by Ginny Aiken
She still didn’t deserve such treatment.
And she was Peter’s guest.
It was up to him to make certain she never suffered such shameful treatment again, not while she was under his care and protection. He had told her he’d do that because it was the right thing to do, the only Christian way to act.
A vague twinge struck him. Some would also say it was the courtly, gentlemanly thing to do. What one of Robby’s and, yes, even Miss Emma’s, knights would do. He set the notion aside as soon as it appeared.
As he headed toward the cabin, he saw movement at the far edge of the woods. A glimpse of the by-now familiar, orangey-gold velvet garments revealed Miss Crowell’s location. As much as he didn’t want to spend much time with her, he knew he owed her an apology.
And a promise.
He made his way to her side. As he came closer, he took care for his boots to crunch debris on the ground loudly enough to alert her to his approach. The moment she realized he was nearly at her side, she bounded up from the log where she’d sat, the soggy rag she’d used to wipe up the floor plopping to the ground.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lowery. I—”
“No, Miss Crowell. Allow me to offer my apologies. First off, you really didn’t need to clean up the mess on the floor. I’m sure Ned is more than capable of doing at least that, and with the way he wants nothing more than to please you, he’d have been right pleased if he could have done it instead.”
“But—”
“Please. I’m not done. I… er…” He felt his ears getting hot, a sure sign his face had turned the color of flames. “I must also apologize for not keeping Sawyer under much tighter control. What he did, how he behaved toward you, was wrong, and I won’t have such shameful treatment of a lady at my place. I take full responsibility for keeping him away from you for the rest of the time you’re my guest.”
Clearly, his words surprised her. She blinked. “You can’t take the blame for that man’s boorish behavior. Why, he’s nothing but a brute. And a thief, you know.”
He chuckled. “Oh, believe me. I do know. But—”
“No, sir, it’s my turn this time. Sawyer’s to blame for Sawyer’s actions. Not you. I do appreciate your offer to keep him away, but that might not be possible. The man does need to eat—oh!” Her eyes narrowed and she frowned. “Now, you don’t mean to starve him, do you?”
“I’ve half a mind to—” At her look of horror, he backtracked a bit. “I’m not serious, ma’am, not serious at all. Just making a joke, and probably not at the best time. No, one or the other of us will take his meals to the bunkhouse from now on.”
“And you mean to keep him there all the time until the fall?”
“If that’s what we must do.”
“Surely you don’t expect him to just stay there like an obedient schoolchild, do you?”
“I don’t expect anything from him, good or bad. We’ll tie him up, and pray for the best.”
“You’ll likely have to leave someone at his side to make sure he doesn’t set himself loose.”
“If that’s what it takes, then that’s what we’ll do. Right?”
“That’s dreadfully wasteful, sir. Especially since you’ve told me you can’t spare a man to take me back to Bountiful. If you could, I think it would make far more sense to send that person to escort us back. But since you’ve made it clear that’s quite impossible, at the very least, you could put Sawyer to work. Both him and Ned. They’re able-bodied, if not particularly bright. I’m sure you, Colley, and Wade can use their help with the animals, and keep an eye on them while they work. I’ll help with Robby. And the cabin.”
He crossed his arms and his lips twitched at the corners. He fought the smile, seeing as he doubted she’d appreciate his laughing at her. “You’re still telling me you’re a quick learner, aren’t you?”
She tipped her head up in that way he was coming to know as typical of her, full of bravado, determination, and more than likely, not much more. He fought another smile.
“Why, yes,” she said. “I now know how to make flapjacks, biscuits, bacon, can warm up all kinds of tinned and jarred foods, and I absolutely have learned mealy haricot beans must be soaked at the very least overnight before setting them to bake.”
“Quite a lengthy menu there, ma’am.” When she sputtered in indignation, he raised a hand to stop her. “Colley’s said the same about Ned, how he could help out, and I let him come to help this morning. But next I know he’s dumping a bucket of freezing water all over my feet. Don’t know as I’m ready to repeat that experience.”
