Where the Heart Is Romance Collection

by Andrea Boeshaar

  “Is he always so angry?”

  Joe sighed. “He wasn’t always, but over the past year, he’s become more so. He’s not one to take an insult, real or perceived, and he’s very protective and possessive. As you saw, he and Blake Randall get along like matches and dynamite. He’s sure Randall is behind the burning of the house.”

  “How did Sean come to work for you? He’s young to be on his own.”

  A familiar pang smote Joe’s chest. “I met his father during the war. He was my best friend. Folks laughed that a Boston Brahmin and a wild Irishman would be such pals, but we didn’t care. I was holding his hand when he breathed his last after taking a bullet. We were at a place called the Wilderness, and before he died, Seamus made me promise I’d take care of his wife and son.”

  She rolled her pencil over the cover of her sketchbook and said nothing, just listening. It felt so good to have someone to talk to, he couldn’t seem to stop.

  “When the war ended, I went back to Boston. My family was glad to see me, but when they found out I wanted to help an Irish woman and her son from East Boston, they pitched a fit. I went to Seamus’s home as soon as I could and found seven-year-old Sean trying to hold body and soul together all by himself. His mother was in the last stages of some kind of wasting disease, and the boy was barely scraping by. I brought him home with me, but my parents would only consent to making him a servant.” Joe shook his head, remembering the epic row and accusations that had marked his last night in his parents’ home.

  “I wasn’t about to make the son of the man who had saved my life on more than one occasion into a boot boy or footman. I left that next day and haven’t been back. Sean came with me, and for the last ten years, we’ve been together. I worked for a farmer in Pennsylvania for a while, and after that I had my own little farm in Indiana. Then I got a flyer about the opening of Wyoming Territory, and we sold the farm and headed out here a couple of years ago. When we arrived, we found Pierre wanting to sell his land and sheep, so we bought him out.”

  “So you’ve been like a father to Sean. That poor boy, losing both his parents at such a young age. He’s blessed to have had someone like you to step in and not only care for him but care about him.”

  “I don’t know that he’d agree with you, especially lately. It seems the longer we’re out here, the more his anger and bitterness grow. You saw him with Blake Randall the other day. If Sean’s not careful, he’s going to instigate a range war that he can’t possibly win.”

  “But why? There’s nothing out here but grass and open space. Isn’t there enough room for everyone? Why do cattlemen hate sheepmen so much? I’ve read a little bit, but all the haranguing doesn’t seem to make sense with what I see.”

  “Cattlemen in Wyoming Territory think sheep ruin the grazing for cattle because they crop it so short to the ground. Our flock grazes down about forty acres per week, and then we move to a new area. Most of the land out here is open range, meaning any rancher can run his stock on it. Because all stock, cattle, or sheep, need water, most of the grazing is done along creeks like the Sagebrush.” He waved toward the stream just to the north. “The land I actually own is the quarter section I purchased from Pierre, but the land I use is many hundreds of acres more. This is true for all the ranchers around here, and since we’re all using the open range together, clashes are inevitable. When Pierre owned the flock, because he was alone and a foreigner, he came in for quite a bit of abuse. The only rancher who doesn’t give us trouble is Orla Randall, Blake’s father. For whatever reason, he’s let it be known that he won’t stand for anyone bothering us. Since he’s the most powerful rancher in this area, things have been fairly peaceful, though Blake doesn’t share his father’s views. He’d like nothing better than to rid the range of all sheep and shepherds. I do worry about what will happen when Orla isn’t around, or Blake decides to openly defy him. Some of the other cattlemen in the area have harassed us from time to time but nothing major. We make sure to never leave the sheep alone, and there are usually at least two of us handy all the time. And we have the dogs.”

  “Do you think the house fire was part of the harassment?”

  He shrugged. “It couldn’t be proved either way, though if I wanted to run somebody off a ranch, I’d start by burning the house.”

  “So it might’ve been Blake or another of the cattlemen?”

  He stroked his beard. “It might’ve been. Nobody was at the ranch. With lambing starting, we were all out with the sheep. It might’ve been an accident.”

