Where the Heart Is Romance Collection

by Andrea Boeshaar

  Pinning her shoulders back and raising her chin, she resolved to take all their imagined advice. She was a married woman now, and she would make the best of things, and she would start by making breakfast and tidying up the camp.

  Chapter 4

  Easy, girl.” Joe straddled the ewe and held her immobile, allowing her knock-kneed youngster to dart in to suckle. “Stand still and feed your baby. You’ll both feel better if you do.” Every time the lamb had tried to nurse, the ewe had sauntered away, oblivious to her maternal duties. Now the lamb’s tail flicked and swished in contentment. Hopefully, this pair would get the hang of things quickly and be able to operate without assistance.

  “They’re coming thick and fast.” Sean wiped his hands on the grass and observed a large pair of twins, wet and slimy, being nuzzled and licked by their mother. “Like opening a floodgate.”

  His first hostility-free words to Joe since the confrontation with Blake Randall almost a week before. Joe let go of the sheep and stepped away, pleased when she stood still, eyes at half-mast, chewing her cud while the lamb finished its meal. On the other side of the flock, Pierre watched another lambing ewe, ready to step in and help if necessary.

  “At this rate, the flock will double in a week.” A satisfied feeling settled into his chest, the first in a long time. In spite of setbacks, they were making a success of sheep farming. Thank You, God.

  Joe scanned the campsite, spying Emmeline coming their way with Shadow at her side. His new wife had spent the past several days learning the rudiments of camp life, and the dog had been her constant companion. When Emmeline wasn’t trying her hand at campfire cooking or organizing the wagon, she sat on a hillside well away from the sheep with paper and pencils.

  She hadn’t mentioned cowboys or cattle again. With all the lambing going on, Joe hadn’t had much time to spend with her. Though around the fire at night she engaged in conversation and appeared to take in everything with intelligent eyes, she still maintained her distance, ducking behind her curtain in the wagon before he went to bed. He took his turn on watch each night and had to force himself to concentrate on the flock. His mind strayed to her over and over, trying to figure out a way to bridge the distance between them.

  Instead of walking away from the flock, she edged closer, holding a book in her arms. A pencil jutted from behind her ear. So far, she’d kept her writings to herself, though he had a powerful hankering to see what she spent such time on.

  Her blue eyes, a little wider than usual, darted from sheep to sheep as if she expected one of them to attack her. Shadow stopped at the edge of the flock and lay down as she’d been taught, and Emmeline inched between woolly bodies. Most of the sheep moved out of her way, but one barrel-shaped ewe stood her ground and even stamped her foot, protecting the speckle-faced lamb she’d birthed early that morning.

  Emmeline froze, her shoulders squeezing together as if she wanted to make herself small.

  “What’s she doing?” Sean snorted. “She think that ewe’s gonna bite her or something?”

  “Go easy. She’s not spent much time with animals before.”

  “Why’d she come all this way and marry a shepherd then? She should’ve married a shopkeeper or something.” Sean, who was young enough to have little tolerance for anyone who wasn’t just like him, sauntered away with his hands in his pockets.

  Joe headed toward his bride, slow and easy, as one had to be around sheep. She glanced up at him, and her hand smoothed her hair. A bit of color came into her cheeks, and he smiled. Watching the ebb and flow of her blushes was an activity of which he never tired.

  The lamb seemed to sense his mother’s distress, for he set up bawling, jutting his pink tongue out with each bleat. He shook his head and ducked under his mama’s belly, seeking some milky comfort.

  “Easy there, old girl. Nobody wants to hurt your baby.” Joe soothed the ewe with his voice. She cocked her head, regarding him with one eye, and seemed to shrug before lowering her head to crop grass.

  “So it’s really true. Sheep do know their shepherd’s voice.”

  “There are a lot of Bible passages that I understand so much better now that I’m a shepherd. God wasn’t wrong in comparing his people to sheep. We need the Good Shepherd, or we’re all goners.” He tucked his fingers behind his suspenders. “This is the first time you’ve come out into the flock. Did you need something?”

