by Eli Easton
If Robby had conjured up an image in his mind of what the most enticing vision of a Wild West cowboy would look like, that man would be Trace Crabtree. He was big-boned and rangy. His shoulders went on for a mile and so did his legs in those black pants. His light brown hair hung thick to his shoulders, and his eyes were the golden brown of the desert. His skin was tanned and slightly wind-chapped, and he had a strong, stubbled jaw and long, thick sideburns. More than anything, that lazy, coiled-snake manner of his was enough to make Robby break out in a cold sweat.
Sheriff Crabtree had appreciated Rowena Fairchild too. Robby had seen the spark in his eyes. Of course he did. Robby looked damn good as a woman. But unfortunately, Rowena Fairchild did not exist. No, Robby had entirely different plumbing under his skirts. And even if Clovis Crabtree turned out to be as attractive as his brother, no amount of wishing in the world would change that or change the fact that Robby would be an imposter and a liar in their eyes.
There was only one thing for it. He had to get away as soon as possible. And until he did, he had to be convincing in the role of Miss Rowena Fairchild.
“Do you live near to Clovis?” Robby asked sweetly.
Marcy blinked away a dazed look, like she’d been miles away. “We all live at the ranch.”
“All?”
“Pa-Pa, me and Wayne, our three kids, Roy and Emmie and their baby George, and Clovis.”
“But not Trace?”
“No. Trace lives in town.”
“Oh. Well that’s a lot of family for one house.” That was a lot of people Robby had to fool.
Marcy shrugged. “It’s a big spread.”
“What’s Clovis like?”
Marcy bit her lip and looked at the back of her husband’s head. As if feeling her gaze, Wayne turned to give Robby a hard look.
He was a big man—tall and thickset. He didn’t much look like Trace, except maybe a bit in the nose and mouth. He’d barely said a word since they’d met. Now he looked Robby up and down. “Marcy, see if you can scrub off some of that dang paint, or Pa will be livid. He didn’t pay no two hundred dollars for a lady who looks like a . . . Like a lady oughtn’t look.” He turned around again, shaking his head.
Robby swallowed a surge of anger. He might have grown up poor, but his family had manners.
“Yes, Wayne,” Marcy said meekly. She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and spit on it. She gave Robby an apologetic smile and began to wipe at his cheek. “I’m sure things are different where you come from,” she said quietly. “It’ll be all right. But it’s best if you fit in. We ain’t used to city ways.”
“I’ll do it.” Robby pushed Marcy’s hand gently away.
He fetched a mirror and hanky from the trunk and set about trying to lighten the makeup without removing it entirely. It was one thing to look feminine in exaggerated rouge, lipstick, and eyeshadow, another to pass for a woman without props. For once he was grateful for his angelic countenance. And given how drab Marcy looked, a little rouge would go a long way in this family.
She sent him curious glances as he primped. He had a strange urge to put some lipstick on the poor little thing. She was probably not much older than he was, but she was so washed out. Worse was the way she scrambled to obey her husband. And that bruise on her jaw. No, Robby didn’t like that one bit. He had to get away from these people.
As he finished and put the mirror away, nerves got the better of him again. Sweat trickled down the inside of his dress. He was hungry and exhausted, but all he could think about was an escape plan. He needed a means of travel and some idea of where he was going so he didn’t end up wandering in the desert, vulnerable to coyotes, rattlesnakes, and bandits.
A day or two, Robby told himself. He had to be Miss Rowena Fairchild just a day or two more. Then he’d disappear for good.
Chapter Six
They passed through the town of Flat Bottom, which was even smaller than the Pennsylvania town where Robby grew up. It had a dusty main street with a dozen faded wooden storefronts. Robby watched the building with the SHERIFF sign, turning his head as they rode past. He saw no sign of Trace Crabtree, but he was probably still in Santa Fe.
“How big is Flat Bottom?” Robby asked Marcy, feigning girlish curiosity. “Is it big enough to . . . Oh, I don’t know . . . have regular stagecoach service?”
“Not what you’d call ‘regular’,” Marcy hedged.
She glanced nervously at the back of her husband’s head. As if sensing her gaze, Wayne turned to peer at Robby suspiciously. “You leavin’ already?”
