by J. T. Marie
Charlie asks again, “Should I call on her, then?”
I almost say no; it’s on the tip of my tongue, and it might raise more questions I’m not prepared to answer, at least not from him, when another thought comes to mind. Turning away so he won’t see the wicked grin spreading across my face, I tell him, “You know what? That sounds like a great idea, actually. Saturdays I hear Miss Lucille’s real busy getting the house in order—women’s work, you know.” From the corner of my eye, I see him nod eagerly. The bastard. “But why don’t you head on over there around noontime or so? Maybe she might even invite you in for lunch, or ask you to stay for supper. You know her daddy’s out of town this weekend, right?”
With a laugh, he stretches his arm across the back of the sofa, pleased as a pup with two tails. “That sounds perfect. I already know her old man. I’ll just cozy up to her a bit and see if I can’t sweep her off her feet.”
I don’t have the heart to tell him if anyone’s going to do the sweeping, it’ll be Miss Lucille, and she’ll sweep him right out of the ranch and out of her life.
I also don’t bother to mention that she already has a lunch date tomorrow, and by the time he arrives at the ranch looking to call on her, she’ll be picnicking with me, somewhere nice and quiet, and far, far away from Cheap Charlie.
Chapter 18
Saturday morning, I wake up early so I can wash up first. Miss Barbour allows her tenants one hot water bath per week; the ewer of water is refilled daily with cool, fresh water, which I can use for drinking, and I can rinse off at the pump out behind the boarding house if I don’t manage to do it at the ranch before I leave for the day. But a hot bath is worth the price of a room away from the other hands. For bathing, the men use a small creek off behind the barn. It’s choked with devil weed but out of sight of the main house, and in the winter, I’ve heard them complain they have to break through the ice to wash up. Paco once told me the water was so cold, his balls shriveled up like the seeds in a tumbleweed. Chavez overheard him and teased, “At least now you can see them, güey. Now quit fiddling with them and get back to work.”
Miss Barbour has a shed out back she’s converted into a bath house, of sorts. There’s a padlock on the door, and all week long, she keeps the key hidden somewhere amid her skirts and petticoats, but Saturday mornings, it rests on the table in the kitchen. She’s up at dawn, and on Saturdays, she lights a fire in the small shed’s furnace so it’ll be ready for whoever wants to use it. A large tub of corrugated tin sits close enough to the furnace to absorb the heat, and two large pails wait to be filled from the pump outside.
It usually takes me three trips to fill the tub enough so I can sit in it, and I make one final trip for clean water when I’m finished. I know some people don’t bother closing the shed door—I had the misfortune to glance out the kitchen window last week and caught sight of Charlie’s bare ass as he climbed into the tub. I laughed and almost choked on my coffee in the process. But I take the key and padlock with me into the shed, then latch the padlock on the latch inside, to make sure no one bursts in while I’m in the tub.
Because Miss Lucille expects me at eleven—and because I want to make sure we’re well away from the ranch before Charlie comes calling at noon—I rush through my bath, only filling the tub halfway and not bothering to wait for the water to warm up too much. On a shelf beside the furnace are communal toiletries, and I use the last sliver of soap on my hair and face and neck to make sure I’m as clean as I can possibly be. I don’t know what exactly will happen this afternoon—nothing, most likely, Miss Lucille is a far cry from Maddy—but if she gives me another kiss, I don’t want her to smell horse shit and cow patties on me. Then again, she is Boss Daddy’s daughter. She doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything, let alone a little mud and manure.
When I’ve rinsed the soap off my body and out of my hair, I dry off with a threadbare towel hanging from the rafters, then dress by the light from the furnace. Along one wall, a trough has been dug into the dirt floor, and I tip the tub over into it, letting the dirty water wash away outside. I add more kindling to the furnace to keep the fire burning, then head back to the boarding house. Miss Barbour is in the parlor, tidying up, but I suspect we’re the only two awake in the whole town. I retire to my room to read a little before heading out for the ranch.
