The Thompson hands who’d chosen to attend the service sat among a group of cowboys from other ranches. Their boss wasn’t a stickler about church attendance for his men. When the work permitted, he left the choice up to them, but other ranch owners weren’t so lenient.
Winter light streamed through the side windows but provided no warmth. The heat from the stove in the front corner of the church didn’t reach the entire room, so the cowboys kept their coats on. Reverend Norton, preaching in front of the altar, probably was the warmest person in the building.
With dismay, James noticed several other men casting surreptitious glances Bridget’s way. A cowboy from the Carter ranch nudged the man next to him, pointing her out with a lift of his chin. An unmarried woman, newly come to town, always provoked male interest. And a pretty miss was a treat to behold.
Before the service, he’d kept his eye on Banker Livingston who, rumor had it, was in search of a wife. James had seen the man glance at Bridget and then dismiss her, probably because she wasn’t wearing highfalutin’ clothing. More fool he.
Livingston’s focus on status and outward appearance could cause the man to end up married to a well-bred, beautiful shrew, who’d make him miserable for the rest of his days. But with the handsome, wealthy banker out of the way, James could keep a dogged watch on any other man sniffing around Bridget and prepare to cut him out.
After the service ended, the congregation milled around outside, but not for long, for the temperature was too cold, unlike in summer when the close of the service heralded the start of a lively social hour.
James tried to move to Bridget’s side, but stopped when he saw Samantha introducing her to the Carters and the Sanders—two prominent ranching families.
After a few minutes, the crowd dispersed—some to head home and others to visit the mercantile, which only opened for an hour after the service.
The hands all traipsed behind the Thompson family to the mercantile—not that the cowboys tended to buy much. Most of them—at least, the ones who’d attended church today—were a thrifty, temperate bunch—rarely even visiting the saloon. But Deuce had a sweet tooth and wanted some candy, and Sid needed more tobacco. James went along because of Bridget, even if Gallagher—the lucky dog—was the one escorting her.
Crossing the street, Buck nudged him. “Better look sharp or Miss Bridget will be swept right out from under your nose, and maybe Gallagher’s as well.”
James shot his friend a sharp look. “We have the advantage. Except for times like this—” he swept his arm to indicate the whole town “—she’s on our territory.”
“You’re right about that. Guess the race is between you and Gallagher then. My money’s on you, boy.” He gave a wide grin. “So don’t let me down!”
Let him down? “What?”
Buck’s expression was smug. “We have a wager. Each man chipped in four bits.”
James groaned. But what could he do? With cowboys, bettin’ was inevitable.
The mercantile was crowded with churchgoers taking advantage of their trip into town. The customers knew they couldn’t linger to gossip like they might on another day.
James roamed the periphery of the store, touching a finger to his hat to acknowledge the women and exchanging greetings with those he knew. Two ample-bodied ladies caused him to swerve wide to go around them, and he ended up near the front counter, where a row of Valentine’s cards propped up in a cardboard holder caught his eye.
They seemed to be frivolous, probably expensive, bits of colorful paper. He doubted the practical, hard-working people of Sweetwater Springs would go for such nonsense. But he couldn’t help another look at the hearts and the lace, and noticed the wistful glances women gave the cards, even one lady old enough to be his grandmother. Maybe womenfolk put higher store in such things than I do.
With a sudden flash of brilliance, an idea came to him. I’ll return and buy a card for Bridget! There was no way he’d choose one now with what seemed like the whole town looking on. Besides, he wanted to take his time and make the perfect choice.
Anticipation filled him at the thought of purchasing a card, presenting it to Bridget, and asking her to marry him. What a perfect way to propose!
James carried the secret excitement with him during the trip home.
Samantha drove the wagon with her children in the back and Mrs. Toffels and Bridget on the seat beside her. Even seeing the way Patrick rode close to Bridget didn’t dampen James’s enthusiasm.
