Love on the Range

by Jessica Nelson

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I found out it was Julia who sold you to Mendez,” Gracie told Mary as they stood in the kitchen rinsing vegetables for dinner.

  Mary’s face paled a bit but then she shrugged as though coming to an internal decision. “Julia isn’t a good person. She gave Trevor’s fiancée money to run off to New York City with some high-and-mighty businessman from Chicago before the Mendez business.”

  Fiancée? Gracie’s hands stilled, then continued the rhythmic rinsing. When she could trust herself to speak she said, “I didn’t know Trevor had a fiancée.”

  “It was before I lived here. He must have been, oh, eighteen or nineteen. I only met her once, but it was enough to know she wasn’t for him. She was a young girl, and I could see in her eyes she liked to have fun. But he trusted her, despite her light ways.”

  “She left him, then?” Gracie dried the squash and set it on the counter.

  “Two weeks before their wedding. He was always serious, but after that he changed.” Mary frowned. “Lost his trust in women. I told him he only needed a solemn woman who was content to live in the country, raise children and not give him any trouble.”

  “How tedious.” Gracie picked at a speck on the squash with her fingernail. The residue crumbled off and she brushed it into the sink. She could never be a “solemn” woman. Was that what Trevor wanted?

  She’d watched him today with a wild horse. His voice had been nothing but a whisper, yet the mare responded. He’d held out his hand and the horse had inched forward, its hooves crunching in the brittle snow.

  She wanted Trevor to have a woman who would see him as more than a rancher. Who would see his generous soul. The sensitivity he hid beneath his expressionless mask.

  Mary went to the small porch right outside the kitchen and came back with chicken from the refrigerator. She coated a piece thickly with homemade batter, swirling it in the batter bowl before setting it on a plate. Her movements were brisk, smooth and spoke of inner passion. Her heart was in her cooking.

  As Trevor’s was in the calming of Oregon’s wild horses.

  Gracie observed Mary’s movements and tried to push down the irritation rising inside. Normally Mary hovered on the reticent side when it came to personal information, so why had she shared Trevor’s past with Gracie, making it sound as if being lighthearted was akin to being evil incarnate? Was she warning Gracie? Telling her she wasn’t good enough for Trevor?

  Gracie dumped the rest of the rinsed vegetables on the counter and began to slice them.

  “A fiancée,” she whispered.

  * * *

  True to Trevor’s word, Uncle Lou took everyone into Burns. The day dawned crisp and bright, the fifteen-degree breeze carrying sweet scents of juniper and sage upon her airy breath. Although the drive into Burns took almost an hour, Gracie enjoyed every moment of it.

  She pressed her face against the window, enchanted.

  The Oregon land, vast and untamed, loomed before her. Rocks the color of a burning sunset jutted against the horizon. Some lightly dusted with snow, others drenched in glittering whiteness. Harney County was majestic in its wild splendor, captivating her interest and leaving her speechless almost the entire trip. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Uncle Lou, Mary and Trevor exchanging glances, and knew they were secretly amused at her lack of chattering.

  Let them laugh. A strange love for her surroundings rose in her breast. She hadn’t realized it before but now she knew nothing in Boston could equal this place. Nothing.

  They pulled into Burns just past ten in the morning. People lined the streets, going about ordinary errands and chores. Any one of them could be Striker.

  To Gracie’s amazement, quite a few Indians walked through town. Some dressed in what she guessed was traditional Indian garb, others dressed like any other man or woman on the street. All possessed eyes black as night, shining at her as the car passed. In addition to pedestrians, horses and cars crowded the streets, horses outnumbering the cars by far.

  That was different. Her upscale Boston neighborhood consisted mainly of automobiles, though at the harbor there were more horse-and-buggies.

  The common denominator amongst the pedestrians were the masks covering their faces. Gracie hadn’t wanted to wear one as they were large, bulky triangles of gauze, but she’d do what proved necessary to stay in good health.

  Uncle Lou pulled into a parking space and proudly showed her the Ford dealership where he’d gotten his Model T a few years ago. It stood shiny and new, a testament to the growing prosperity of the town. The men helped each woman out of the car, careful not to muss their skirts.

  Gracie wore a deep blue suit beneath her coat, the fanciest she’d brought, with shiny black shoes. It fit her form beautifully, thanks to Mary’s needle, and Gracie preened with delight when Trevor’s eyes kept flicking back to her.

  Mary looked stunning in a sleek suede skirt and a simple coat the color of a spring rose. The men had slicked up, too, each wearing neatly pressed trousers and shirts beneath their leather coats.

  James stayed home, expressing no interest in shopping and eager to make sure “that woman,” meaning Julia, stayed out of trouble.

  Gracie and Mary soon split from the men to go shopping for presents and left them to do more manly things, like discussing the cars displayed at the Ford dealership.

  Gracie looked up and down the street, wondering where to start. “Do you suppose we’ll see Striker today?”

  “Really, Gracie, you’re obsessed with the man.”

  “He rescues women,” she blurted.

  “And he’s an assassin.”

  “That’s a rumor.” Gracie chewed her lower lip.