  She shaded her eyes against the glare of the sun. “Just to talk. I was wondering if you could teach me about the sheep. It’s getting awfully boring being alone all day, and if you’re intent on being a shepherd, I’d best resign myself to the idea.”

  Joe pursed his lips and stroked his beard. Not exactly a joyous embracing of his chosen profession but better than seeing her mooning around camp mourning the loss of her girlish fantasies of cowboys and cattle ranching.

  A low grunting groan caught his ear. He scanned the flock until he located the birthing ewe. “You’re just in time. Roll up your sleeves. You can set your book over there.” He motioned to the canteen and lunch pail a few yards away. “Then come back and see a lambing.”

  Watch a lambing? Emmaline’s mouth went dry. She still wasn’t comfortable being surrounded by so many of these unfamiliar animals, but she wasn’t about to back down from the challenge she saw in her husband’s eyes. All week she had felt him watching her, and to her mind it seemed he was almost daring her to get over her disappointment and reconcile herself to her new reality.

  She stowed her sketchbook with his belongings and rejoined him. The sheep moved out of her way as she walked through them, but she was glad to get back to Joe’s side. He was like a safe harbor in all this sea of wool. He knelt beside a ewe that tucked her front legs under her body, then her back legs, and flopped over on her side.

  “They’re much bigger than I thought they would be.” She knelt beside him. “Though the only sheep I’ve ever seen before are pictures of lambs in my Sunday school children’s quarterly.”

  “An adult ewe will run about one hundred fifty pounds, with the rams a bit larger. They looked bigger almost a month ago before we sheared them.”

  The ewe’s sides strained and her legs stiffened with her labor. Her eyes had a faraway look, as if she were barely aware of their presence.

  “Shearing. I forgot about that.”

  “Each sheep gives us between eight and ten pounds of wool, and we pack it into bales. The Wyoming Woolgrower’s Association helps out by sending wagons to transport the bales to the railhead. After it’s shipped east and sold, I get my cut. The money will be banked in Sagebrush. Same for when we sell the wethers this fall. Once those payments are deposited, I can think about rebuilding the house and making some improvements to the ranch.”

  “The wethers?”

  He glanced at her. “You know the difference between a bull and a steer?”

  “Of course.” She wasn’t that green.

  “Same thing for sheep. A wether is a castrated male sheep.”

  He stroked the ewe’s flank. Before long, a slimy yellow nose appeared under her tail, followed by a bulbous head with the ears laid back against the neck.

  “Hmm… no feet.” Joe positioned himself better behind the ewe. “There should be a pair of hooves sticking out under that chin. He spoke so softly, Emmeline could barely hear him. “I’ll have to help her out.”

  With a tenderness she’d never seen in a grown man before, he worked his fingers alongside the lamb’s neck and gently eased out first one bent leg then another. The ewe seemed to sense when everything was as it should be, and in just a couple more pushes, expelled the lamb onto the grass.

  “It’s not moving. Is it dead?” Emmeline bit her lower lip.

  The ewe gave a mighty strain.

  Joe tossed a look over his shoulder. “Wipe its nose and face, will you? Make sure it’s breathing.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.” He bent over the ewe again, palpating her abdomen. “There is at least one more lamb
in here, and it looks as if it’s coming out tail first. I can’t deal with both right now, so I need you to care for that lamb.”

  Emmeline reached out to touch the lamb, grimacing at the blood and birthing matter clinging to the soggy creature. Swiping at the tiny nostrils, her heart pounded in her ears. What if it didn’t breathe? It was so small and helpless. Suddenly she wanted the little lamb to live more than she’d thought possible. As the seconds ticked on, she massaged the tiny rib cage and fondled the ears, oblivious to the mess. Come on, baby. Breathe.

  All at once, the lamb jerked. Its chest convulsed, and its head flopped. The little sides began to rise and fall in a sweet rhythm. Emmeline let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding and resisted the urge to snatch the baby up and cradle it.

  “It’s alive. It’s breathing.” With growing confidence she stripped mucus from the lamb.