* * *
In spite of James’s wish to return to town for the card, he and the other ranch hands had themselves two miserable days. A panther had spooked the herd, driving the cattle toward land made marshy by the melting snow and pocked with pits.
In the frigid cold from first light until dark, the men—even Wyatt, Gallagher, and the three older boys—wrestled filthy cows out of holes that held the animals as though they were caught in quagmires filled with glue instead of mud. They saved most of the cattle, but each one they lost hurt—even though they tried to tough out the pain.
They returned late to the ranch and saw to the needs of their horses. Then with stiff, aching muscles, they moved like elderly men into the big house and tracked dirt all over Mrs. Toffels’s clean kitchen. After, hurriedly washing up, they gobbled down the enormous and filling meal she’d kept warm for them and returned to the bunkhouse to fall into bed, only to repeat the whole wretched process the next morning.
Wyatt sent off Buck, his best hunter, to track down and kill the panther, but the man lost the big cat’s trail, only to pick up the spore near dusk on the second day and make his shot. With the cougar dispatched, the cowboys were able to drive the cattle to firmer ground, where, hopefully, they’d stay.
For two full days, James hadn’t caught sight of Bridget, barely even thought of her except when they rode by the O’Hanlon cabin, and then he always said a prayer that all this would be over before Valentine’s Day. At night in his bunk, he tried to picture her face, but he was too sore and exhausted to see more than a rosy smile before he dropped into deep sleep.
On Wednesday, Wyatt decreed a day of rest. With only the most necessary chores to attend to—mucking out stalls and feeding and watering the livestock—James approached the boss for permission to ride into town.
Wyatt stared at him for a minute. The man’s face was drawn, with lines of fatigue around his eyes. “Can’t you wait until Sunday?”
James fought back a grimace. “Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day.”
Humor sparked in Wyatt’s eyes, and he looked more like himself. “Ah…I’d forgotten.”
“You’re newly married.” James pointed out the obvious.
Wyatt tapped his chest. “Yes, but I’m not fool enough to leave Valentine’s trinkets until the last minute.”
James made a mental note to learn from the man’s example—if, that is, he was lucky enough to spend his life with a certain lady.
“Check with Mrs. Toffels before you leave to see if she needs anything. Our devouring horde may have cleaned out her cupboards.”
“Will do.” He gave the boss a two-fingered salute and loped to the kitchen. The sooner he started out, the sooner he’d be back.
* * *
During the two days the men had been working on the range long into the evening, both Bridget and Sally moped. Well, they moped on the inside. Bridget covered her feelings with cheerful conversations. And since Sally was equally pleasant, Bridget could only conclude her cousin felt the same pang over the men’s absence—or rather, her husband’s absence.
On Monday, Sally napped, giving Bridget time to play with the Falabellas and the goats and keep Thunder company. Patrick wouldn’t risk the valuable Thoroughbred out on the range and had borrowed one of Wyatt’s mounts, so he could ride out and help the men save the floundering cattle. She wished for the chance to exercise the stallion but didn’t dare do so without permission.
The first night when Harry finally came home, he was so filthy, exce
pt for his face and hands, that he wouldn’t let Sally near him until he’d stripped off his clothes and donned a nightshirt.
Bridget played least-in-sight, hiding in the loft until the couple was in bed. For the first time, she felt like she was imposing, for the newlyweds didn’t have privacy and a chance to spend any time alone. Not that it mattered, for judging from the ragged snores, Harry was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Bridget spent Tuesday helping Samantha and Mrs. Toffels wash the men’s mucky clothing, an arduous job given how dirty the water turned, and how often they had to empty the big wash bucket and fill it up again.
Bridget gave thanks for the indoor plumbing. Back home she’d had to haul water for twenty feet from an outdoor pump.
When they’d finished the washing and hung everything outside on the clotheslines, they tackled the ironing from the washing Mrs. Toffels and Samantha had done the previous day. Then as evening approached, they brought in the wash, frozen but no longer dripping, and hung the clothes on lines strung across the cellar. By the end of the day, Bridget’s arms and back ached, but she’d enjoyed spending time with the two women. Their light-hearted conversation had made the hard work easier.
