The Brides of Evergreen Box Set

by Heather Blanton

  “Lads, now, our boss there has the look of a man who . . . ” Reynolds trailed off, tilted his head, and chuckled. “Well, like his mail-order bride wants a return ticket.”

  The cowboys didn’t crack smiles, didn’t laugh. They avoided Jim’s gaze, and didn’t look at Reynolds. Instead, they seemed to find their cards intensely fascinating and set about organizing their hands.

  Jim ground his teeth, but knew responding to Reynolds was what the man wanted. Instead, he addressed the others. “Sorry for busting in like a twister, boys.” His apology released the tension. The men nodded and muttered their understanding and the game resumed. Only Reynolds didn’t take his eyes off Jim. “You have something else to say, Reynolds?”

  The man shrugged a shoulder. “I was just wondering what the state of affairs is. If the young lady might be entertaining other notions.”

  A surprising wave of anger washed over Jim like a shot of white lightning. His hands curled into fists. Reynolds was digging into him like a cat’s claw. But he couldn’t let the man know it. No matter what, he couldn’t jeopardize this whole investigation over some silly emotions. “She is not. I hope I’m clear on that.”

  Again, the lazy shrug. “As much as a man can be.” Reynolds picked up a shot glass, offered it in a mock toast, then tossed the drink back.

  He had all but said it. May the best man win.

  “What are some of your favorite dishes to cook, Miss Swank?” Miss Stella rose and began clearing the breakfast dishes. Ellie immediately jumped in to help. There weren’t many. Mr. Hoyt had not joined them. Not that she had assumed he would.

  “Dishes? Well, I’m not really much of a cook.”

  Miss Stella’s hand slowed as she dragged a coffee cup toward her. “Surely you must cook something. How do you expect to feed a husband?”

  I don’t. Or he can cook. “Um, I guess I hadn’t given it much thought. I can muddle my way through the kitchen.”

  The older woman gathered the cups to her and shook her head. “Miss Swank, I will save you a lot of heartache and grief. While you’re here, I will give you cooking lessons. Cowboys work hard, sunup to sundown, in blazing heat and bitter blizzards. They come dragging in at night half dead. The least a wife can do is a have a meal on the table. Something edible.”

  Ellie felt properly chastised. “Yes, of course, you’re right. It’s just that I don’t have much to offer in the way of culinary talents so I haven’t pursued it to any level of appreciable skill.”

  “Well, we’ll start with bread. While the dough is rising, we’ll go through my recipe book and pick out a couple of meals for you to learn. Clegg is fond of my country-fried steak.”

  Ellie pasted on a fragile smile and nodded. “That sounds like a wonderful idea.” Just wonderful.

  By lunch, Ellie knew she had tested Miss Stella’s patience to the limit, and honestly felt bad about it. The kitchen had never been a place she’d felt comfortable, and today, she had been all thumbs. Between dropping three eggs on the floor, knocking a bowl off the counter and shattering it, and setting her apron on fire, Ellie had taken ineptitude to new heights.

  She could not concentrate in a kitchen. The place chafed her. Apron strings strangled her. Ellie wanted to be out and about, talking to people, asking questions, writing stories. But as of yet, she hadn’t figured a way to back off from the lady rancher’s stubborn goal of making Miss Swank a fit wife.

  Ellie poured a pitcher of water over the smoking portion of her apron in the sink and sighed. “I’m sorry, Miss Stella. I’m sure by now you think Mr. Hoyt has made a terrible mistake.”

  The older lady chuckled and joined her at the sink. “I will be honest and say that most women certainly are not as dangerous as you in the kitchen.” She rested a hand on Ellie’s shoulder. “You are not a lost cause, however. I know you’re a little nervous. I would be, too.”

  Ellie wrung the water from the corner of the apron and tied it around her waist again. “I didn’t think I would be.” But every time that kiss crossed her mind—oh, who was she kidding? She hadn’t stopped thinking about it. A mess in the kitchen under normal circumstances, now she was a distinct disaster.

  “I can’t imagine marrying a stranger. I think it was wise of you to make this trip.” Miss Stella tossed aside a cloth hiding a panful of dough and picked it up. “Scout things out. Get the lay of the land.” She winked at Ellie. “And the man.”

  Ellie wanted to curse the blush she knew was coloring her face. “You haven’t known him long. You seem to like him, though.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.” Miss Stella’s eyes misted over, frosted with memories. “My late husband Wyatt was a good man. The best I’ve ever known. He had a gift for hiring good men and the ranch did well under him. He could tell a scallywag from a scoundrel, and a good man from a better man at a thousand paces. I learned a lot from him in that regard.”

  She bent over, pulled open the oven and slid the pan of dough inside. “Mr. Hoyt hides a bit about who he is.” She grabbed the second pan, tossing the napkin aside. “I think that’s because he’s humble and likes his privacy. He doesn’t seem to want to let people get too close.” She slid loaf number two into the oven as well. “One thing puzzles me.” She stood up and now her eyes, though pale blue with age, flashed with sharp curiosity. “His previous employer warned me that Mr. Hoyt can have a bit of a temper and doesn’t mind throwing a punch.” Her brow creased. “I just don’t see that. Not at all. He seems as still as a hot August day. He hasn’t lost his temper with the men once. ’Course, he’s only been here a few weeks, but the boys talk. They really like him.”

  Ellie folded her arms and considered Mr. Hoyt. He was something of a mystery.

  Miss Stella tapped her on the cheek. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. He’s a good, strong, hardworking man. I don’t believe he’d ever hit a lady, and I do believe he will always keep a roof over your head. My thought is you won’t be making a mistake by telling him yes.”

  The charade caused Ellie another spark of guilt. She didn’t like all this lying. Desperate to change the subject, she reminded herself she was a reporter. Think, woman, think. A question mercifully dropped into her head. “How did the ranch get its name?” Thank You, God.