“No! I . . . No. Certainly not.” Robby primly folded his hands in his lap. Yes. Please, God, get me out of here.
“The stagecoach to Santa Fe goes Saturdays,” Marcy said helpfully. “But it don’t come back till the next Saturday, if then, so most folks take their own rigs. The only other coach goes east to Silverton. That’s on Wednesdays.”
Wayne snorted. “When it goes. I wouldn’t count on it puttin’ ya out if you was on fire.”
Robby narrowed his eyes. Well, that was a quaint saying. “I see. And what about the mercantile we passed? Does it carry ready-made clothing? Or fabric?” He asked this just to distract them from the stagecoach question. Not that he couldn’t use an item or two, especially if he had to remain in this disguise for any length of time.
Wayne turned to give Robby a full-on stare. “Gal, you ain’t been here two minutes, and you’re already askin’ about clothes? Ya gotta lot to learn. A lot to learn.”
His tone was condescending, dismissive. Marcy looked away, as if suddenly interested in the landscape. Robby felt his cheeks burn. If he were himself, he’d give this hayseed an icy retort that would make him cold for a week. His bollocks would remain permanently frozen and his tongue would be stuck to the roof of his mouth.
But Robby couldn’t do that. Because he wasn’t Robby.
To his surprise, Rowena spoke up sweetly. “Never mind, dear brother. I can tell all I need to about the town’s offerings from your habiliment and coiffure. Apparently, there isn’t a barber shop but there is a taxidermist. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Rowena’s vocabulary and her dulcet tones seemed to leave Wayne confused as to whether he’d been insulted or complimented. Looking puzzled, he turned around and focused on driving. Marcy’s hand clenched in her skirt, her face still turned away. Robby hoped it was because she was fighting a laugh and not because she wanted to smack the mail-order bride.
After leaving the town, Robby expected to arrive at the ranch shortly. But the drive went on and on. Each mile alarmed Robby a little more. It would be a long walk on foot. He tried to memorize the landmarks at every turn. Fortunately, there were only a few.
It was another half hour and the sun was setting by the time the wagon rolled under a sign that said, Crabtree & Sons.
The ranch itself was nicer than Robby expected given the state of Wayne and Marcy’s clothes. At least Rowena’s letters hadn’t lied about that. There were grazing cattle almost as far as the eye could see on the flat landscape, and acres of sturdy fencing along the road. They passed a large wooden barn in good repair. Next to it was a pen with a half-dozen of the biggest red pigs Robby had ever seen. The ranch house was made of boards weathered a natural gray. It was at least four times the size of an ordinary farm house with a long porch and what looked like later additions on both sides. There was a practical-looking kitchen garden fenced in tall chicken wire. But there weren’t any homey touches—no flowers around the house, no rugs or curtains visible, not even chairs on the porch. The starkness made it look abandoned, though that clearly wasn’t the case.
When they pulled up, two dark-haired boys around six and eight, came bursting through the screen door. They stared at Robby like he was a new type of insect. A few minutes later, a young woman with dark hair came out, wiping her hands on a towel. She had a nervous smile. Her eyes flickered over Robby, but she addressed Wayne.
“Pa-Pa says Miss Fairchild’s to wait here till he
comes out. He wasn’t expectin’ y'all so soon.”
Wayne didn’t bother to answer. He yelled at the two boys to unhitch the team, then he hopped down and went inside. Marcy made her way off the wagon, backing down carefully. So, Wayne couldn’t be bothered to give his wife a hand. What a charmer.
Robby sat primly on the bench seat, hands folded in his lap. He felt like he was about to go onstage before a hostile audience. Rowena had to be very, very convincing for the next few hours. A small part of him was terrified. He was at the complete mercy of these people. He didn’t even have a weapon. The most lethal things in the trunk were hairpins and his heavy volume of Shakespeare. He could perhaps bore them to death with a soliloquy.
Marcy came around the wagon and looked up at him. “You can get down, Miss Fairchild. Just stay here by the wagon. I’m sure Pa-Pa wants to greet ya proper.”