On Wednesday, Bridget couldn’t wait to see James and Patrick and hear the stories of what they’d been through. The night before, Harry had told them about Wyatt decreeing a lenient workday, and, thus, all of them had slept in later than usual. In the morning, Bridget dressed and left the house, pointedly telling the couple, who were still in bed, that she’d be in the barn for most of the day and would see them at the big house when it was time for supper.
Once in the barn, Bridget looked for Dusty, expecting to see the Appaloosa in his stall and hoping she’d see James, as well. But neither was around.
Deuce and some of the other men were raking out stalls. Before she could ask about James, she saw the boy straighten, moving as if his body ached and leaning on the rake.
“If you’re looking for James, he’s gone to town.”
“Oh.” She tried to hide her disappointment.
Deuce shrugged and gave her a tired upward turn of his mouth before bending back to his task.
She glanced at the other men, who moved equally as slow and smelled of liniment. “Would ye like some help with the stalls?”
This time, Deuce’s grin reached his eyes. “Mighty kind of you to offer.” He jerked his head at the others. “But I have plenty of help today.”
With a nod and a smile, Bridget walked away. She didn’t want the men to know she was miffed with James for leaving without seeing her. Surely, he could have delayed for a few minutes.
Maybe he doesn’t care about me the way I thought he did. She tried to suppress her hurt.
Patrick entered from the back and made his way over to her. He, too, had a stiffness to his walk.
“Thunder will be glad to see ye.”
“He gets antsy when he’s cooped up too long.”
“So do I,” Bridget murmured.
“Well, after the last two days, I can stand a little cooping up. I’m taking the boy for a ride. When I return I might sit by the fire. Maybe read. Unless someone wants to keep me company.”
“Maybe I will.” Especially since a certain cowboy didn’t seem to want her company. “It was kind of ye to help out with the cattle, especially since ye are a guest here.”
Patrick gave her a wry smile. “Sit on my hands while my host fights to save his herd? What kind of man would that make me?”
“I’m sure there are plenty who’d choose such.”
“Well, all I can say is, I’m glad I don’t run cattle. I’ll stick to horses!”
She glanced over at Thunder. “I entirely agree with those sentiments.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
James strode into the store and was about to head straight toward the Valentine cards when he glimpsed Widow Murphy standing in front of the counter, a basket in her arms, chatting with Mrs. Cobb, the shopkeeper. All the ranch hands, and probably every other man in Sweetwater Springs, knew to avoid the two cantankerous women.
He sidled behind one of the standing shelves and out of sight. He didn’t want to choose a card with the widow close by to see and spread gossip.
After a while, James gave up waiting for the two women to stop their chat-fest. He eased around the other side of the shelves and headed toward the bags of flour stacked near the front of the store. Mrs. Toffels wanted him to return with two.
His plan was to take them to the counter and pretend to discover the cards, casually glance over them, and select the best. Then it wouldn’t seem like he’d made the long trip into town just to buy a Valentine’s Day card. With a bag of flour in each hand, James approached the counter.
Sharp-faced Mrs. Murphy gave him a disapproving shake of her head, which made the rooster wattle under her chin quiver. But, mercifully, she moved out of his way without saying anything.
No skin off his back, she was judgmental about everyone.
Doing his best to avoid eye contact with either woman, he set the bags on the counter. “Put these on the Thompson’s account, please.” He glanced toward the end of the counter but the cards weren’t there. His body went rigid, and he scanned the entire area.
Has Mrs. Cobb moved them? They were nowhere in sight. Forgetting his subtle approach, James blurted out, “Where are the Valentine cards?”
“We sold out on Sunday,” said Mrs. Cobb with a smug expression. “In fact, your visitor, Mr. Gallagher, bought my very last one—the most expensive one.”