Chapter 19
By ten o’clock, I’m too antsy to sit and read. I pace my room a bit, stopping every time I pass the mirror above my dresser to double-check my appearance. My clothes are cleaner than they’ve ever been when I visited the ranch, and my hair is slicked back, the comb marks still evident. I muss it up—I look like I’m trying too hard, and for what? We’re only friends. We’ll never be more than that. But then I hurriedly reach for the comb to lay the wild strands back in place. I don’t know why I’m putting myself through this. I’ve been alone with her before. Earlier in the week, we went into town like an old married couple. I waited outside like the dutiful husband while she shopped. She even told me to call her Lucy.
Why am I so damn nervous, then?
When I can’t stand it any longer, I pull on my boots and hat and hurry down the stairs. I hear Charlie’s voice in the kitchen, but he’s speaking low and I can’t make out the words. Still, I don’t want to run into him—into anyone, really, but him in particular—so I duck out through the front door and clear the porch steps with one jump. I’m going to be early, I know that, and I’m pretty sure Miss Lucille will make me wait, the way all ladies do, but I’d rather be waiting on her porch instead of Miss Barbour’s.
The path beneath my feet disappears quicker than usual, and it isn’t even ten-thirty by the time I approach the gates to the ranch. In the distance, a pair of cowboys rides out to check on the cattle, and I can hear shouts coming from the barn, but I don’t see Chavez and I want to keep it that way. If he sees me hanging around, he’ll probably put me to work. I trip up onto the porch and knock on the front door, then pull off my hat quickly before it opens. I clutch the hat in both hands against my chest, feeling my heart flutter beneath my wrists.
Why is no one answering the door?
I raise my hand to knock again, and this time I hear a muffled, “I’m coming,” from inside. A moment later, a chain rattles and the door opens enough for the servant on the other side to peer out. It’s the same guy who was guarding the foyer the night before, but if he recognizes me, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he raises his nose as if trying to look down on me, and with heavy disdain, he intones, “The front door is for guests only. Ranch hands must go around the back.”
Before I can answer, the door opens wider and the servant is swept aside by Miss Lucille, who gives him a withering glare. “Mr. Nat is my guest,” she snaps. “I told you I was expecting him. Maybe you want to spend the day cleaning out the bunk house with the other hands?”
The servant’s face pales, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smirking. “No, no, miss,” he hurries to assure her. “I’m very sorry. I quite forgot.”
Her eyes narrow—it’s obvious she doesn’t believe him. But when he starts to apologize again, she waves him away with one hand. “Go see that Nana has my picnic basket ready. We’ll be leaving shortly.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He bows as he backs out of the foyer, not daring to stand or even look up until he’s gone.
Miss Lucille frowns after him a moment longer, but when she turns to me, her smile shines like the sun and her eyes sparkle playfully. Taking my hand in both of hers, she squeezes my fingers and sighs. “Nat! You’re a little early. I really should make you wait. Isn’t that what ladies do when a gentleman comes calling?”
I duck my head, embarrassed. Her skin feels impossibly warm against mine. “This isn’t really calling…”
“You knocked on my door to see me,” she points out. “What would you say it was?”
I know she’s right, so I just shrug a little and hope she’ll stop staring at me so openly. When she looks at me like that, I’m no
t really sure why I’m here at all, why she thinks I’m here, why I should be here. I shouldn’t, I know that, I should apologize for wasting her time and scurry back to town, and wash her out of my blood with a tall glass of Stubs’ worst brew.
But then she laughs, a girlishly happy sound, and her fingers lace through mine for a brief moment. “I’m teasing,” she says. “I’ve asked Chavez to ready the cart. We don’t have too far to go, but I thought it’d be nicer to ride than walk.”
Sudden fear grips me like a vise around my ribs. “You told him we were going picnicking?”
“I told him I needed the cart,” Miss Lucille corrects. “He doesn’t need to know anything more than that. Oh! There it is now.”
She sweeps past me out onto the porch as the noisy rattle of wheels comes from around the side of the main house. I step back into the doorway, not wanting Chavez to see me, but he isn’t the one leading the harnessed horse to the steps. It’s Jonesy, whose mouth drops open at the sight of me.