  “Do you think that’s what happened?”

  “I’d rather think that than that one of my neighbors was capable of such hatred.” He shifted, wrapping his arms around his knees. A ewe stalked by followed by a set of triplets. “She had three last year, too.”

  Emmeline regarded him skeptically, as if she couldn’t tell if he was trying to pull one over on her or not. “How can you tell? There must be a thousand sheep here, and you recognize one ewe from last year? They all look the same.”

  He chuckled. “Not a thousand. About half that, though the flock’s growing every minute right now. And yes, a shepherd knows his own sheep. Each one is an individual, and over the last few seasons, we’ve gotten to know them. When we first bought Pierre out, we didn’t know anything about sheep, but he agreed to stay on to help us get started. I don’t think he has any place to move on to, so he’s just stayed.”

  “Why did he sell in the first place? Was it the trouble from the cattlemen?”

  Joe shrugged. “That was probably part of it, but mostly he needed the money. He got himself into trouble over at the fort. Gambling.”

  The triplets, a couple of days old now, gamboled and frolicked around their mother, giving little crow-hops and bleating to one another.

  “They are quite possibly the cutest things I’ve ever seen.” Emmeline flipped open her sketchbook and removed the pencil from behind her ear.

  “God sure gave them more than their fair share of charm.”

  With quick strokes, Emmeline captured the vignette. His heart swelled. She was putting a sheep into her sketchbook. How long before she might draw a shepherd there, too? Fine hair teased her temples and the curve of her neck as she bent over her work. He looked away, swallowing hard, wishing she hadn’t put the brakes on their relationship and hoping their time together today counted as getting to know each other better.

  “I should wander through the flock. Do you want to come with me, or do you want to stay here?” He rose and offered his hand.

  “I’ll come.” She fitted her hand into his, and he helped her to her feet. He slung the canteen crossways over his chest and picked up his staff. Perhaps he and Emmeline weren’t so far apart as he’d thought. Surely if they continued to spend time together and talk, she’d come around to his way of life and be content here. He took her hand and tucked it into his elbow, leading her through the sheep.

  Chapter 5

  Three months into her marriage Emmeline hardly recognized herself as the naive daydreamer who had set out from Seabury with her sisters. Lambing had come and gone, and now she spent every day out with the sheep… and her husband. Looking back on her first days out here made her insides curl up in shame like the legs of a dead spider. Her initial disappointment that her husband wasn’t a cowboy-knight of the range now seemed silly. The more time she spent with Joe, the more she saw his fine qualities of patience and intelligence. As she watched him care for his livestock and handle both the aloof Pierre and the volatile Sean, she was coming to redefine her notion of what constituted manly strength.

  She labored over trying to capture that gentle strength on paper. Every chance she got, she filled the pages of her sketchbook with portraits of Joe with his flock. But she didn’t show them to him, afraid of revealing how quickly he’d come to dominate her every thought. On the last page of the sketchbook, she drew the familiar lines of his face and wrote a Francis de Sales quote that she felt summed up Joe perfectly:

  No
thing is so strong as gentleness, nothing so gentle as real strength.

  She felt as if her mind were shedding a too-tight skin, as if her boundaries and awareness were expanding in new and exciting ways. Having to abandon long and fondly held ideas wasn’t easy, but a new reality overlaid the storybooks and sensationalized serials that had formed her opinions of the west, and at the center of that new reality was Joe Barrett.

  He was quiet, kind, and helpful, always taking the time to explain what he was doing with the sheep and why, and always including her, never talking down to her or making her feel embarrassed when she asked questions or made mistakes. He was just about perfect, and she knew she was in love with him.

  But how did she go about telling her husband that she had changed? How did she let him know she was willing to be not only his companion but his wife in every sense? She couldn’t just blurt it out. Could she?

  Emmeline checked on Shadow and the puppies. Six black-and-white squirming bundles, now almost ten days old, snuggled in a blanket-lined box under the shade of the wagon. Shadow lay beside the box, her head on her paws. The birth of the puppies had caused much joy and consternation. Joe was thrilled at such a healthy litter but not so thrilled that Robbie Burns had gone on strike. The dog seemed to think if Shadow was on vacation, he should be, too.