* * *
Hours later, James rode into the Thompson’s yard, despondency weighing down his shoulders. He’d felt so sure the card would do the trick—express his sentiments, make Bridget feel special, and show her he was capable of the kind of romance women liked. Now, not only did James not have the card, but Gallagher had the fanciest one in his possession. The man had out-strategized him. Gallagher already had every advantage, and now he’d beaten James in the one area he’d thought would win Bridget’s regard.
I have to come up with another plan.
The whole ride home he’d pondered and discarded ways and means, but the thought of Gallagher loomed so large, that each of James’s ideas didn’t pass muster. Finally, he shoved the whole mess out of his mind. Maybe if he stopped twisting his brain in knots, something would come to him. He dismounted by the side door of the big house.
Deuce walked out of the barn and over to him. “I’ll take him for you.”
“Thanks, Deuce. I need to drop off the flour for Mrs. Toffels.” And maybe a certain Irish lass will be there. Then James remembered he had no card for her. “I’d appreciate you attending to Dusty ’til I’m back out.” He unloaded the flour sacks from his saddlebags. His mood heavy, James walked through the gate of the picket fence and up the brick walkway to the side door, where he entered the house.
He followed the smell of fresh oatmeal cookies into the kitchen.
All five children sat around the table working on a project. The red-checked tablecloth had been replaced with one of brown oilcloth. The surface was strewn with pink, red, and white paper, two pairs of scissors, some saucers of flour paste, pencils, several damp rags, and an ink well and pen.
The children looked up when he entered and greeted him, then with unusual industriousness returned to their projects.
He found Mrs. Toffels ironing, a stack of neatly pressed and folded shirts and pants on the counter next to her, a towering mound of laundry in the basket at her feet.
Have I gotten the days wrong? He had to stop and count from Sunday’s church service to today—not easy when the mess with the cattle had made the last few days a blur. “Isn’t today Wednesday?” He hoped so, for Valentine’s Day was supposed to be tomorrow. But the housekeeper always ironed on Tuesday, not Wednesday, and her routine was set in stone.
Mrs. Toffles looked up and smiled. “The days do get away from you sometimes, don’t they? But yes, it’s midweek.”
“Then why are you ironing? I thought that chore was for Tuesdays.”
“Until the lot of you decided to wrestle with muddy cattle. Aside from your best, you’re probably standing in the last stitch of clean clothes you own, James Whitson.”
He glanced down at himself to see what he wore. As usual, Mrs. Toffels was right on the mark. “Ah…well, uh, thank you.” He eyed the massive pile of men’s clothing. “Guess I don’t have to tell you that we’re much obliged for how well you take care of us all. We consider ourselves lucky, we do.”
Her wrinkled cheeks pinked. “You’re a good man, James Whitson.” Her gaze dropped to the flour bags. “And you’ve brought just what I need to make more cookies so the children can take some to school tomorrow.”
His stomach rumbled. “Can I sneak one?”
“Of course.” She beamed at him, always happy to feed hungry men. “The children were just about to have some milk and cookies. Would you like to join them?”
“Is there tea in China?” James dropped the bags next to the flour bin, stood for a moment near the stove to absorb the warmth before taking off his coat and scarf and hanging them on the wall pegs near the doorway. The gloves went into the pockets and his hat on top of the scarf. He moved to take a seat with the children at the long table. “What are you all doing?”
Christine, her blonde hair pulled back in braids, smiled, her blue eyes alight. “We’re having a party at school tomorrow, and we’re making Valentine’s Day cards for our teacher and friends—”
“You’re making cards for your friends,” Daniel interrupted. He thumped his chest. “We’re making cards for Mrs. Gordon. Boys don’t give cards to their friends.”
“Well, Hunter’s making one for Ruthanne,” Christine pointed out.
Hunching his shoulders, the Indian boy rolled his eyes. “It’s supposed to be a secret.”
“James won’t tell,” the girl said in a chirping tone. “Will you?”
A Valentine's Choice: A Montana Sky Series Holiday Novella (The Montana Sky Series) Page 7