If Miss Lucille notices, she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she takes the reins from him and smiles sweetly. “That will be all, thank you.”
Jonesy doesn’t seem to hear her. “Hey, Nat!” he calls. “Good thing you’re here. We could use another hand out in the barn—”
“I said, that will be all.” Miss Lucille’s smile doesn’t fade but tightens, as if it might break. “You may go.”
Jonesy doesn’t quite get it. “Nat—”
“Mr. Nat is here to see me,” she tells him. When he continues to gawk, she elbows him in the side to get him moving. “I’m afraid you’ll have to fix the broken stall without his help.”
Now Jonesy’s asking for trouble. “But…”
Miss Lucille’s voice snaps like a whip. “Do I need to speak with Chavez regarding your insubordinate behavior? Or would you rather I wait until Boss Daddy returns? I said, that will be all.”
With a nod, I say softly, “Go on, Jones.”
A goofy grin breaks out on his pimply face. “You have your hands full here, don’t ‘cha?”
Lifting the hem of her skirt out of the way, Miss Lucille kicks him in the shin. “I really will speak with Chavez now. What’s your name, again? Jones?”
He hobbles back and bumps into the cart, startling the horse. The mare whinnies and pulls aside, moving the cart out from behind him, and Jonesy trips over his own feet to fall in a heap on the ground. “I’m going!” he cries, as he scrambles to his hands and knees, but Miss Lucille’s small boot lands firmly on his ass and sends him sprawling again.
I can’t keep back the laughter bubbling up in me. Jonesy glares my way as he half-stumbles, half-crawls out of reach, and I know word will get around to the ranch hands about my visit to Boss Daddy’s daughter. I should tell her to call the picnic off, but it’s too late. Even if we didn’t go, her father would find out I was here calling on her all the same.
From where she stands by the cart, calming the horse, Miss Lucille gives me a sweet smile, as if she hadn’t just booted Jonesy’s butt. “You aren’t laughing at me, are you, Nat?”
“Oh, no, ma’am.” Placing my hat on my head, I step down off the porch to help her up onto the cart’s seat. “I know better than that.”
Chapter 20
This time, Miss Lucille keeps hold of the reins and guides the horse left instead of right at the front gate, heading away from town. Her father’s land stretches out before us, pastures fenced off with split logs that zigzag as far as the eye can see. These fields close to the main house are used for growing alfalfa and hay, so the grass is tall and lush, waiting for the right moment to harvest. Miss Lucille doesn’t speak until the main house drops below the rise, out of sight—then she sighs prettily and leans back against the board, one hand straying to the picnic basket secured behind her seat. After checking to make sure it’s secured, she casually brings her hand to the seat between us.
When I don’t take it, she sighs again, and the next thing I know, that hand is in my lap, fingers easing into my palm.
“You aren’t like other men, are you, Nat?” she asks softly.
You might say that, I think, but what I say is, “What do you mean?”
Her hand squeezes mine. “I’m not complaining. I like you just the way you are.”
My throat tightens, and my chest seems unable to fill with air. “I like you, too.”
I’m familiar with every acre of Boss Daddy’s ranch—I know each of the winding dirt paths between the fenced-in pastures by heart. I should; I travel them daily. So I’m more than a little surprised when Miss Lucille turns the cart off onto a disused trail I’ve never noticed before. It’s little more than a rut alongside a fence, half-hidden by wild sagebrush that scrapes my arm and leg as the cart moves through it. The trail continues on a little ways to a dry gully, then bends around a couple weathered boulders that mark the boundary of Boss Daddy’s lower acreage. I’ve never wondered what lay beyond—they kept the cattle in, that’s all I cared about. If I’d stopped to think about it, I would’ve said nothing but sparse grass and sand could be back here and, as it turns out, I would’ve been mostly right.
But the gully isn’t completely dry—the further we travel, the darker the ground becomes, until I see little puddles forming here and there. Another bend in the road, and a small cairn of rocks dams up a creek. It isn’t anywhere near as large as the creek behind the barn where the ranch hands bathe, but the water looks fresh and clear, and tiny slivers of fish flash along the bottom, their scales winking in the sun. The water feeds the land around it, creating a veritable Eden out here in the middle of nowhere. Red clay rocks tower around us, a perfect contrast to the faded blue sky above and the bright green carpet of grass growing along the banks of the creek.