  “Good. He’ll have a twin soon.” And sure enough, within a matter of minutes another lamb lay on the grass. The ewe rolled to her chest and made a peculiar chuckling sound deep in her throat. Joe dragged the lambs around to where she could nose them. “Best to get them acquainted right away. Some ewes don’t have any idea what it means to be a mother, but this ewe’s an old hand at raising lambs. She shouldn’t have any trouble.”

  “Look at them. They’re perfect.” Emmeline couldn’t explain the feeling of accomplishment filling her, though her part in the birthing had been small. “Are all these sheep going to lamb?”

  Joe rose and helped her to her feet. “No, not all of them. But a lot.” He smiled down on her, and her tummy did a strange flip. “You did a fine job with that lamb. We’ll make a shepherdess of you yet.” He drew a rough square of toweling from his back pocket and handed it to her to wipe her hands on.

  A shepherdess. Her? A sense of possibility drifted through her mind, and strangely, the idea of becoming a shepherdess wasn’t quite as far-fetched as she’d thought.

  Joe led her back to where he’d set his gear and gave her his canteen. Sipping, she studied him. The wind ruffled his hair, and he squinted against the sunshine, studying the landscape. He seemed so content, so in tune with the animals around him, as if he couldn’t possibly be anything other than a shepherd. She stoppered the canteen and placed it under his jacket to keep it in the shade.

  “Is that a sketchbook or a journal you carry with you?” He pointed to her leather-bound book.

  “A bit of both, I suppose. I jot down my thoughts and sketch whatever takes my fancy.”

  “Do you ever show anyone your sketches?”

  “Only my family. I’ve never let anyone else see my drawings.” She picked up the book and held it to her chest, crossing her arms over it.

  His lips twitched. “I’m your family now.” A teasing glint lit his brown eyes.

  Heat blasted into her cheeks. Of course he was. But was she ready to share something so private with him?

  The light faded from his expression, and resigned lines formed around his eyes. “It’s all right. I won’t pry. You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to.”

  Chiding herself, she loosened her arms. “I don’t mind. As long as you don’t laugh. I’ve had no formal training, and some of it is quite amateurish.”

  “I won’t laugh.” He folded his long legs and patted the grass beside him. “Maybe it will help me understand you better.”

  With an odd combination of reluctance and eagerness she handed over the book.

  The color ebbed and flowed in her cheeks in a way that set his heart racing. He didn’t know when he’d seen a more expressive face. She would never make a poker player.

  “Have you been drawing a long time?”

  “As long as I can remember, though I’ve only had this sketchbook for a couple of years.”

  He opened the cover and ran his finger over her name inked onto the endpaper. “Emmeline Charlotte Gerhard” and the date, “Christmas, 1871.” “I didn’t know your middle name was Charlotte.”

  “All of us girls have old-fashioned names, my father’s choice. What’s your middle name?”

  He shrugged. “It’s kind of…”

  “What?”

  “My given name is Joseph Ambrose Barrett III.”

  Her eyebrows, several shades darker than her hair, arched. “You’re the third?”

  “Yup. I come from a long and illustrious line of Barretts. Some of whom still live not far from where you grew up. My family hails from Boston.”

  “Really?” She smiled and grasped his hand. “I suppose I’m so familiar with the accent I didn’t even notice. We probably know some of the same places.”

  He had to pull his gaze away from her face, for her sudden delight had him wanting to touch her skin and kiss her pink lips. Instead he flipped to the first drawing, a tall-masted ship on a storm-tossed sea. The detail amazed him. “This is really quite good.”

  She shrugged, but her eyes glowed.

  He turned another page and stopped at the drawing of a beautiful woman looking into a mirror. A tapestry lay loose in her lap, and the mirror had been turned so the woman could see the scene outside her window. Reflected in the mirror was a river, a castle in the far distance with pennants flying, and a handsome knight on horseback coming down a winding road. “What’s this?”

