.
Clora’s hand moved automatically to her rounding belly and Blake felt his ears heat up. It wouldn’t be long before his sister-in-law would have to enter her confinement. She had only recently confided in Judy that a new baby was on the way. Judy had informed her husband and younger sons in a whisper, as such things weren’t spoken of out loud. Blake could hardly look at his sister-in-law without getting flustered.
Once she grew big enough to make concealing her delicate condition impossible, Clora would stop going out in public until after the baby came. Blake recalled the months she’d spent out of sight after his brother’s first baby had been born.
Granted, Blake loved his nephew, Troy Junior. The little fellow was already a year old and had gone straight from crawling to running. No wonder Clora looked so tired all the time. A grin almost split Blake’s grim expression at the thought of small TJ. But then he reflected on the fact that this new baby was unlikely to be named for his treasured great-grandfather, thanks to Troy’s adopting of Len’s criticism of the older man, and Blake’s frown deepened.
By the time the reverend wrapped up his sermonizing, Blake was jiggling his long legs and itching to get out to where his dark thoughts could get a good airing. Still, he had to stand through a fair number of neighbors and acquaintances who wanted to offer their condolences.
“Ewell was a good man and a good neighbor,” whistled wrinkled Howard Trudeau. “’Course, he turned sorta funny at the end, but losing yer wife will do that to a man.”
Blake nodded curtly and accepted the older man’s weak hand clasp.
“I know this must be ever so hard on you, Blake,” cooed elderly Mrs. Munson. “You were glued to your grandfather’s legs any time he was home, weren’t you? It’s too bad that he didn’t give up his foolishness and stay closer to the home place.”
Miss Trudy, the fearsome old schoolmarm, snorted and snapped, “Ewell Bradfield never found a single treasure in all his seeking. He didn’t learn his lesson, so I hope you do. Don’t waste your life gallivanting about looking for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow!”
Finally, temper dangerously close to breaking point, Blake extricated himself from the crowd and stalked outside to where his horse was tethered.
It was quiet outside the church and Blake gulped cold air, which seared his lungs all the way down. Why didn’t anyone understand his grandfather’s desire to get out of this wretched town? Was it really so hard to believe that someone might want to get away from these small-minded people and the dreariness of their mundane lives?
Tears filled Blake’s eyes as he remembered sitting at Granddad’s knee, listening raptly to the stories of sleeping under the stars and seeing faraway places. No story in a book could ever be as thrilling to Blake as Ewell’s tales of searching for treasure. It made his heart ache to think of how alone his grandfather was, even when he was among his family, with no one to share his lust for exploring except a small boy.
Ashamed, Blake swiped gruffly at his eyes. Needing to think of happier thoughts, he recalled the fun he’d had following the treasure maps Granddad had left for him whenever he went off on an adventure. It softened the blow of his leaving for young Blake, who would spend half a day deciphering mysterious clues and pacing off the distance spelled out on the hand-drawn maps Granddad would leave for him. Though it had been years since Blake had been left a map, he was suddenly struck with the realization that no more would be coming and felt as if a hole had been punched right through his gut.
“Come back inside, boy,” called Len.
Blake turned, startled. He’d been so lost in thought and grief that he hadn’t heard his father’s approach from the rear.
“I needed some air,” Blake explained.
Len sighed wearily and nodded. “I know this is especially hard on you.”
It was Blake’s turn to clench his jaw. Len’s own father had just died and he acted as though it was just some distant relative he hardly knew who was in that pine box at the front of the church.
Blake opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the oily, loathsome voice of the very despicable Lucien Durning.
“Sorry to hear about your father, Bradfield,” Lucien oozed.
Both Bradfield men turned as one and glared at the businessman. Lucien Durning stood there looking innocuous as always. The middle-aged man was of average height and sported an ever-growing paunch around the middle. He was cherub-faced and balding, and always looked to Blake like someone’s jolly uncle.
