by Jeanne Rose
"And I think it's up to Pa to decide how long he should mourn. You should mind your own business."
Cassie only grinned and kicked the paint's side, sending her mare trotting ahead. The rough road they followed rose steadily as they climbed the spare, rocky foothills toward the tiny town of Pine Bluff. The basin in which the best part of the Ryerson spread lay -- a grassy expanse created by a spring-fed creek that wove through many of the acres -- was giving way to desert with its gray-green creosote bushes, cactus, and mesquite.
Stephen also picked up the pace as they spotted the town ahead. Actually, town was too big a word for the small cluster of weatherbeaten and adobe buildings that made up Pine Bluff -- a general store, a blacksmith shop, and a cantina. Larger when it had been a stagecoach stop, the place had shrunk considerably as soon as two railroads -- the Southern Pacific, then the Texas and Pacific -- cut iron swathes across the state. The stagecoach line no longer existed but the needs of the surrounding ranches kept the remaining establishments in business. Each week, a rider made the one-hundred-and-forty mile round trip to El Paso to deliver and return mail.
Cassie could hardly wait to see if there were any special letters addressed to Ryerson. She hoped the storekeep hadn't gossiped about the one she'd sent to an Eastern newspaper a couple of months ago. As she and Stephen dismounted and tied their horses in front of the general store, she tried to hide her excitement but made sure she beat her brother through the door.
He didn't seem to notice. He stopped to examine a silver-trimmed Mexican saddle on display near the dry-goods shelves.
"Mail for Ryerson?" Cassie approached the counter to ask the storekeeper.
Her heart beat faster when he returned with a fairly large bundle, most of it sure to be the usual newspapers. Like the other ranchers, Monte Ryerson paid for the mail service.
"Thanks," she said.
"You're welcome."
Quickly she undid the twine that bound the bundle and sorted through it. Two letters and a flat packet caught her eye. Glancing behind her to make sure Stephen remained busy, she headed off for a corner to rip open her prizes.
When she returned to the counter, Stephen was checking off a list of supplies. "Molasses, flour." He glanced at Cassie. "And didn't Carmen say she could use a new butcher knife?"
"Uh, huh."
For some reason, various utensils had been disappearing. The superstitious housekeeper claimed evil spirits were taking them, but Cassie paid her no mind. Excited, she could hardly wait while Stephen counted out some coins and told the storekeep to put the rest of the supplies on the Ryerson tab. She held the bundle of mail before her like a prize.
"Wait a minute, I forgot something," Stephen told the man, then looked at his sister. "How about a peppermint? Would you like a treat?"
"Uh, sure."
"You don't sound very enthusiastic. If you don't care, we should save the money."
Cassie sighed. "I'll take a peppermint. Please?" Though she wished her brother would hurry up so they could talk in private.
Glancing at her curiously, Stephen laid another coin down for the candy. He stuck a striped red and white stick in his mouth and handed the other to Cassie. Then he carried the supplies outside.
He was loading their saddlebags when she told him, "I found a wife for Pa."
"Uh, huh."
"I'm serious, Stephen. I put an advertisement in a New York newspaper." She held up the letters. "And I got some answers."
Surprised, Stephen stopped what he was doing. "Advertisements? Are you loco?"
Cassie frowned. "I'm not crazy and I'm not stupid. I know there's such a thing as mail-order brides. Mr. Rolfson sent for one and she came all the way from Sweden."
"That was different. That was someone his family
knew."
"But other men have sent away for wives," Cassie insisted. "Just listen to me, Stephen." She waved the envelopes again. "These women are willing to come to Texas and marry Pa and take care of us."
"I'm near full-grown."
"But I'm not." She lifted her chin. "And I'd like a real lady for a mother. Someone who can tell me the right thing to say and do."
Someone who could help her be more feminine. She was sick of drudging about in dusty boots and tying her hair back in a braid. She didn't want to end up wearing trousers all the time and riding with the men like her twin sister Ginnie.
"Look at this." Cassie pulled the biggest prize of all from the mail bundle -- the fancy daguerreotype that had been in the flat packet. She could tell her brother was impressed when his eyes widened. "Isn't she beautiful? And I bet she's smart and sweet, too."