“It was an accident, Mr. Lowery. You are dreadfully stern, and can make even a gaslight post jumpy. I fully sympathize with poor Ned, if you must know.”
Had she just called him frightening? “I’m not stern.”
“Ha!” She crossed her arms and stared him square in the face. “I’ll have you know, you’re the… the sternest man I have ever met. You have not been a welcoming host to me, you can’t even understand your own son’s need to be a little boy, and… and… then there’s poor Ned. I suspect you scare him to bits, too.”
He’d never been called scary before. Certainly not to his face.
Was he? Really?
Lord?
The weight of her glare got to him. He couldn’t hold her gaze any longer, and his hunger reminded him he hadn’t eaten in hours. He cleared his throat. “Well, Miss Crowell. This has been a mighty interesting conversation, but I reckon we’ve wasted enough of my day already. From where I stand, it’s right about time to go eat.”
“See?” she asked, holding her ground. “It appears you didn’t like something I said, perhaps something you didn’t know quite how to take, and you sped right back to your stiff lord-of-the-manor posture. Stern. Yes, I do indeed mean stern, sir.”
And she recoiled right into the stiffest way of talking he’d ever heard. He didn’t dare mention it, though, otherwise they might spend the rest of the day and into the night outdoors.
Peter turned toward the cabin. “Well… er… I’ll have to consider what you said, but what I said holds true, too. Time’s running by, and I need to eat. It’s time we head on back inside.”
“You will consider what I said?” she asked, insistent.
“I said it, didn’t I?”
“You did, and I’ll hold you to it. I promise you, Mr. Lowery. This conversation’s not over, but rather only interrupted. We will have many, many opportunities in the next few months to talk again.”
He fought the groan that rose to his throat. Groaning in her presence, right to her face, would not be a good idea. Not at all. “We’ll see.”
“Oh, we will, indeed, sir.”
He would have given just about anything he owned then to be able to load her up on the wagon and drive her down to Bountiful. He suspected Miss Emma Crowell rarely ever forgot a thing. Especially not when she believed she was right about the matter.
From the way she continued to glare at him, she was certain she was right. She had not even a shred of a doubt he was a stern man. And who knew? A lot had happened to him in his life.
She just might be right about him.
He gestured for her to step ahead of him toward the cabin. “After you.”
Peter feared this wouldn’t be the last time he’d have to let her step ahead, while he followed in her wake. Heaven help him, seeing as he didn’t think he could help himself when it came to his fiery red-haired guest.
Chapter 10
“Time to get to work, Robby,” Peter said once they’d finished eating. “Wade, you can take a plate to that… that—to Sawyer. I left him tied up in the bunkhouse. Make sure you take Colley’s shotgun with you. Wouldn’t want him to be getting any ideas.”
Colley nodded. “Guess we still got us plenty of shearin’ to do, eh, boss?”
“That we do.” Peter glanced at Emma, but she seemed busy with the dirty breakfast dishes. At least it didn’t take much know-how to wash up. He didn’t think sh
e could get in too much trouble with pots and pans, dishes, and soapy water.
“Aw, Pa!” Robby put on a mule-headed expression. “I wanta stay with Lady Emma today. Can’t I stay and help her?”
“Really, Mr. Lowery, I don’t know nothing ’bout sheep,” Ned said, nodding, his eyes wide and eager. “I can stay and help Miss Emma, too. I’m fair strong, and can carry the water for her—it gets right heavy, you know. She’s a fine lady, and shouldn’t hafta bother herself with that kinda work. I can clean some good, too.”
Over his shoulder, Peter caught sight of Miss Crowell’s dismay at the young outlaw’s offer.
“Oh, dear me, Ned,” she said before Peter could speak, wearing a kind smile on her lips. “That’s so generous of you, but really, I’m fine. I can do all those things Colley and I discussed quite well, I’m sure. If I do need help, why, then I’ll go fetch one of you gentlemen to come to my rescue.”
She turned her snapping green eyes on Peter. “What you really need to do, though, is help Mr. Lowery. He’s kind enough to house you—and me—and he’s feeding all of us from his supplies. I suspect he, Colley, and Wade can certainly use another pair of hands with the sheep. And surely they’ll teach you all you need to know to help them.”