But underneath that mild exterior was a calculating man who was fueled by ambition and avarice. It was Lucien Durning who had funded the Silver Dollar Saloon and hounded the town council until they’d passed an ordinance allowing for Mrs. Roundtree and her girls to set up shop upstairs. Between whiskey, gambling, and girls for purchase, the Silver Dollar had caused more trouble for local cowboys than all the rattlesnakes in Texas.
And now, Lucien was rumored to be buying up land left and right all around Elmswood. Ranching was hard work and not all spreads survived the harsh conditions. The Bradfields had discussed that topic during mealtimes on several occasions. They didn’t resent their neighbors who’d given up and sold their land to Lucien at pennies on the dollar. Though, Blake couldn’t figure out for the life of him why the businessman was acquiring so much land.
�
�I hate to talk business when you’re in mourning,” Lucien said with a failed attempt at regret on his face, “but I don’t know when I’ll see you again. My offer still stands, Bradfield. The Yellow Rose is a fine ranch and I’ll give you a good price for the whole operation.”
Blake eyed his father. He’d heard Len rant about Lucien’s so-called “good price.” The first time he’d made an offer, it had been absurdly low. Then, to add insult to injury, Lucien had merely smiled at Len’s refusal and promised he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Sure enough, he’d been back half a dozen times, increasing the price a tiny bit and always refusing to be put off.
“My father just died, Durning,” Len said through gritted teeth. “It’s disgusting that you would dare to approach me about such things at a time like this.”
Lucien tipped his hat. “Of course, of course. Terribly sorry. It’s just that everyone in town knows that you and your father had a falling out. I naturally assumed that you weren’t particularly grieved by his passing. I suppose you’re more sentimental than I gave you credit for.”
“Not sentimental, just human,” Len growled. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, of course. Your kind slithers out from under rocks back east.”
The insult bounced off Lucien’s too-tight suit without leaving much of an impact.
“That’ll be your grief talking, I suppose. I’ll let it slide this time. You should remember that I always get my way. Always.” And somehow, Lucien’s round face became menacing.
The other two men watched the rotund businessman stride away as though he owned the world. And, Blake noted grudgingly, when it came to Elmswood, Texas, Lucien Durning pretty much did.
Len shook his head angrily, hands on his hips. “I’ve tried to be a patient man, but I’ve seen too many fancy fellows from the East Coast breeze into Texas thinking they’ll make their fortunes here. They last a year or two before they miss the soft life back in New York or Boston. All they want is to scoop up land real cheap and sell it for top dollar. I’ve heard plenty of stories about that sort of thing. It takes a genuine Texan to sink in roots and make a life out here.”
“Lucien Durning’s been here more than two years,” Blake pointed out. He’d heard his father’s loyal Texan speech more times than he could remember and was in no mood to humor him today of all days.
“He’s cut from the same cloth,” replied Len dismissively.
Blake turned and watched as the businessman entered the Silver Dollar Saloon halfway down the street from the church. It would be a waste of breath to argue with his father, but Blake had a feeling that the older man was wrong when it came to Lucien. He was in Elmswood for more than just a quick profit. There was something sinister about that fellow that always put Blake on edge. Whatever he was up to, Lucien Durning needed careful watching.
Chapter 2
It was only a few days later when Blake found himself back in town, heaving a barrel of oats onto the ranch’s wagon. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the task, but ever since his grandfather’s death, every chore seemed to rub the young man the wrong way. And this particular duty left him in a blacker mood than any other.
Nelson’s Mercantile had been doing business with the Yellow Rose Ranch since it hung up its shingle. Ewell had always boasted that Amos Nelson was a straight shooter and had never wavered in his loyalty. Now, once a month, a representative from the ranch would trundle to town and load up the wagon with supplies.
It was a hot, tiring job no matter the time of year. The coat that Blake had huddled in not an hour before lay forgotten on the wagon seat. However, it wasn’t the hard work that bothered the young Texan. He was used to hard work and hot weather after a lifetime of ranch work. No, it was Miss Belle Nelson that made this particular task so onerous.
“Golly, Blake, you’re so strong!” Belle gushed from her spot near the store’s back entrance.
