Love on the Range

by Jessica Nelson

She straightened abruptly. “Possibly. And what are you up to, Mr. Cruz? I’m surprised you are not occupied elsewhere, as you’ve conveniently been the last three days.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “I thought perhaps you were avoiding me.”

  “That, too.”

  “Why?” She lifted her chin. “I’m leaving soon. There’s no need.”

  “You might want to lower your voice, Gracie.”

  Unfortunately, he was right. She resisted the pout that trembled on her lips. “We had a lovely ride together. If you don’t believe me about my engagement, then say so.”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “Believe me,” she said stiffly. “Hugh is no longer a burden on my conscience.”

  Trevor’s lips twitched. “Now you can stop feeling guilty about those kisses.”

  “If my mother finds out about those, there is no telling how fast I’ll be whisked away.” She sighed. “At the moment, I’ve a mystery to clear up.”

  Amusement lit his face and she moved closer, just to catch a whiff of his spicy cologne.

  “I do. There is discord between Daddy and Uncle Lou, and I’m sure it has to do with his ‘other’ employment. The extra income you refuse to acknowledge,” she said pointedly. “I’m not ready for Boston, not when there’s so much to discover here.”

  “Like the whereabouts of Striker?” Trevor moved away from the wall and eyed her. With a quick movement, he pulled the ribbon hanging askew over her eye and sent her embarrassingly untidy curls tumbling over a shoulder. He smiled and handed her the blue ribbon.

  “I think the first mystery that needs solving is how to keep your hair in order.”

  She flushed as he moved curls off her shoulder. This was much different than when Hugh had touched her. Warmth corkscrewed through her and for a moment she wished to move closer, to feel his arms around her once again.

  She swallowed, throat tight, watching as emotion flickered across his face and his hand dropped to his side. Would she abandon her desire to meet Striker, her need for independence, in order to have a future with Trevor? She didn’t know.

  At that moment her mother rounded the corner and Gracie hastily stepped back. Mother’s eyes widened before quickly cutting into slits.

  “Mr. Cruz.” She nodded to him and grabbed Gracie’s arm. “Come with me, please.”

  “Yes, Mother. Goodbye, Mr. Cruz. Perhaps we may continue our discussion later?” But he did not answer, only watched silently as Edith pulled her down the hall and into the sitting room.

  She stepped in, cringing as the door shut behind her. She turned to face her mother.

  Edith looked at her daughter for a moment, then expelled a heavy sigh. “What is going on between you and that man?”

  She tried to keep her face blank though shock rippled through her. “What do you mean?”

  “You went riding with him the other day and now I’ve walked into the hall and seen you two staring at each other like crazed lovebirds.”

  “I can assure you, Mother, Trevor would never gaze at me like a lovebird.”

  “And I can assure you, Daughter, he did.”

  Gracie spun around and went to sit in Uncle Lou’s chair. She had to breathe.

  “You are saying Trevor looks at me like a man in love?” she asked when she could speak again.

  “What I am asking—” Edith moved to the left-hand couch and sat, face pinched “—is why would he be looking at you like that?”

  She shifted in her seat. She hated the look Mother wore, hated the tight lips and hurt eyes. “I was under the impression that I’m an annoyance to Mr. Cruz. I think you’ve misinterpreted his look.”

  “We need to speak with your father about this.”

  Gracie caught her eyes midroll and directed them to her mother. “Very well. I still need to raise the issue of pants. It’s terribly cold and they would do much to protect my poor legs. Have you ever worn trousers, Mother? I believe you would enjoy them.”

  “The very idea!” Edith sniffed. “Pants are completely unsuitable for women of our station. You would do well to remember that you come from a long line of revered ancestors, the oldest of which sailed over on the Mayflower, and through wars, famines and disease, brought forth strong descendants.”

  Gracie recited the litany in her head along with her mother. This was not the first time she’d heard this insipid speech.

  “My point,” Edith said when she’d finished her monologue, “is you must marry someone of similar background. Like Hugh. Which is why I’ve come to see you. He’s informed me that you’re confused.”

  Gracie licked her lips, which had dried suddenly. “Mother, I told you I’d never marry him.”

  “When?” Her mother had the audacity to feign ignorance.

  “Recently, in letters, but also the very night he proposed. You requested I wait and think on it. Three days later he showed up waving his draft orders. That wasn’t fair to me.” She swallowed hard. “But I spoke with him then, and he has been aware of my decision from the very first.”

  “Dear, you’re not yourself. You’re overwrought.”

  “Because you and Daddy completely ignore my wishes.” She huffed. “I have no voice with you two!”

  “Your emotions are skewed.”

  Her fingers curled around the arms of the chair. “Mother, may I be more direct with you?”

  A finely drawn brow curved. “Of course.”

  “I will not marry Hugh.”

  “It is out of your hands.”

  Did nothing she said get through? “I wish to honor you, however, I cannot marry that man.”

  “We’ll see what your father says.” Mother’s chin lifted.

  Panic fluttered in Gracie’s chest. They could not force her to wed. This was not the nineteenth century. She rose and turned toward the door, because she could no longer look her mother in the eyes for fear of what she might say.

