“’Morning,” he said without looking up from the diagram that spanned two pages.
Rue got a cup and went to the stove for coffee. The warmth of the wood fire seemed cozier, somehow, than the kind that flowed through the heat vents from the oil furnace. “Good morning, Mr. Ford.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Farley said.
Rue was gazing out the window over the sink, watching as big, wispy flakes of November snow began to drift down past the yard light from a gray-shrouded sky. Silently, she marveled that she’d stayed away from the land so long, loving it the way she did. She’d let things go where the ranch was concerned, having her accountants go over the books, but never examining them herself, hiring one foreman after another by long-distance telephone without meeting them, sizing them up.
Sorry, Gramps, she said silently.
Wilbur had bacon and eggs in the refrigerator—he had spent the night in the bunkhouse with the other men now that Rue was back—so she made a high-fat, high-cholesterol and totally delicious breakfast. “We’ll have to go into town and stock up on groceries,” she said, serving the food. “Then I’ll introduce you to the men, and you can choose a horse.”
By that time, Farley had finished reading about car engine motors, but he looked sort of absentminded, as if he was still digesting facts and sorting ideas. A light went on in his eyes, though. “A horse?” he echoed.
Rue grinned, a slice of crisp bacon in one hand. “Horses are still fundamental to ranching,” she said.
“Is this a big spread?”
She told him the acreage, and he whistled in exclamation.
“You raise mostly cattle?”
Rue nodded. “Some horses, too. I’d like to pursue that further, start breeding show stock.” She got up and pulled a newspaper clipping she’d spotted earlier from the bulletin board. Wilbur had a habit of saving unusual accounts. “As you can see,” she went on, placing the picture of a miniature pony and its trainer next to Farley’s plate, “horses come in all shapes and sizes these days.”
Farley frowned, studying the photograph. “Tarnation. That little cayoose doesn’t even reach the man’s belt buckle. Can’t be more than two feet high at the withers.”
“People breed miniature ponies to show and sell,” Rue said, reaching for her coffee. She was prattling, but she didn’t care. She enjoyed talking to Farley about anything. “Horses used to be about the size of house cats back in prehistoric times. Did you know that?”
“What good is a two foot horse?” Farley asked practically, letting the history lecture pass without comment. “I don’t imagine you could housebreak them like an old lady’s pet dog.”
Rue laughed. “True enough. And just imagine what it would be like if they jumped up in your lap, the way a cat or a puppy might do.” Seeing Farley’s consternation, she spoke seriously. “I know in your time every animal had to have a distinct function. Nowadays, people raise all kinds of creatures just because they enjoy it. I know of a woman who raises llamas, for instance, and a man who keeps a little pig as a pet. It even rides in his car.”
“You know some strange people,” Farley said, and he clearly wasn’t kidding.
Rue smiled. “Yes,” she agreed. “And the strangest one of all is a United States marshal from 1892.”
Farley smiled back, but he was obviously a little tense. He probably felt nervous about meeting the ranch hands; after all, up until then, Rue had been the only twentieth-century person he’d had any real dealings with. Now he would have to integrate himself into a world he’d only begun to understand.
Rue touched his hand. “Everything will be fine,” she promised. “Hurry up and finish your breakfast, please. I’ll show you the horse barn, and then I want to get the grocery shopping out of the way.”
After giving her a humorously ironic look, Farley carried his plate to the sink. “Don’t nag me, woman,” he teased.
Widening her eyes in feigned innocence, Rue chirped, “Me? Nag? Never!”
With a lift of one eyebrow, Farley put on his hat and the canvas coat he’d been wearing when he and Rue were suddenly hurled into the latter part of the twentieth century. Rue put on a heavy jacket, gloves and a stocking cap, knowing the wind would be ferocious.
The sun had yet to rise, the snow was still coming down, and the cold was keen enough to bite, but Rue’s heart brimmed with happiness all the same. Although she hadn’t consciously realized the fact before, this ranch was home, and Farley was the man she wanted to share it with.