  “How far will we go today?” Emmeline shook out a dish towel and folded it to pack away.

  “About ten miles. We’ll camp where the Washout flows into Sagebrush Creek. The grass should be pretty good there, and there’ll be plenty of water.” Joe doused the morning fire with the dirty dishwater, pouring carefully so as not to scatter the ashes. “Sean and Pierre are already getting the flock moving.” He leveled a stare at Robbie. “In spite of some people’s refusal to work.” The dog yawned, his ears pinning back and his tongue lolling.

  Joe helped her finish loading, saving the pups for last. Shadow whimpered and paced along the side of the wagon, even hopping up onto the seat to check on her babies.

  “Are you going to ride up here with me, girl?” Emmeline stroked Shadow’s silky coat with one hand, while plucking her already sticking blouse away from her skin with the other. Moving the sheep in this heat wasn’t an easy proposition, and Joe could really use the dogs, but he’d been trying to give Shadow time to recover from what had proven to be a rather difficult birthing. However, the minute Joe picked up his staff to head toward the sheep, Shadow leaped from the wagon seat and bounded to his side.

  “Are you sure, girl? I could use your help. If you pitch in, maybe that silly old Rob will, too.” Joe caressed the dog’s head, his hand ever gentle despite his broad shoulders and well-muscled arms. Hatless, his brown hair shone in the sun, in need of a trim. He glanced up and caught Emmeline staring. “Are you sure you’ll be all right driving?”

  She swallowed and pulled her thoughts away from how handsome her husband looked this morning. Bending to cover her blush, she picked up the reins. “After a week of lessons, I should hope I’d be able to drive this team. You’re only going to be walking anyway.”

  Joe grinned and winked and reached up to pat her hand. A tingle shot through her at his touch. “I have a notion you could do anything you set your mind to. Your driving the wagon will be a big help. It’s usually Sean’s job, and I can use him on foot better. Give a holler if you get into any trouble.”

  By midafternoon, Emmeline was heartily sick of the sight, sound, and smell of sheep. This was the first major trek they’d made with the flock. Up to this point their progress had been gradual as the flock grazed off an area, but now the grass on the upper plateau was playing out, getting sparser in the summer heat. Joe wanted to move the flock down into the river basin to the better pastures. The sheep, used to lazy living, balked at passing up grassy tidbits. The wethers stalked to the front of the flock, stopped to graze, and caused a pileup of ewes and lambs. Lambs seemed to become separated from their mothers with annoying frequency, panicking and bleating. Anxious mothers answered back, searching for their offspring. Keeping the group together and all moving in the same direction took the skill of all three men and the dogs.

  A headache formed behind Emmeline’s eyes, and a fine grit of dust stirred up by thousands of sharp hooves hung in the air and sifted into her hair and clothes. After a while, the animals either got the hang of moving as a flock or else wore themselves out for anything other than doing as the shepherds wanted. The men didn’t break for lunch, because once they had the sheep moving, they didn’t want to stop them until they reached their destination.

  The puppies whined under her feet. She’d stopped once, midmorning, for Shadow to feed them, but they were hungry again. “I know, babies. This new campsite had better be worth all this fuss.” Though Joe claimed the grazing near the river would be better than where they had been, her untrained eye hadn’t been able to tell. It all looked like grass to her.

  The land grew rougher the farther they went, with rocky outcroppings and jagged rises. Sagebrush Creek, which had been slow and lazy farther downstream, now rushed through narrower channels, shaded by the only trees to be found on the prairie—brushy, twisted, gnarled scrub, nothing like the maples, chestnuts, and oaks of Massachusetts.

  When Joe finally threw up his arm for her to halt, she slumped, pressing her fingers to her eyes to still the throbbing. Too much sun, heat, and noise. If only she could stretch out under those trees and take a nap.