Blake clenched his teeth and reminded himself not to react. He’d been the object of Belle’s admiration since they were children. She’d chased him around the schoolyard, promising that one day she’d be his wife. Granddad always said it was the curse of red-headed men that some women found them irresistible. Of course, he’d always chuckled when he said it, much to Blake’s chagrin.
Blake had hoped that as his hair darkened over the years Belle would find a new object of affection. He’d even wished that his brother Harris would catch her eye. All the Bradfield boys had red hair. Only Blake’s hair was curly, though it had finally settled to a dark rust color. Troy and Harris had stick-straight hair. Troy’s was a nice auburn while Harris’ remained bright red.
But, no. Belle was fixed on Blake.
“Would you like to come inside for some cider after you finish? I could put some on the stove. It’s so cold out today, I bet you’d like to warm up before you head home,” Belle pressed, eyelashes fluttering.
“No thank you, Miss Nelson,” Blake said through gritted teeth.
Belle merely giggled and continued standing around uselessly. She wasn’t unattractive, Blake noted for the hundredth time. In fact, some fellows would probably find her real pretty with all that dark hair and big eyes and generous curves. It was just that she chased after him so hard and fast that Blake couldn’t help but run away. Besides, he couldn’t picture Belle being too happy with a husband who went off adventuring for months at a time. No, sirree. She’d have him on a tight leash where she could parade him about.
Besides, Belle was one of those girls who thought that being pretty was her contribution to the world. She rarely lifted a finger to do anything and never bothered to open a book. Her entire life was wrapped up in what she wore and how she fixed her hair. What would a fellow find to talk about with her? Blake couldn’t begin to imagine.
“Sorry, but I can’t. I’ve got to stop in to see Iver Kennedy.” Blake was suddenly very grateful for the excuse. He’d been a bit irritated when the local lawyer had asked him to come by his office. Now, it felt like a gift from the Almighty.
Belle pouted.
“Well, I’ll go square up with your pa,” Blake said and hurried into the mercantile, giving the girl a wide berth.
With relief, Blake snapped the reins and clucked to the horses not ten minutes later. It wasn’t far to the lawyer’s office, but he didn’t want a reason to have to return to the general store and Belle’s clutches. Blake expertly guided the horses up to the hitching post outside the lawyer’s office’s small facade and set the brake before jumping down.
The office was cheerfully lit with a pair of hurricane lamps. A small fire crackled in the pot-bellied stove, giving the long, narrow room plenty of warmth.
Iver Kennedy looked up from the papers he was studying and nodded his greeting at Blake. The lawyer was tall, thin, and balding. He was never without his pocket watch chain neatly crossing his vest. Ever since he was a little boy, Blake had associated gold pocket watch chains with lawyers, thanks to Mr. Kennedy.
“Come in, come in,” the older man urged, one hand beckoning Blake towards the chair opposite his polished wooden desk. As the young rancher took his seat, Iver said, “I was glad to run into you earlier. I’ve been meaning to reach out to you in regards to your grandfather’s will.”
Blake’s eyebrows lifted. He hadn’t been aware Granddad had a will. But, of course he had. Granddad had been a practical sort of man in his earlier years. It was only later in his life that he began to eschew the traditional life.
“I assumed the ranch would be left to my father,” Blake said as he settled back into his wooden chair. “I’m surprised I was named at all.”
Iver shrugged and wiggled his head back and forth a little, “He amended his will a few years back and, I’ll be frank with you, his most recent addendum is rather odd. But, it was one of his final wishes, and so I’m making you aware of it.”
Curiosity bloomed quickly in Blake’s mind. What could his grandfather have done? A sad smile quirked Blake’s mouth. It was just like Granddad to leave a fina
l behest for his most loyal of grandsons.
“There’s a letter for you to read,” Iver explained. The tall man pushed to his feet and went to one of his wooden filing cabinets. An efficient search resulted in his hasty return to the desk, an envelope in his hand.
Daring to Start Again: An Inspirational Historical Romance Book Page 29