When they reached the horse barn, the lights were on and one of the hands was helping Wilbur feed and water the valuable geldings and mares. Soldier, the sheepdog, was overseeing the project, and he ran over to bark out a progress report when Rue and Farley appeared.
Farley grinned and affectionately ruffled the animal’s ears, one of which was white, the other black. “Good boy,” he said.
Rue proceeded along the center of the barn until she came to the stall that held her own mare, Buttermilk. It had been too long since she’d seen the small, yellow horse, and she longed to ride, but there were other things that had to be done first.
She went on to meet Wilbur, who was hobbling toward her.
“Where is that stallion you wrote me about? The one we bought six months ago?”
Wilbur ran his fingers through hair that existed only in his memory. “That would be Lobo. His stall is on the other side of the concrete wall. Had to keep him away from the mares, of course, or he’d tear the place apart.”
“Lobo,” Rue repeated, well aware of Farley towering behind her. “That’s a silly name. You’ve been watching too many cowboy movies, Wilbur.”
The old man winked, not at Rue, but past her right shoulder, at Farley. Obviously Wilbur had pegged the marshal as a kindred soul. “No such thing as too many cowboy movies,” he decreed. “Ain’t possible. Hell, when the Duke died, those Hollywood folks just stopped making good Westerns altogether.”
Rue could feel Farley’s questions and his effort to contain them until they were alone again.
“Movies,” she said as they rounded the concrete wall Wilbur had mentioned, headed for Lobo’s private suite, “are pictures, like on TV, put together to make a story.”
“Who’s this Duke Wilbur was talking about? I thought we didn’t have royalty in America.”
Rue grinned, working the heavy latch on the door to the inner stable. “There was a very popular actor called John Wayne. His nickname was the Duke.”
Inside his fancy stall, the stallion kicked up a minor fuss. Rue supposed it was some kind of macho thing, a way of letting everybody know he was king of the stables.
“Easy, Lobo,” she said automatically.
Farley let out a long, low whistle of admiration as he looked at the magnificent animal through the heavy metal slats of the stall door. “You broke to ride, fella?” he asked, stepping closer.
Rue had been around horses a lot, but she felt as nervous then as she would have if Farley had stood on the threshold of that mysterious doorway in Aunt Verity’s house with the necklace in his hand. Either way, he’d have been tempting fate.
“Sure is,” Wilbur replied from behind them, before Rue had a chance to answer.
She looked at the horse and then at Farley. “I don’t think—”
“Where can I find a saddle?” Farley broke in. The line of his jaw and the expression in his eyes told Rue he would not be dissuaded from riding the stallion.
Wilbur produced the requested tack, along with a bridle and saddle blanket, and Farley opened the stall door and stepped inside, talking quietly to Lobo. Beyond the windows, the snow continued to tumble through the first gray light of morning.
Rue bit her lip and backed up, knowing Farley would never forgive her if she protested further. He was a grown man, he’d probably ridden horses most of his life, and he didn’t need mothering.
Wilbur stood back, too, watching closely as Farley slipped the bridle over Lobo’s gleaming, ebony head, then saddled the
horse with an expertise that made a lump of pride gather in Rue’s throat. Finally, he led the animal from the stall and through the outer doorway into the paddock.
Lobo was fitful, nickering and tossing his head and prancing to one side.
“You’re sure that stallion is broken to ride?” Rue asked Wilbur, watching as Farley planted one booted foot in the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle.
“Pretty much,” Wilbur answered laconically.
Lobo gave a shriek of outrage at the feel of a man’s weight on his back. He set his hind legs, and his coal black flanks quivered as he prepared to rebel. Several of the ranch hands had gathered along the paddock fence to watch.
“Damn it,” Rue ground out, “this isn’t funny!” She was about to walk up to Lobo and grab hold of his bridle when Wilbur reached out and caught hold of her arm.
“Let the man show what he’s made of,” he said, and Rue could have sworn those words came not from the mischievous old man beside her, but from her grandfather.