  Edith placed a soft, well-manicured hand on her shoulder. “We love you very much, my dear, and only want what is best for you. Please remember that.”

  She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them. “I thought society had moved past the barbarity of selling off their daughters to the highest bidder.”

  Her mother recoiled as if she’d been slapped. “Is that how you see us?”

  “I will not marry Hugh, and that is my final say.”

  “Gracelyn, you have always been passionate and strong-willed. You have also bored easily. Marrying for love or excitement is not a good foundation for marriage. You must let us, as your God-appointed guardians, guide you in this decision.” Edith offered a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

  Gracie ducked her mother’s hand. How much clearer could she be? “This isn’t like the sewing society you commanded me to join, which I did, though you know I hate needlework. Or when Daddy told me to stop playing chess with the fishermen down at the docks. Or when you both ordered me to stop writing a regular column for the Woman’s Liberator. This is the rest of my life. I cannot be relegated to misery simply because you and Daddy do not see the flaws in this courtship.” She took a deep breath. “Let’s find Daddy…then you can send Hugh home. He is becoming tiresome.”

  Edith’s full lips puckered in a most unbecoming way. “You are defiant, Gracelyn. I did not raise you to behave in this manner. Hugh will stay.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Who said women spoke more than men?

  Dinner that evening remained the same as every night since her parents had arrived. Male dominated. Neither Mary nor Mother seemed inclined to give political opinions, but Gracelyn was full of them. Unfortunately, they stayed bottled inside, corked tight by her mother’s continuous look of disapproval.


  The scent of steamed broccoli hung heavy in the room, combining with the sweetness of Mary’s homemade fudge cooling in the kitchen. The soothing smells, however, did not make for a soothing atmosphere. Mother refused to speak to Mary and it appeared Mary felt likewise. Gracie was forced to have two conversations at a time, when either woman chose to speak.

  Of course, Mother had approached Uncle Lou about servants eating with employers, but he had put her quite firmly in her place. Gracie had heard the exchange from the other side of the office door.

  Still deeply offended, Mother kept shooting venomous glances toward Uncle Lou.

  “This is a wonderful steak, Mary.” Gracie shifted so that Hugh, who had been strategically placed next to her, would no longer be able to touch her calf with his foot.

  She chewed a tender piece, savoring its tangy flavor. “I wish I could cook like you. Have you always been so proficient in the kitchen?”

  Mary smiled serenely. “It was a job at first, but now I enjoy cooking.”

  “Enjoying it is a must, I suppose.” Gracie moved a little to the left. Hugh’s arm kept caressing her elbow.

  “You do not need to cook, Gracelyn. We have servants for that.” Edith forked a small broccoli floret into her mouth.

  “Of course,” Mary continued, as if she had not heard Edith, “it is every woman’s privilege to excel in the art of cooking, which is a branch of homemaking. Men enjoy their woman’s touch in the meals. I do feel sorry for those unfortunate enough to have never learned this necessary skill.” She cut herself a piece of steak and bit it with a triumphant flourish.

  Edith’s cheeks flushed. “Such servitude will never be expected of you, Gracelyn dear. We are above menial labor.”

  “The twentieth century is so liberating. Most of America is slowly but surely leaving its snobbery behind.” Mary’s fork clattered against her plate.

  Neither woman looked at Gracie; they were glaring at each other.

  She hid a smile behind her hand. It would not do to divulge the fact that Mother was always trying to bake something but nothing ever turned out right. Poor Mother. Gracie would keep her secret.

  While the two women seethed, she glanced down the table at Trevor. He ate with careful precision, cutting his steak perfectly, eating it, then moving to his mashed potatoes. She looked down at her own plate. She had mixed the broccoli and potatoes together and a few pieces of steak topped the mound haphazardly.

  They were entirely different. Even the way she and Trevor ate their food was different.

  A nudge against her knee caught her attention. Hugh appeared enthralled with his food but she was sure the contact had been purposeful.

  Connie had thought him handsome. Gracie had also, at first. But now his skin stretched too smoothly across his face, lacking the character lines that distinguished Trevor’s features.

  Hugh’s foot covered hers. She yanked her toes out, causing her knee to bump the bottom of the table. Dishes clattered.

  She ducked her head, spooning food into her mouth until the men’s voices rose again and the silent war between the women waged on.

  When she was sure no one would notice she leaned over and whispered into Hugh’s ear, “Stop pawing me.”

  He didn’t even look at her. His ears must be filled with wax, the knave.

  “Pass the butter, please,” Hugh said. His finger gently touched her hand. She grabbed the butter and shoved it to him, silently groaning.

  During their courtship in Boston he’d been nothing like this. They attended church and other events together and he was always charming and gracious, if a tad boring. But even then she’d been aware they did not suit one another. For one thing, there was his stance on the vote and music. His family disapproved of jazz, therefore, so did he. Surely music with such a fast pace must be wrong, Hugh had pointed out once.

  Gracie scooted to the left of her chair and wished someone else would finish eating so she might leave the table.