  They walked the sidewalk, glancing into windows.

  “You met him, Mary. What did you think of him?”

  “This is what I think.” She stopped walking and faced Gracie. “He doesn’t want to be found. He doesn’t care what people think of him. Rescuing women…and taking care of criminals is what he does with whatever means necessary.”

  Gracie shook her head and turned away. She wouldn’t believe that of Striker. After the interview even Mary would know Striker could not possibly be so cold. So brutal.

  The rest of the morning passed amiably enough. She found things sure to please her family and friends, candies and delightful knickknacks Mother could display in her china cabinet. For her father she spotted leather slippers lined with rabbit fur, and after stroking the soft insides, she found his size and paid for them.

  She bought gardening tools for Trevor and a huge book that categorized native Oregonian plants, illustrated with detailed drawings. She had the tools engraved with his name and when the shopkeeper showed her the case designed for the tools, she bought it, as well, ignoring Mary’s groan at the exorbitant price.

  When she brought up the topic of Striker with the clerk, Mary practically dragged her from the store. Gracie shrugged out of her grip at the door and made her way back to the counter.

  “I simply want to know if he’s passed this way,” she told the gentleman. His thick eyebrows drew together, wrinkling weathered skin he hadn’t bothered protecting with a face mask.

  “Well, now.” He chomped his tobacco. “Last week he rode through town but I ain’t seen him since.”

  Thrilled beyond belief, she leaned over the counter. “How did you know it was him? Does he live nearby?”

  The clerk scratched his head.

  “We’re sorry for bothering you.” Mary tugged on Gracie’s sleeve. “We’ve more shopping to do.”

  “Now, hold on a minute, Miss Mary. I gots something to say to this young woman.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “We don’t talk about Striker here. We protect him.” The clerk spit into a ca
n on the counter, then fixed her with a grizzled look that was obviously designed to intimidate her.

  As if that could work.

  She met his look head-on. “You protect him because he’s a good man.”

  “He’s been known to kill folks.”

  “I don’t believe that.” Not innocent ones, leastwise.

  “Believe what you want, girlie. I’ll tell you one thing. There’s been journalists come up here before, flashing their money, but we keep our mouths closed. Now get on and leave the man alone.”

  He turned his back to them.

  Frowning, Gracie let Mary guide her out of the store.

  “I tried to warn you, Gracie.”

  “Does this mean Striker’s nearby? That if I look closely, I’ll find him?”

  “No.”

  Mary refused to say more and Gracie let the matter rest. They did a little more shopping and though Gracie asked more questions, they remained unanswered. Disappointed, she followed Mary back to the car.

  Gracie’s step faltered when they passed shops closed for business, signs posted in the windows stating they would not reopen until the influenza pandemic waned.

  She was watching Uncle Lou and Trevor cross the street when another sign caught her attention. Big, bold lettering stated “Infectious, Influenza Outbreak.” The store was dark and the sign stood out like a proclamation of future evil.

  She tried to tamp the fear coiling in her stomach, but in her mind she kept hearing Uncle Lou’s quiet voice. “Constance died yesterday.” Kept seeing the lines around his eyes, the concern tilting his lips.

  Her fingers went to her mouth but touched fabric instead. She felt faint but didn’t realize she was weaving unsteadily until Trevor’s strong hand cupped her elbow. Her gaze cleared, focusing on his features.

  “I’m fine,” she said, pulling her arm from him and addressing the question in Mary and Uncle Lou’s eyes. She blinked fiercely as they returned to the car.

  “Dance halls are closed,” Trevor said, tone low.

  “The pandemic is all over the country, hasn’t hit us as hard, but it could.” Lou fingered the newly grown mustache that peeked out from beneath his mask. “Best bet is to go home, lie low until this thing blows over.”

  Gracie trudged behind the group, forcing one foot in front of the other. Going out no longer excited her. The heavy bags in her hands no longer warmed her.

  Here in Oregon, living life without Connie was easy. But in Boston? They shared the same friends, hobbies, church. Had grown up together.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat and hoped no one would see the lonely tear sliding down her cheek. No one but God, who promised to put all her tears in a bottle. The day darkened as the soft sun slid behind thick gray clouds.

  “Sorry, ladies,” Uncle Lou said once they were situated in the car and he was pulling onto the street. “We wanted to take you out to eat but now isn’t a good time.”

  “I’ll make something special,” Mary said.

  Gracie gazed out the window, watching the townspeople and wondering which ones carried the fatal virus.

  And who would die next.

  * * *

  After dinner, chores, and an hour of restless tossing and turning in her bedroom, Gracie cautiously slipped down to the sitting room with the hopes the fireplace still crackled. As she neared the base of the steps she saw with relief the flickering shadows coming from the room. Good. She needed warmth. Something to chase the chills from her soul.

  When she walked into the room, she stopped short. Trevor sat in a chair, head bent over a Bible, shadows of flames dancing across his dark hair. One of his arms draped the side of the chair, the other steadied the book on his lap. A peculiar warmth crept through her.

  “Hello, Gracie.” His head did not move as she continued to move into the room, her night robe making small whisking sounds as it brushed against the oak floor.