“That’s stupid,” Rue protested in a furious whisper, even though she knew Wilbur was absolutely right.
Lobo had finished deliberating. He “came unwrapped,” as Rue’s grandfather used to say, bucking as if he had a twenty pound tomcat burying its claws in his hide.
Farley looked cool and calm. He even spurred the stallion once or twice, just to let Lobo know who was running the show.
Finally, with a disgruntled nicker, the stallion settled down, and permitted Farley to ride him around the paddock once at a trot. The watching ranch hands cheered and whistled, and Rue knew Farley had taken the first step toward making a place for himself at Ribbon Creek.
Farley rode over to the fence and spoke to the men who remained there, and soon he was bending from Lobo’s back to shake hands.
Rue gave Wilbur a look fit to scorch steel, then crossed the paddock to speak to Farley. She smiled so that no one, least of all the marshal himself, would get the idea she was trying to boss him around.
“I guess we’d better be getting to town if we’re going to get our business done,” she said.
Farley nodded and rode toward the stables without protest, dismounting to lead Lobo through the doorway.
The cowboys at the fence greeted Rue pleasantly and then went on about their own tasks. When she stepped inside the stable, Farley had already unsaddled Lobo and was praising the horse in a low voice as he curried him.
“That was some fancy riding, Marshal,” she said.
Farley didn’t look away from the horse. “This is some pretty fancy stallion,” he replied.
Rue nodded and wedged her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “The men seem to like you. I guess you know they’ll play some pranks and bait you a little, to see if they can get a rise out of you.”
“I know about ranch hands, Rue,” he said with gentle amusement in his voice. “Don’t worry yourself. The boys and I will get on just fine.”
Rue sighed. “Maybe I’m like Wilbur,” she said. “Maybe I’ve seen too many Westerns on TV.”
He looked back at her over one shoulder, grinned and shook his head.
“In the movies, the new arrival on the ranch always has to prove himself by showing that he’s got the hardest fists and the quickest draw,” Rue said a little defensively.
Farley ran those saucy eyes of his over her in a searing sweep. “I haven’t seen anybody around this place I couldn’t handle,” he said. He gave the horse a last wistful look before joining Rue to walk toward the house.
She put a hand on his arm. “Don’t worry, Marshal. You’ll be back here and in the saddle before you know it.”
Since it was a two-mile stretch to the main highway, Rue let Farley drive on the first leg of the journey to town. He swerved right off the road once, and sent the Land Rover barrelling through the creek that had given the ranch its name, whooping like a Rebel soldier leading a raid.
Rue decided he was better at riding horses.
The drive into town took another half an hour. By the time they arrived, the community’s one supermarket was open for business.
Even though he’d been to the mall outside Seattle and had driven across three states with Rue, Farley was still stricken mute with amazement when he walked into the market and saw the wide aisles and the colorful, complicated displays of boxes and cans and bottles. He jumped when the sprayers came on over the produce, and his eyes widened when he saw the pyramids of red apples and plump oranges. In the meat department, he stood watching a mechanized cardboard turkey until Rue finally grabbed his sleeve and pulled him away.
When they finally returned to the parking lot to load two bulging cartfuls of food into the back of the Land Rover, the marshal was looking a little dazed. All during the ride home, he kept turning around in the passenger seat and plundering products from the bags. He read the boxes and labels letter by letter, it seemed to Rue, frowning in consternation.
“No wonder you women are getting into so much trouble with your short dresses and all,” he finally remarked when they were turning off the highway onto the ranch. “Everything can be cooked in five or ten minutes, and you’ve got all sorts of contraptions besides, like that washing machine. You’ve got too much free time.”
Rue smiled. “I’m going to let you get by with that chauvinistic observation just this once, since for all practical intents and purposes, you’re new in town.”
“Chauvinistic?” Farley looked puzzled, but certainly not intimidated.
“It’s another word for a hardheaded cowboy from 1892,” Rue replied. Then she proceeded to explain the finer points of the definition.