Here Miss Lucille reins in the horse. “If you’ll get the basket,” she says, nodding behind her.
She doesn’t add anything else, but she doesn’t need to. I jump down, retrieve the basket, and set it on the ground, then turn back to help her down, as well. Her hand is hot and damp in mine, and she doesn’t let go even when she’s off the cart. Keeping her hand in mine, she leads me to a nice spot a few feet away from the cart, which is between us and the trail. Anyone who might follow us—on purpose or accidentally—probably won’t be able to see us immediately. The horse and cart would block us from view.
I hold the basket while she opens it. Inside is a checkered tablecloth that she spreads out along the ground. As she smooths out the edges, I peek in the basket at the rest of the items—sandwiches, cold fried chicken, biscuits and butter, what might be potato salad, something green and leafy, and two wine glasses. From the weight of it, I’d say there’s a bottle of wine nestled at the bottom. Between last night’s dinner and today’s lunch, I’ll have more to eat in two meals than I’ve had in two months dining at Stubs’.
“Come sit with me,” Miss Lucille says. She’s settled on the tablecloth, her legs folded to one side beneath her dress, which is spread out around her like frosting on a cake. The lacy hem of her petticoat is exposed, as are her calves, and I suspect she arranged herself for me when I wasn’t looking. Now I can’t take my gaze off the thin, pale skin between where her skirt ends and her boots begin. Seeing it makes my heart quicken, and I almost trip over my own feet as I hurry to sit beside her.
The food is delicious, and the company, mesmerizing. Miss Lucille is quick to laugh for any reason and, sometimes, for no real reason at all. She isn’t the prim and proper young lady I dined with the night before; no, out here she’s coy and flirtatious, eating with her fingers and licking them when she’s done, all the while watching me from the corner of her eye to make sure I see her. And I do, I can’t look away. Every little movement is magical, every word, every breath, every touch, and there are a lot of them. It seems she always finds an excuse to brush her hand over mine, or rest her foot against my leg, or lean her head on my shoulder. Her eyes sparkle with laughter and sunlight, and her hair wisps around her heart-shaped face, framing it per
fectly. The warm air brings a peachy color to her cheeks, and the sun freckles her skin.
Maybe it’s the wine, which is rich and heady, but before we even get to the peach cobbler at the bottom of the picnic basket, I’m half in love with Lucy.
“Nat, tell me something,” she says, pointing her fork at me—she uses the fork for the potato salad and the cobbler, but nothing else.
At this moment, I’ll tell her anything she wants to hear, anything at all. “Hmm?”
She leans closer and pokes my arm gently with her sticky fork. “Why aren’t you married yet?”
I stare down at the plate in my lap and try to think of something to say. Nothing comes to mind.
“You’re attractive,” she continues, poking me with her fork after each point. “You have a steady job. You have money—”
“Not much,” I admit.
“You must have something,” she says. “Even if it’s just what you save working for Boss Daddy. You don’t bunk down at the ranch, so you can afford your own place, and that means something to a girl like me. Daddy wants me to marry, but all the men I’ve ever met don’t want me. They want him.”
I look at her sharply. “Really?”
With a shake of her head, she laughs. “Well, no, maybe not. But they want his money, and they want the ranch. They want me only because they know all that comes along with the deal. Marry Boss Daddy’s daughter, take over his empire when he’s gone. That’s what they think, I know it is. And they’re a stupid lot, all of them, if they don’t think I can’t see that.”
Suddenly I wonder how much I don’t know about Miss Lucille. “You’ve had a lot of men asking for your hand, then?”
She shrugs and turns back to her cobbler. “A few. Mostly Daddy’s business partners. Sometimes he takes me on his trips, see? And these slick old men try to sidle up to me, or they send their young sons in trying to seal the deal. Boss Daddy wants me wed, so he sort of encourages it. He’s mad as hell I haven’t picked a husband yet.”