To Peter, she looked as though the words she ground out from between her even, gritted white teeth dared him to reject her suggestion. He fought a grin. She was one fascinating woman. And perhaps not quite so bad as he’d thought from the start. Time would, of course, tell.
In a defiant corner of his head, he still hated to agree with Miss Crowell. After all, she was the fluff-headed woman who’d managed to get herself left behind out in the woods by her party. But she did have a point. “I reckon we should do like she says, Ned, and get to the sheep. Colley and I can use the help. You can show us you’re speaking truth when you tell us all you need is a chance to prove yourself trustworthy and a good worker.”
Robby gave a small hop in excitement. “See, Papa? You need to get out to the sheep.” He put his palms together in a gesture of pleading. “Pleeze! Can I stay with Lady Emma? You said she should learn me my lessons, didn’t you? We can do that after she’s done with all that Colley’s told her needs doing. And like Ned’s gonna help you, I can too help her. That way she can finish faster, get more done. See? See?”
“Sure, I see.” Irritation caused him to frown. “I told you—” Peter caught himself. She’d said he was stern. And he’d doubted her. Now, here he was, scolding his son in a stern voice. Maybe she did make some sense.
He cleared his throat and tried again. “Look, son. I reckon we should let Miss Crowell do just what you said, handle what all Colley’s told her to do. She’s assured me she’s quite capable and an excellent learner. She’s got herself some proving to do, herself.”
He again fought a smile when she stuck her fists on her hips and her green eyes shot fiery darts of anger at him. Before she could voice the retort he knew was dancing on her lips, he went on. “We’ll let her get through her chores, while you and I get through the ones out in the barn. Then, if Colley, Wade, and I don’t think we’ll need you with us after that, you can come in and work on your lessons with her.”
The boy let out a deep, heartfelt sigh. “All right. If I really hafta.”
This time, Peter was helpless against the smile. He turned away so his son wouldn’t see it. “You do.”
As he held the door open for Robby, the boy dragged his feet, making his displeasure more than clear. With as little as Robby cared for the work around the camp—or the ranch, for that matter—and as little attention as he paid to the chores he did do on his best day, today’s attitude held no more promise than usual. Still, Peter knew his responsibility toward his son. It was up to him to prepare the boy for the future.
He chose to ignore Robby’s contrariness. “Come on, son. We have a lot of cleaning out to do.”
“Manure,” the boy said with disdain. “Yuck. Why can’t Bossie do… well, do all that out on the meadow during the day? Why’s she hafta wait until she’s in the barn to do it? We wouldn’t hafta clean up if she did do it out there.”
Peter again chose to ignore the complaint. Instead, when the two of them reached the barn he and Colley had built in a sheltered area at the other side of the clearing, he pointed to the large iron hooks where he kept the tools. “Take the manure fork, Robby.”
“Yuck.” But the boy did as asked.
Peter led the way, the second manure fork in hand, and the two of them started raking the mess out of the cow’s stall. He’d always been a stickler for cleanliness, seeing as he’d seen many a good animal sicken and die when the owner didn’t bother with basic, decent care. And he needed Bossie’s good, rich milk, not only for the sweet butter Colley churned from the cream, but also for the milk Robby needed to grow strong and healthy.
He’d wondered if he should have brought some chickens up the mountain, but the last time he had, he and Colley decided never to try it again. The animals had given them far more trouble than the good eggs and tasty meat they’d provided had been worth. Colley had assured him she’d preserved enough eggs to last through the summer. And she’d put up plenty of chicken last fall.
He’d helped his ranch manager stock the food supply lean-to when they’d first arrived less than two weeks earlier, and he’d seen proof of the fruit of Colley’s kitchen efforts. They did have a good measure of eatings out there.
A quirked-up grin tipped his lips as he dropped the manure fork and picked up the shovel. It would be a fascinating experience to see what Miss Emma Crowell could do with all that bounty. Miss Emma, the woman who’d never done anything.