Farley sighed when it was over. “I still think you’ve got too much free time,” he said. He was gazing out at the snow-dusted plains of the ranch, and the longing to escape the confines of the Land Rover was clearly visible in his face.
“I guess you’ll want to saddle one of the horses and look the place over on your own,” Rue observed, pulling to a stop in front of the house.
He grinned with both relief and anticipation, and the moment they’d taken the grocery bags into the house, he headed for the barn.
Knowing Farley needed private time to acclimatize himself, Rue put away the food, then retired to the study to make some calls. Farley’s old-fashioned insistence that they needed to be married had never been far from her mind and, due to her wide travels, she had contacts in virtually every walk of life.
It wasn’t long before she’d arranged a legal identity for Farley, complete with a birth certificate, Social Security number, S.A.T. scores and even transcripts from a midwestern college. All the necessary paperwork was on its way by express courier.
Farley hadn’t returned by noon, when a new snow began to powder the ground, so Rue made a single serving of vegetable-beef soup and sat by the big, stone fireplace in the parlor, her feet resting on a needlepoint hassock.
Once she was finished eating, Rue immediately became bored. She went to the woodshed and split a pile of pine and fir for the fireplace. She was carrying the first armload into the house when Farley appeared, striding toward her from the direction of the barn.
His smile was as dazzling as sunlight on ice-crusted snow as he wrested the wood from Rue’s arms and carefully wiped his feet on the mat outside the back door. Obviously the ride had lifted his spirits and settled some things in his mind, and she found herself envying him the fresh air and freedom.
“At least you haven’t come up with a machine to chop wood,” he said good-naturedly, carrying his burden through the kitchen after seeing that the box by the cast-iron cookstove was full.
Rue followed, marveling at the intensity of her reactions to his impressive height, the broad strength of his shoulders, the muscular grace of his arms and legs. “We can get married in a few days,” she said, feeling slightly foolish for her eagerness. “The system recognizes you as a real, flesh-and-blood person.”
Farley laid the wood on the parlor hearth, pulled aside the screen and
squatted to feed the fire. “That sounds like good news,” he commented wryly, “though I’ve got to admit, I can’t say I’m entirely sure.”
Rue smiled. “Trust me,” she said. “The news is good. Are you hungry?”
Farley closed the fireplace screen and stood. “Yes, but I can see to my own stomach, thank you.” He went into the kitchen, with Rue right behind him, and took a frozen entrée from the fridge.
Rue watched with amusement as Farley read the instructions, then set the dish inside the microwave and stood staring at the buttons. She showed him how to set the timer and turn on the oven.
He took bread from the old-fashioned metal box on the counter, and his expression was plainly disapproving as he opened the bag and pulled out two slices. “If a man tried to butter air, it would hold up better than this stuff,” he remarked scornfully, evidently wanting to let Rue know that not everything about the twentieth century was an improvement over the nineteenth. He held up a slice and peered at Rue through a hole next to the crust. “It’s amazing you people aren’t downright puny, the way you eat.”
Rue laughed and startled Farley by jumping up and flinging her arms around his neck. “I never get tired of listening to you talk, lawman,” she said, and her voice came out sounding husky. “Tell me you won’t ever change, that you’re always going to be Farley Haynes, U.S. Marshal.”
He set the bread aside and cupped her chin in one hand. “Everybody changes, Rue,” he said quietly, but there was a light in his eyes. She knew he was going to kiss her, and the anticipation was so intense that she felt unsteady and interlocked her fingers at his nape to anchor herself.
The bell on the microwave chimed, and hunger prevailed over passion. Farley stepped gracefully out of Rue’s embrace and took his food from the oven.
It was a curious thing, being moved emotionally and spiritually by the plain sight of a man eating spaghetti and meatballs from a cardboard plate, but that was exactly what happened to Rue. Every time she thought she’d explored the depths of her love for this man, she tumbled into some deeper chasm not yet charted, and she was amazed to find that the inner universe was just as vast as the outer one.
Linda Lael Miller Bundle Page 57