  “I used to draw some illustrations for my father to use in his classes, especially for his primary students who had never studied medieval history or literature before. He thought it helped them understand the legends better. This one is from Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott. That’s the lady, and that’s Lancelot.” She touched the knight on horseback. “She could only view Camelot through that mirror, for if ever her sight truly fell upon the outside world, she would die. In the end, her desire to really live life—however briefly—instead of only experiencing it secondhand via the mirror won out. She left her tower, got into a boat, and drifted downriver toward the castle in search of Lancelot.”

  Flipping through the pages, he learned more about her from her drawings than perhaps she realized. He stopped at a sketch of three women that had to be her sisters. She’d written their names beneath their oval-shaped portraits. He studied them, comparing Emmeline to her siblings. She most resembled the one named Evelyn, though her eyes slanted just like Jane’s, and her mouth curved like Gwendolyn’s.

  Her hand came out to touch the corner of the page, and she blinked.

  “You must miss them. Are you very close?”

  She nodded. “Very. Evelyn and Jane are older, and Gwendolyn is younger. We’ve never been apart before, not even when Evelyn married. Her husband, Jamison, was a soldier, and she lived with us during the war. Jamison didn’t come home, so she and her son Jamie stayed with us. Then Papa died, and we had to move. When you and the others answered our advertisement, we had no idea of the distances out here. I suppose we thought ranches would be like farms, that we could just about see one another’s homes from our front porches. Instead, I’m almost a full day’s ride from Evelyn. Even Gwendolyn, who is the closest, is hours away.”

  The forlorn note in her voice tugged at his heart. He reached down and squeezed her hand. “We’ll visit your sisters as soon as we can. It’s the busy season for all of us, but there will be time. Out here, a day’s ride is nothing.”

  Another page showed a boy of perhaps six or seven, a mop of dark curls and big, dark eyes. He wore a suit with a white collar and a straw boater. “Is this your nephew?”

  “That’s Jamie.” Her mouth curved in a smile. “He’s so sweet. I wonder how he’s getting along with his new sister. Evelyn had no idea Gareth had a child, but then again, she didn’t tell Gareth about Jamie either, so I suppose they’re quits.”

  Joe laughed. “They treed themselves quite nicely, didn’t they? I guess you weren’t the only Gerhard sister surprised by what she found at the end of the trail then.”

  She turned the page. “This is Papa.”

  The picture of her father showed him in a room filled with books and papers wi
th a huge carved desk and with heavy drapes on the windows. A well-appointed room, not as rich or ornate as the Beacon Hill mansion he’d grown up in, but certainly better than a shanty or a wagon on the Wyoming prairie.

  He perused the rest of the drawings in the sketchbook. An entire page had been devoted to drawing hands in various positions and another of eyes. Then at least a dozen pages covered with medieval motifs: coats of arms, pennants, armor, weaponry. He turned to the back of the book to see what had occupied her mind most recently and wasn’t at all surprised to see pages of cowboys and horses, cattle and ranch scenes.

  Joe closed the book and handed it back to Emmeline, conscious that he wasn’t her idea of heroic, sketch-worthy material. No girl so enamored of high adventure and romance would dream of shepherds and sheep.

  Emmeline brushed her hand across the tooled leather cover. Lambs bleated and ewes answered, and a soft breeze swept across the grass and fluttered her blue skirts.

  Sean and Pierre patrolled the sheep, and not far away, the twin lambs he and Emmeline had delivered staggered up and butted around their mother’s udder.

  Sunshine warmed the air, redolent with the smell of spring grass and sheep. This was the life. So far away from the strictures of his upbringing and the horrors of war that had changed him forever. He breathed deeply of wool and sheep and lambing. Not everyone liked the smell of sheep, but he’d never found it offensive. Cows smelled, too, but no cowboy ever complained about it, though they wasted plenty of breath on how odiferous sheep were to them.

  Emmeline seemed not to mind. Sean passed by a few paces away, and she shaded her eyes to look up at him. He watched the sheep, at seventeen already an experienced shepherd, the image of his father at that age. Without a word or glance their way, he wandered toward the north.