She offered her hand. It was a kind gesture, and it made Robby feel a little less threatened. He smiled at her gratefully, took her hand, and climbed down in a ladylike fashion. He made sure his skirts weren’t caught before he jumped down the last foot to the ground. He was overly aware of all the ways this could go wrong. Heaven forbid he trip and let out a manly ooff or lose his bonnet.
After the Bowery Boys had left the wagon train yesterday, he’d spent the rest of the day altering Rowena’s pale green dress, lowering the hem, letting out seams in the shoulders and under the arms, and nipping it in at the waist. He’d sewn a few of her stockings into soft conical shapes that gave the impression of small breasts. But he could only do so much with limited time and resources. A close inspection of his gloves or boots would give him away. What he wouldn’t give for the Burton’s costume room right now.
He checked that his high lace collar was still there, smoothed his fingers around the edge of his bonnet to make sure the ends of his hair were tucked back, and wrapped his shawl more tightly around himself. The dress buttoned up the back now, but he was still worried his shape would give him away, his breasts fail to pass muster.
The other woman stood on the porch watching him with what looked like admiration. She was dark-haired and sallow-cheeked and wore a gray dress and apron that looked ancient.
“Good day.” Robby nodded to her. “I’m Miss Rowena Fairchild.”
The woman blushed. “Oh! Sorry for my poor manners. I’m Emmie Crabtree, Roy’s wife. He’s Clovis’s brother.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sure we’ll be the best of friends.”
“Gosh, really? That’s awful nice of you!” Emmie said breathlessly, as if Robby had been sincere.
Lord, Marcy and Emmie were green. But that was probably a blessing. They’d be less likely to see through his act than a woman of the world.
Neither Marcy nor Emmie made a move to speak again. Marcy watched the house anxiously while Emmie stared at Robby’s clothes. Next to their drab dresses, Rowena’s green silk stood out like a Monarch butterfly on a pile of dung.
“Have you been married to Roy long?” Robby asked brightly.
“Nearly three years.” Emmie smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes. “We have a baby. Baby George? He’s takin’ a nap.”
“Aw, the little rascal,” Robby cooed.
There was another awkward silence. Good God, he just wanted to get this over with. If Mr. Crabtree intended to “greet her properly,” he was sure taking his time about it.
Robby’s gaze went to the barn. How was he going to get out of here? There were a few horses in the paddock, a white one and a dappled pony. Plus, there were the two chestnut horses the boys were now unhitching from the wagon in a listless way, probably worried they’d miss something if they took the horses to the barn.
Robby wasn’t the best rider. His father was a practical man who thought any use for a horse other than to pull a plow or buggy was wasteful. But he could ride if he had to. The question was—where to? It was Monday. So, there wouldn’t be a stagecoach for two days, and that was assuming Robby wasn’t on fire. Or something like that.
Could he ride to Silverton by horse? What other towns were nearby? And if he did, would they come after him as a horse thief? He had a vision of himself hung on a tree with a sign that read HORSE THIEF around his neck. Or, given the local dialect, more likely HOARSE THEEF. That would make for a dramatic scene on stage, but it wasn’t one he cared to act out in real life.
He was about to quiz Marcy further about the travel options in town when the door of the ranch house banged open. An old man shambled out, his legs as bowed as a wishbone. He was bald on top, wore black pants, shiny black boots, a leather vest dyed gray, and a white-ish shirt with a flouncy bow under his neck. It looked like his Sunday best. He stopped in the doorway and assessed Robby with keen eyes, then he plastered on a friendly smile.
“Welcome! Welcome to Crabtree Ranch!” He came down the steps and took Robby’s hand in his, kissing the back of it awkwardly, like it was something he’d never done before in his life. “I’m Clyde Crabtree, the head of this here operation.”
Robby withdrew his hand as quickly as he could. He hadn’t had a chance repair the split glove. Fortunately, the old man’s attention was fixed on Robby’s face.
“Let’s take a look at ya.” Pa Crabtree walked around him slowly, looking him over like a horse at auction. “Ya cold or somethin’?” he asked, poking Robby’s back. He was obviously angling for Rowena to open her shawl.
“A bit.” Robby cast his eyes down shyly and pulled the shawl tighter.