  She settled onto the couch nearest the fireplace. The room was set up so the furniture grouped around the hearth. The big cushioned chair sat directly across from the fireplace with two scarlet couches flanking it and placed vertical to the fireplace to face each other. The overall design of the furniture and fireplace created a large rectangle. Between each couch and the chair Uncle Lou had strategically placed his antique tables. The arrangement evoked a cozy, inviting atmosphere.

  Trevor closed the Bible and placed it on the table to his left, then faced her. She put her back to the fire in order to see him fully, casting her own face into shadows, but for once his was covered in light. He looked peaceful.

  “Couldn’t sleep?”

  “No.” Her fingers plucked at her robe. “What were you reading?”

  “Romans.”

  “I love that book. If it was the only book of the Bible I had, there would be enough in there for me to live out a successful Christian life. How do you like it?”

  “It’s interesting.” The flickering fire reflected in his eyes, making them gleam. His craggy features stopped short of handsomeness, yet they tugged at her, made her want to explore the depths of Trevor Cruz.

  “Are you feeling better now?”

  She blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “In town, you seemed woozy for a few seconds. Everything fine now?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “You didn’t look fine,” he persisted.

  She didn’t want to talk about it, so she changed the subject. “Have you decided to buy the ranch?”

  “I’m not sure. Being half owner appeals more.”

  “Oh.” She sighed, letting her lips curve into a smile. There would be more vacations here. She’d insist on it. “Thank you for the trip into town. I found a huge assortment of goods and believe I’ve finished my Christmas shopping. The shops were wonderful. I’ve never seen so many Indian artifacts or specially hand-crafted items.”

  “How’d your knee do?”

  “Wonderful.” James had removed the bandages like the professional he used to be. “Why is James no longer a doctor?”

  Trevor grimaced. “He drank too much. Mary found him on the streets and brought him here.”

  Gracie gazed sightlessly into the fire. She could learn much from Mary. How many times had she snuck into the poorer areas of Boston for adventure’s sake, only to ignore the needy of its streets?

  “Are you still searching for your Striker?” Trevor asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Why, Gracie?”

  “I want to prove he’s honorable.”

  Trevor shook his head. “That’s not enough. What’s in it for you?”

  She turned to him, debating. What would he think of a woman in journalism? “Who’s to say I have ulterior motives?”

  “Everyone does.”

  “I suppose that’s true. The fact is…I want to be independent.”

  His brow traveled upward, a familiar movement she was beginning to associate with him.

  Could she explain what she wanted? Odd how her stomach clenched at sharing such a deep-seated need. She found herself longing for his approval. “If I find Striker, I’ll accomplish what no other journalist has been able to do. I’d make a name for myself as an investigative reporter. I’d procure a career.”

  “I see.” He linked his fingers and rested them against his ribs. “And you think the answer lies in Burns?”

  “I know it does. I won’t stop exploring until I find him.”

  “Speaking of exploration, you’re not to go on the porch at night anymore.”

  Gracie’s head jerked up at his abrupt words. He had seen her?

  “If you keep up that reckless habit,” he continued. “I’ll have to let Lou know.”

  “Don’t b
e so stuffy.” Gracie strove to inject lightness into her tone, although anger and embarrassment battled for control. “It’s only the front porch. And how is it you’ve seen me? Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

  “What I’m doing is none of your business, Gracelyn. Stay in your bed at night. There are dangerous animals roaming.”

  “I could say the same for you. If I choose to go on the porch, with all due respect, I fail to see how it is any business of yours.” Her foot twitched beneath her robe.

  In the hall, the grandfather clock chimed ten times, ten seconds’ worth of Trevor staring at her with a hard edge to his features. He went too far with his insane rules.

  “Lou will know,” he threatened.

  She crossed her arms and turned her head toward the fire, foot swinging with indignation. What could she say to that? It was Uncle Lou’s home; she would do as he said. She fought the urge to grind her teeth together. “Do you always fall back on threats to get your way?”

  “There are things you don’t know.” She felt his perusal. “Harney County has its share of nefarious men. Lou likes the house locked up tight at night and when you go outside you’re endangering yourself, as well as the others.”

  “You mean Mendez.” She heaved a deep sigh. “I didn’t consider the night dangerous. I’ll do as you say. But you’ll not stop my midnight ramblings in the house.”

  “Fair enough,” he answered, and she knew he was amused because he had won this clash of wills.

  A log splintered, cracking loudly in the silent room, sending sparks up like fireflies dancing on a breeze. The scent of pine flavored the atmosphere.

  What would Mother and Father think of her sitting alone at night with a man? They would not approve. Life here was different. The restrictions of high-society Boston seemed absurd in the quiet comfort she shared with Trevor.

  He’d had a fiancée. Did he still love her? Mary had said it was years ago.

  That must have been how she had hurt him when she first arrived, asking why he wasn’t married yet. She cringed at the memory.

  “I was talking to Mary today,” she began, then stopped. Maybe bringing Mary into it wasn’t a good idea. “She said the weather could warm up.”