"Not to mention rich." Frowning, Stephen fingered the daguerreotype. "Who else could afford to send something like this?"
Now they'd gotten to the hard part. "I don't know how she got her portrait taken or how she managed to send it, but this lady must not be rich." Or else she was taking the advertisement at its word. Cassie paused. "What happened to the money you saved up from those horses you broke last fall?"
"Why?"
"We need to send her money for the train."
Stephen's frown turned to a scowl. "No."
"Stephen!" To get this close and be unable to carry out her plan would break her heart. Though she hadn't known what she'd do when the time came, she'd been depending on her brother's help.
"This is crazy. You're crazy," he fumed. "That woman's probably crazy, too!"
"She's not!" Cassie didn't want her to be. "Please, Stephen!" To her embarrassment, she felt her eyes fill. "It will change things, you'll see. She'll change Pa. He won't be so sad ...and faraway." At times her father withdrew so much, Cassie couldn't reach him at all. She simply knew it was more than worries about the ranch. "I can't help missing the way he used to be."
Stephen's expression became more sympathetic. He knew what she was talking about. But he told her, "Don't cry."
Cassie sniffed and swiped at her cheeks. "I'm not crying." Again she held up the woman's image, pressing her case for all she was worth. "Pa won't be able to ignore a lady like this. She's as beautiful as an angel."
"Well --"
"Please!" Her brother was weakening. She could tell. "Please, please, Stephen. I'll pay you back, I promise."
"It's so crazy," he muttered. "And we'd have to ride all the way to El Paso to buy the ticket."
We. Now she knew she had hooked him.
"That town is dangerous," he went on. "It's full of gamblers and gunmen and shysters these days."
"But no one will bother us, Stephen. You're sixteen, a man," she said, flattering him. "You'll see that we're safe."
Just as she would see to changing the direction their lives had taken the past year or so. She'd been wishing for change, praying for it, working toward it with all her might. Each word of the advertisement in the New York newspaper had been wrung from the depths of her heart.
CHAPTER TWO
Texas rancher seeks a wife and a mother for his three children. Will pay travel expenses to El Paso. This woman should be pretty and nice, age 25 to 35, and be a real lady.
ONCE AGAIN Iphigenia read the rather childishly worded advertisement she'd cut from The New York Crier, then placed it back in her reticule. She hoped she hadn't made a terrible mistake. Ever since the Southern Pacific had left central Texas, the land outside had grown wilder and rougher and more foreboding. Dry and dusty, often mountainous, nearly barren except for twisted trees and harsh-looking plants that pushed their way between outcroppings of raw rock, the place seemed unfit for human habitation.
Where had she gotten herself?
As close to her child as she could manage came the swift answer.
As soon as she'd discovered that her aunt had sent Hope to live with poor relations out west, Iphigenia had left no stone unturned finding out exactly where the Fricketts lived. Fort Davis seemed to be some distance from El Paso on the map, but Iphigenia was certain she would find a way to get there. Just as she'd happened on a wa
y to get to Texas from New York.
The newspaper advertisement had been a miracle. The proffered railway ticket a Godsend.
Especially considering Horace Wentworth had been measuring out the most meager of allowances, no doubt expecting his daughter to bolt. But Iphigenia had been careful to hide her emotions concerning her baby. When her empty suite in the New York mansion had been discovered, she was certain her aunt and father headed for the wharves, thinking she had found some means to book passage to Europe.
They would never believe the cold, sharp-tongued and devil-may-care Miss Iphigenia Wentworth was on her way to retrieve an illegitimate baby. They would never think she'd go so far as to marry some uncivilized Texas rancher to get her daughter back -- possibly the only unselfish act she'd ever done in her life.
She could hardly believe the latter herself. Perhaps if she'd never seen her daughter ...but she had. Those few moments when Hope had rested in her arms were the most precious in her memory. She'd felt a love she hadn't known she was capable of. Taking a deep breath, she pulled another piece of paper out of her reticule, the letter that had come with her ticket. The enthusiastic scrawl was also childish and the wording similar to that of the advertisement, but at least this Monte Ryerson had enough education to write at all, undoubtedly unusual in the wilderness.