When he’d made the full circle, Pa Crabtree stopped in front of Robby. Robby had no idea what Clyde Crabtree’s history was, or if he would be better able to spot the deception than his sons and daughters-in-law. His heart tripped in his chest as he lowered his eyes to the man’s bowed legs and prayed for a touch of luck. Please, God, just this once. He was certainly overdue for some.
After a tense silence, Clyde Crabtree cackled and slapped his knee. “Yes sir, this here is a fine gal! You boys see? I told you it was worth that two hundred dollars! She ain’t too fat and ain’t too skinny. Looks healthy enough. And she’s as pretty a gal as any in these parts. Nice, clear eyes. Look at me, gal.”
Robby raised his eyes and gave Pa a level stare. He didn’t know if he should be amused or horrified. Possibly both. Behind Pa Crabtree on the porch stood three men—Wayne and two others. But before Robby could get a good look, Pa Crabtree took his jaw in two gnarled fingers and moved his head to one side, then the other. Robby had a feeling he was going to ask to inspect his teeth. Robby hoped he did, so he could bite him. But Pa thought better of it.
“Go on and say somethin’,” Pa ordered, letting go.
Robby raised his chin and pursed his lips primly. “I have come so very far to meet you, sir. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I compliment you on your beautiful and well-tended establishment.”
Pa Crabtree’s face split into a grin and he howled with laughter. He turned to look at his sons. “Listen to that. Told you she was high class!”
Robby took a steadying breath, in and out, in and out. He kept a smile plastered on his face.
“Come on in the house, gal,” Pa said in a jovial manner. He waved his hand in the direction of the porch, then paused. “Gol dern it, I forgot. Rowena, them three on the porch are my boys. You met Wayne already. The middle one, that’s Roy, and the dark one, that’s Clovis. He’ll be your husband.”
He said it so matter-of-factly. He’ll be your husband. But it made Robby’s stomach clench in paroxysms of anxiety. What a nightmare. This was literally like something Robby would have dreamed—finding himself trapped and engaged to some uncouth giant, one that thought he was a woman and would be mighty put out on their wedding night.
Because that’s what Clovis Crabtree looked like—an uncouth giant. The second brother, Roy, looked much like Wayne, with a beefy, thick-necked appearance and stringy, long brown hair. Clovis, however, had hair nearly black in color and way too much of it. It stuck up around his head like someone
had plastered his face in the middle of a tumbleweed. He had a bushy beard that could hide a heron’s nest, and the curly black stuff disappeared down inside his flannel shirt. His face was broad with a hawk-like nose, and it was red as a beet. He stood with a downcast gaze, his beefy hands stuffed into the front pocket of his black work pants. He looked horribly self-conscious, like he’d borrowed limbs for the occasion and had no idea what to do with them.
Robby swallowed hard and did a brief curtsy. “How do you do, gentlemen.”
This sent Pa into more fits of laughter. “Gol dern, but your fancy ways sure do tickle me. Not that they’ll be a lick of use here on the ranch. Anyhow, come on in. Marcy! Emmie! What are you two doin’ standin’ around gawkin’? Is supper ready yet? Get movin’!”
The worst is over. Just a few more hours, Robby promised himself as he followed the Crabtrees into the house.
Chapter Seven
The room they gave Rowena was an unheated back porch that had a single narrow bed. Pa-Pa said, with a wink, that it was “only for one night” and that Rowena would find Clovis’s bedroom “right comfortable” soon enough.
As if that was ever going to happen. Robby didn’t mind the porch. It had a door to the backyard, and it was private, and that was all he cared about. A full moon lit the way as Robby snuck along the house’s shadow, then made a run for it across a dirt patch to the barn.
He lit a lantern he’d brought from his room and moved quickly to the horse stalls. He petted the nose of a white mare who seemed friendly.
Could he really ride her to Flat Bottom by moonlight? Were there wolves or coyotes out there? He’d heard them at night on the wagon train, but they’d never approached the group. Might they attack a lone rider? And once he got to Flat Bottom, what would he do then? He hadn’t even noticed a road that went in the opposite direction from Santa Fe. And the road to Santa Fe itself was really not much more than a worn dirt rut.