  Her parents wanted her to marry Hugh, and she wanted freedom. Perhaps she should go home immediately. But then she might never have the chance to be so close to Striker’s territory again. She would never see Trevor again. The realization filled her with unease. Her entire purpose here was to seek out Striker, not worry about Trevor. She frowned. This was a wonderful opportunity, and she couldn’t afford to let sentiment keep her from her goals. She’d lose her chance at the interview of a lifetime and possibly a career.

  * * *

  Gracie escaped to her room later that night when Mother pulled out her sewing needles.

  Once there she realized with surprise that she felt quite tired. The day had been stressful. Hugh had found every opportunity to touch her, Trevor had kept her at arm’s length, and Mother watched on like a hawk. Then Daddy forbade her from wearing trousers, citing propriety.

  She reached under her pillow and pulled out the faded clippings she always kept nearby. Finding Striker was proving impossible. How could she look when she barely left the ranch? And now that her parents had arrived… She groaned and leaned against the pillows.

  Did finding him really matter? There were other articles she could write, other ways to earn money and live independently. How silly to search for a secret agent, even if all accounts made him sound terribly exciting. And what if he did carry out assassinations? What if the Council Bluff rumors were true? What if he’d really killed a child?

  Striker didn’t care to defend his honor. Why should she? Whether or not she made a name for herself from his interview, something had still compelled her to seek him. The meager information about him had piqued her interest and the tidbits she’d gleaned convinced her that there was more to Striker than what the papers printed.

  Rising, she went to the closet, pulled out her jewel box and stashed the papers in the hidden compartment at the bottom.

  Then she readied for bed and, despite the tensions of the day, passed easily into sleep.

  Perhaps it was the distant rumbling of thunder that roused her from dreams, but she awoke suddenly and jerked up, every hair on her neck raised. She shoved curls from her face and studied her moonlit room before determining everything was as it should be.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw lights flickering outside. She slid out of bed, some instinct warning her to stay to the side of the window to remain unnoticed. From this view she could see the darkened silhouette of Trevor’s house. Across the desert, near the base of the mountains, three lights flashed briefly, then extinguished.

  Were they lanterns? She couldn’t tell, but who would be out on a winter night in the desert? Goose bumps prickled up her arms. She remembered Trevor’s warning of two-legged predators roaming in the night.

  Mendez.

  Her stare probed the sleeping desert but she saw no more movement. She shivered back to her bed and climbed into its warmth. Uncle Lou might want to know about this.

  * * *

  The next morning dawned bright and clear, all snow flurries swept away by the earlier night’s winds. Gracie woke to see the sun’s pastel fingers caress the jagged line of mountains outside her window. Perhaps God was not so far off after all. After her conversation with Trevor the other night, she’d finally opened her Bible since hearing of Connie’s death. Sparing the book an affectionate glance, she turned away. She dressed and headed to the kitchen, sure no one else would be awake this early.

  Daddy sat in the kitchen, sipping a freshly brewed cup of coffee. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

  “Good morning, Daddy.” She bent and kissed his cheek. She couldn’t stay angry with him, not over a pair of trousers. Pouring herself a cup and then adding a liberal amount of sugar, she sat across from him. “You don’t look like you slept well. Is the cold bothering your joints?”

  William shrugged. “Since the
polio, these old legs are always giving me fits.”

  “It would be nice if someone could find a cure.” Bitter steam from her coffee reached her nose. She sipped the hot brew, relishing its potent burn. “It finally looks like we might be able to go out and ride around. Perhaps we could make our way into town today? Mary probably has shopping to do.”

  “You’re fond of the servant.” William looked at his daughter over the rim of his cup.

  “She’s a family friend, Daddy, whom they took in and helped in her time of need. Yes, I am fond of her. She’s a Godly woman, a hard worker and a wise soul. She’s also an excellent seamstress. Mother would enjoy her company.”

  He set his cup down. “Your mother tells me you have an interest in one of the hands?”

  Gracie flushed. “How strange. The only hand here is James. He bandaged my knee like a professional.”

  “Your knee?”

  “I wrenched my knee when one of the horses slipped on some ice. Don’t fret, all is well now.” She sipped the strong coffee, wishing she could slink back to her room and avoid this inquisition.

  “It is Mr. Cruz you are interested in, correct?”

  Gracie didn’t know how to respond so she gulped more coffee. She could not hide her feelings from her father. Distraction might prove useful, though. “Why are you here?”

  Father’s blue eyes met hers. “We were concerned for you. With Connie’s death we thought you might need your family near.”

  “I thought you came because having me here with Uncle Lou made you nervous. What’s the disagreement between you two? I find him amiable. Is it his profession?”

  William’s forehead crinkled. “And what would you know of that?”

  “I’ve picked up pieces here and there, but you know a good investigator never reveals her sources.” She grinned at him.

  “Is that so?”

  “You know it is, Daddy.”

  “My dear, Lou’s profession is his business. I’m sure you realize that for me to reveal any information to an investigator such as yourself could very well be foolhardy. It might end up in your column.”