Iphigenia put the letter away, then attempted to dust some of the dirt and train soot off her fawn-colored Redfern traveling costume. The white lace at her throat had already turned nearly the same color as the jacket and skirt. She was exhausted after endless days of travel and looking forward to who knew what when she arrived in El Paso in less than an hour.
She assumed she'd meet with Ryerson's approval. She'd actually try her best to get along with him until she had her child in her arms again. And she was prepared to do whatever else she must to achieve the reunion with Hope. She had no illusions left about romance. She need not fear another pregnancy -- the doctor had told her that the difficult birth had ended her chances of ever becoming a mother again.
Which made Hope's being taken away from her an emotional trauma.
Her baby was the only person who would ever truly belong to her, Iphigenia thought. Picturing Hope's innocent little face, the precious little fingers that had clutched the blanket, brought tears to her eyes.
Then, lowering her veil, she glanced about to make sure that none of the other passengers had noticed. She was a proud woman who rarely wept. But her traveling companions paid no attention -- a quiet young couple holding hands and a white-whiskered old man snoring against his seat.
The conductor entered the car. "El Paso," he announced, looking at his pocket watch. "We arrive in ten minutes."
Ten minutes. Iphigenia clutched her reticule tightly. She tried to be optimistic, assuring herself that whatever predicament she faced would only be temporary. Eventually, a legal marriage would release her trust fund, and she could offer financial compensation to Monte Ryerson before she left him. If he objected anyway, she would show him what her father called the true, acidic side of her personality. Then he'd probably be willing to pay to get rid of her.
A shadow of doubt filled her when she went over her plan. What if this Monte Ryerson got attached to her in truth? She would have to steal herself to any soft emotions toward the man. She would approach this as a business deal.
Shades of Horace Wentworth!
Not wanting to be reminded of her father, certainly not wanting to think she was in the least like the cold man who'd been her only parent, she looked for a distraction and was relieved when the conductor strolled down the aisle.
"I have two trunks in the baggage car," she told him. "Make sure you unload them both."
"Yes, ma'am."
She'd packed at least half her wardrobe, not knowing what kind of situations or weather to expect. She'd brought all her jewelry, sewn into her petticoat, having read that West Texas was a next-to-lawless land. And for protection, she carried one of her great-uncle's ivory-handled dueling pistols in her carpet bag. Reputedly, he'd died in a scandalous shooting incident before he was thirty, but at least he'd had courage.
Courage Iphigenia hoped she'd inherited, she thought, upon alighting in El Paso a few minutes later. The conductor offered her a hand in stepping down from the passenger car. The depot -- if one could call it that -- was nothing more than a mudbrick shed. Or adobe, she had heard it called. Larger adobe buildings rose some distance away. A gaggle of Spanish-speaking people embraced the young couple who'd ridden in her car. Nearby, an ugly, filthy, greasy-haired man spat a stream of tobacco onto the ground and stared at her with bloodshot eyes.
Monte Ryerson? Please God, no.
Frozen with trepidation, Iphigenia hardly noticed the two youngsters approaching.
"Miss Iphigenia Wentworth?"
She raised her veil and stared at the girl who addressed her, a pretty one of twelve or thirteen with soft brown eyes and wavy brown hair tied back with a pink ribbon that matched her simple dress. The girl's companion was older, a tall youth with wide shoulders, long limbs and an air of awkwardness.
"I am Miss Wentworth, yes," said Iphigenia.
"Oh!" The girl's eyes widened and lit up, while her lips curved into a tremulous smile that couldn't help but touch Iphigenia. "You're even more beautiful than your picture."
The youth tipped his hat. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Wentworth."
Iphigenia was confused gazing into the boy's blue eyes. "You're, uh ...Monte Ryerson?"
"Me?" He blushed beet red, looking terribly embarrassed. "Of course not. I'm Stephen, his son."