But who had plenty to say, anytime, and at all times.
When he had the pile of animal droppings mixed with straw at the door of Bossie’s stall, he leaned the shovel against the support post and went for the wheelbarrow. He and Colley had found a good patch of ground that got just the right amount of sun and shade, and they’d been spreading out the rich manure there. At the end of last summer, they’d turned over the earth and manure, and would do the same this year. By next spring, they reckoned they’d have the perfect place to plant themselves a good garden. That’s when, at least for part of the summer, they’d have good, fresh—
“En garde!”
Peter groaned. Robby had grown distracted and was back to his make-believe. And he needed his son’s help—well, needed was perhaps too strong a word. He wanted his son to want to help, he wanted the boy’s enthusiasm, which, it always seemed, was reserved for his flights of fancy. Adele had encouraged them, and after she’d died, Robby had found great comfort in the memories of his mother’s fairy tales. Now, as unlikely as it might be, Peter had found a woman in the woods who was partial to the same kind of silliness.
Who would have thought such a thing possible?
“Hie, ye worthless knave…” the boy hollered, then giggled.
Peter turned. “Robby—oooof!”
When he’d stepped toward his son, he hadn’t noticed where the boy had left his manure fork, and he’d stepped on the tines. That had sent the thick wooden handle flying straight up, and it had smacked him right across his hip and caught his ribs. The tool packed a wallop, but he still considered himself fortunate. The tines could have pierced the sole of his boot and caused a wicked injury to his foot. That would have curtailed his ability to work to such a degree that his hopes of turning that much-needed profit would die a painful death.
“Son! Stop that foolish nonsense straight away, and come right here, right now.” Oh, yes. He sounded stern. And he’d better. Things could have ended far, far worse.
Robby, his expression downfallen and his demeanor crushed, sidled up to Peter. “Yes, Papa?”
“Do you see this fork?”
“Yessir.”
“It’s the one you used, right?”
“Yessir.”
“And what did you do with it when you were done?”
At that point, the boy
looked around Bossie’s stall, the small cavern of barn, up at the rafters, and finally down toward the floor. He frowned.
“I don’t ’member putting it down there…”
“Could it be, son, you were so busy thinking on that Lords and Ladies nonsense that you just didn’t exactly put it anywhere? Just let it drop where you’d been standing?”
Robby’s cheeks turned rosy. “Maybe.”
“And was that a good idea?”
He shrugged, digging a hole in the dirt floor with the toe of his boot. He didn’t speak.
Peter crossed his arms. “I just stepped on it.”
“Oh!” Concern drew a tiny furrow between his brows. “Did it break?”
“Break!” He couldn’t stop himself, no matter how Miss Emma’s voice rang in his mind. “No, it didn’t break, Robby. That fork’s made of solid-forged iron and the handle’s of good, hard oak. It’ll take much more than me stepping on it to break it.”
Robby’s frown deepened. “But then, if it’s not broken, then—then why are you so angry?”
“Because when I stepped on it, it flew up and the end of the handle walloped me in the belly…”
Robby laughed too hard for Peter to continue. His explanation died off a slow death. His scolding flew right into the explanation’s grave.
After all, if Peter took a step back from his irritation with Robby’s fanciful nature, he had to admit the moment had been somewhat humorous. It would have been even funnier for the child if he had witnessed his father’s expression when the handle had smacked his ribs.
Thank goodness Miss Emma hadn’t been in the barn to get a gander at his embarrassment. Something told Peter her hilarity would have been greater, and more pointed, than his son’s. Perhaps more deserved.
He blushed.
“Yes, well…” What more was there to say? Well, he could explain about the tines, but the moment had passed. It was something he would not forget to bring up again at the boy’s bedtime. Safety was crucial around the sheep operation.
He let out a deep sigh. “Go ahead, son. Go back to the cabin. I’ll finish shoveling this muck into the wheelbarrow and take it out. But, and I do mean this, you do need to help Miss Emma, and you must do your lessons, too. I don’t want to come in at noon and find you’ve done nothing but play make-believe.”