  A plaintive yip from the box beneath her seat got her moving. Clambering down, stiff from sitting for such a long time, she lifted the puppies up and over the wagon side, transferring them to the shade under the wagon. Shadow, released by Joe from herding duties, wriggled and nudged the fuzzy babies, licking and checking. Their little yips and yelps of reunion made Emmeline smile in spite of her headache. The little mama flopped onto her side in the grass and the puppy noises, beyond a few satisfied grunts and whimpers, ceased.

  Emmeline assessed the new campsite. Sagebrush mingled with wildflowers and prairie grasses, covering the ground right up to the creek. The grayish-green fragrant bushes perfumed the air and made Emmeline think of turkey stuffing at Thanksgiving. She shied away from that memory, knowing if she dwelled on it for long, as tired as she was right now, homesickness and loneliness for her sisters would overwhelm her, and she might break down and cry.

  Joe and Sean and Pierre spread out, and Shep nosed around the area. Emmeline had taken Joe at his word and steered clear of the watchdog. He patrolled an area well beyond the flock, his only goal to stop predation and protect his master’s sheep.

  The flock made its way down the banks to the water, spreading out along the edge to slake their thirst. Emmeline brushed the clinging hair from her forehead and decided they had the right idea. Taking a bucket from the wagon, she set out upstream.

  Once under the shade of the trees, her headache eased some, and the knot between her shoulder blades relaxed. Unaccustomed to driving a team, she was grateful for the walk to loosen up stiff muscles. Meadowlarks sang and chirped in the tall grass, and a breeze fluttered the leaves overhead. When she reached a quiet place along the water’s edge well upstream from the sheep, she plunged her hands into the cool water and doused her hot face. Further tension seeped from her, and she closed her eyes, breathing deeply of the warm summer air and letting the water drip dry on her skin.

  “Well, well, well, we meet again.”

  Emmeline’s eyes popped open, and she stumbled away from the water. She knocked against the bucket and sent it clanking into a tree trunk.

  Blake Randall sat on his black horse, wrists crossed on the saddle horn and a playful grin on his face. “Sorry to startle you.”

  She pressed her hand to her chest, chagrined to be caught with her face dripping. Groping for a handkerchief, she tried to gather her scattered wits.

  “Mr. Randall.”

  “Blake.” He swung down from his horse. “I was watching you all from up there.” He pointed to a ridge some distance to the south.

&n
bsp; An uneasy feeling trickled down the base of her neck. He’d been watching them? Aware that she was some distance from the flock and well out of earshot of any of the men, Emmeline retrieved the bucket and scooped up some water. “I should be getting back.”

  He took the bucket from her hands. “My ma would pin my ears back if I let you carry this all the way back to camp.”

  “Please, I don’t want to be a bother. You must have a lot to do today.”

  “It’s no bother. I want to talk to Joe anyway.” His voice lost its light, bantering tone, and his face settled into grim lines. “He’s asking for trouble bringing his sheep back here, especially after last year.”

  “Last year?” She hurried to keep ahead of his horse tromping behind them, breathing down the back of her neck. “What happened last year?”

  “Hasn’t he told you? He lost a mess of sheep. Night raiders hit his camp and shot a bunch of his animals.”

  “Shot them? Why?”

  “Because they’re mangy sheep, that’s why. And this is the best summer grazing for fifty miles in any direction. The cattlemen aren’t going to sit still while a flock of knot-headed mutton ruins it.” His strides lengthened. “Especially now that word’s gotten around that Barrett won’t defend himself. He never even shot back when the raiders came, just stood there by the wagon and let it happen. He’s lucky the raiders were under orders not to shoot any men or he’d have met his Maker that night.”

  “He just stood there?” Emmeline stopped, and the horse shouldered her out of his way to keep following Blake. She tripped but managed to keep her footing, though the world spun in her head. “He didn’t fight back to protect what was his?”

  “Nope, he held his men back, too, that Frenchy and the kid. The dogs put up more of a fuss than he did.” Disgust dripped from his lips like kerosene from an overturned lamp. “Anyone as spineless as him shouldn’t even be in Wyoming Territory, much less trying his hand at ranching.” He spit on the ground and then seemed to remember both his manners and who he was talking to. “Sorry, ma’am. It just sticks in my craw when a man shows yellow.”