The girl stepped forward to shyly offer her hand. "My brother and I are here to take you back to the ranch. I'm Cassie. I'm thirteen. My twin sister Ginnie stayed at home. We brought a buckboard to take you and your luggage to the ranch --"
The poor girl was babbling. "What about your father?" Iphigenia cut in.
"Well ...Pa was busy." Cassie sobered and glanced at her brother. "He was sorting cows, wasn't he, Stephen?"
The boy merely grunted.
Iphigenia thought the two were acting a little odd, if friendly in an anxious sort of way. Ryerson actually preferred sorting cattle to meeting his future bride? But she had little chance to ask questions as she followed the youngsters to the team and wagon they had left near the depot.
No buggy? Perhaps people didn't use them in West Texas or Monte Ryerson simply didn't have the money to buy one. He would be pleased then if she came up with a cash settlement later on.
"El Paso isn't very pretty," Cassie told her as Stephen took care of having the trunks loaded. "And it can be dangerous, especially at night -- gamblers and drunks and even outlaws walk the streets."
Iphigenia raised her brows, her eyes sliding back in the direction of the filthy man who'd spat the tobacco.
"But don't worry," Cassie went on. "Stephen brought a rifle. He'll take care of us." Then she stared as Iphigenia opened her parasol against the bright sun, her expression obviously awed. "Do ladies use those sort of things?"
The girl was so innocent and seemed to be looking for guidance. "Most ladies have parasols," Iphigenia told her. "It is important to protect the skin. And it is fashionable to remain on the pale side, rather than to turn brown." Like the working class.
Cassie's smile wavered. "Really? I guess I'm not very fashionable then."
"You're also in West Texas," grumbled Stephen, who'd come around to help them up onto the wagon's seat. "Out here, things with pale hides usually make their homes under rocks."
Always ready to trade barbs, good-natured or not, Iphigenia wondered if he were indirectly needling her. "Are you comparing me to toads and snakes?" she asked archly.
"No, Ma'am." The boy flushed as he climbed the wagon himself and took up the reins. "I was only teasing Cassie. I didn't mean to insult you."
He was so serious, so easily discomfited, Iphigenia felt sorry she'd said anything. She also found herself wanting to reassure Cassie, as unusual as that seeme
d. She guessed it was the girl's innocent-seeming openness. She never dwelled on class differences like Aunt Gertrude anyway. She mistrusted people equally.
She smiled at the girl. "Fashions vary in different parts of the country. I'm sure you are quite the mode for West Texas." That brought a grin to Cassie's face. Soon, she was maintaining a stream of conversation as the buckboard rumbled along. They passed small houses with chickens scratching within adobe-walled yards. A man wearing a huge hat and leading a burro loaded with baskets got out of the narrow road when faced with the buckboard.
"He's wearing a sombrero." Cassie pointed at the man. "A Mexican hat."
"There seem to be many Mexicans here," remarked Iphigenia. "But then I suppose that is natural, considering the Spanish settled this part of the country in the beginning." She'd read her history.
"Mexico itself, the town of Paseo del Norte, is on the other side of the Rio Grande," said Stephen, who seemed content to remain silent most of the time. He gestured. "The river is right over there."
The buckboard was heading the opposite direction and soon left El Paso behind. Cassie continued to chatter, asking questions about New York, as well as pointing out local landmarks, and naming flora and fauna. Iphigenia tried to converse politely, though the buckboard's lack of springs made her teeth rattle. Besides, one stark mountain range or painted mesa pretty much looked like another and she wasn't very interested in creosote bushes or prairie dogs.
Cassie regained her full attention when she said, "Our Ma died three years ago. She was killed in an accident." She sighed. "We've really missed her."
A pang engulfed Iphigenia for a second. "I expect so. I lost my mother myself when I was a small child."
"It's important for a girl to have a female influence in her life, don't you think?" asked Cassie, her tone hopeful.
"Well, yes, I suppose so." Though the inference that Cassie might need her made Iphigenia distinctly uncomfortable. She hadn't considered the repercussions her presence might have on Ryerson's children. "Other female relatives can also be helpful for a girl. I have cousins and an aunt." She didn't add that her cousins were stuffy prigs or that Aunt Gertrude was a cruel monster.