  Miss Stella laughed, the sound musical and light like a babbling creek. “Oh, my, there is a story. I haven’t thought of it in a while.” She plucked the coffee pot off the stove and walked it over to the pump in the kitchen sink. “My husband Wyatt found this place in ‘67. He brought me out a year later. Not long after that, he heard there was a whiskey salesman over in Cheyenne and had the brilliant idea to buy some liquor wholesale from the man. You know, to keep around the ranch for special occasions or for trading.”

  A smile playing on her lips, she filled the pot with water and commenced to making coffee. “Well, he found the gentleman and purchased two big barrels off him. Now, we were still having problems with Indians back then and Wyatt was on his way home with his purchase when a group of renegades ran up on him over near what was called Gooch Creek. Named after a trapper.

  “These Indians thought they’d make quick work of Wyatt and take off with his liquor. Well, Wyatt fought down to his very last bullet. He thought he was a goner for sure when he realized the whiskey barrels were riddled with holes and the liquor was pouring out on the ground and down into the water.

  “He lit a match and tossed it on the wet ground. The flame traveled down the hill and set the water on fire, there was so much liquor in the little creek.” The laughter returned to her voice. “The Indians saw that, figured there was no point fightin’ anymore and they rode off, leaving Wyatt with his scalp but not a drop of whiskey.” She plucked their cups from the sink and poured them each a splash of coffee as she finished the tale. “The story got out, of course, and Wyatt felt compelled to change the name of the ranch from the Ponderosa to Whiskey Creek.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I never did much care for that moniker. Too plain. Anyway, eventually it
followed that everyone took up the name, and it stuck.”

  Ellie laughed and it felt good to have an honest emotion. “That’s a wonderful story. I’ll write it down so no one forgets it.”

  Miss Stella’s eyes lit up. “That’s a wonderful idea. Preserve the legacy of the ranch. There are so many stories here.” She glanced around the kitchen, but Ellie suspected the woman was seeing into the past. “Funny, heart-breaking, and everything in between.”

  “I’d love to write them down. I love history.”

  Miss Stella pushed off the counter and grabbed Ellie’s arm. “I’ll go get my photo albums. I have several. I could tell you stories about every single photo in them.”

  That’s certainly better than sewing. “I’d love that.”

  Walking on air, Miss Stella almost skipped from the room. “I’ll be back in a bit,” she called over her shoulder. “I have to find them.”

  “I’ll stay here . . .” With the bread. Ellie sighed. In the kitchen.

  Already bored, she turned to the sink and gazed out the window. Barely noon, the high midday sun washed the barnyard in stark, contrasting colors. Chickens wandered about, clucking and scratching. A slow-moving beagle meandered across the drive and made his way into the shadows inside the barn. A moment later, Dave Reynolds and his horse trotted out. Ellie straightened and watched intently as he kicked the gray mare up to a lope and headed away from the house. She strained to keep him in view until he rode behind a grassy, flat-topped hill.

  Questions raced through her mind and started her heart galloping. Where is he going? Will he be gone long? Do I have enough time?

  She turned her head so she could see the building opposite of where Reynolds had ridden. The bunkhouse, a long, low log cabin with a row of six windows and an open porch, beckoned to her.

  Should she dare it?

  She glanced at the oven then up at the ceiling. How long before Miss Stella returned?

  Surely Ellie had time for a quick peek at things in the bunkhouse. At Dave Reynolds’ belongings.

  She’d been meaning to hand the letters over to Mr. Hoyt. Yes, the perfect reason for being in the bunkhouse.

  Stepping softly, she hurried upstairs to her room, but stopped outside the door to listen. Down the hall, she heard thumps and bumps and Miss Stella muttering under her breath about a trunk. The woman was involved looking for the photo album. Good.

  Sure she had time to do this, Ellie slipped into her room, grabbed the letters from her valise, and rushed from the house.

  7

  Ellie took a hesitant step inside the bunkhouse. Chewing her bottom lip, she surveyed the long, narrow building. A row of single, iron-framed beds lined both walls. In the very back, a simple kitchen filled one corner. Beside it, a door with a sign hanging on it that read Boss, led, she supposed, to a private room.

  “Hello?” Her voice cracked on the word.

  She waited, but only silence greeted her. Slowly, she took another step, dropping her heel on the bare floor as softly as possible. Little by little, she moved forward, studying the sleeping space. Each narrow bed had a shelf above it. Some were decorated with personal objects, photographs of loved ones, a crucifix, even a garter. Saddle bags, horse blankets, some tack, were draped over a few of the footboards.

  Nothing that screamed Irish, Boston, or thug . . . until the eighth bed on the right. A box poked out slightly from beneath it. Burned on the side was a familiar drawing. A wagon wheel. Ellie crouched and pulled the box out a bit more. She recognized the Koeting Wheelwright logogram. The largest, oldest wheelwright in Boston. One of their parts boxes under Reynolds’ cot was no coincidence.

  She lifted the lid and peeked inside the box. A broken pocket watch glinted up at her. Getting braver, she pushed it aside and saw a leather wallet. Did she dare?

  Nellie would, a voice goaded.

  Jim stomped up the back steps of the house and snatched his hat off his head before pulling the screen door open. “Miss Stella?”

  “Just a moment.” Her voice floated down to him from the second floor. “I’m coming.”

  An instant later her hand appeared on the rail and Jim strode down the hall to meet her at the bottom of the staircase. “I wanted to let you know we’ve got a whole section of wire run down the edge of the north ridge. We should be able to move half the herd over there tomorrow.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Hoyt. That’s good to hear.” She motioned with the scrapbook she had folded into the crook of her arm. “Your bride and I found some common ground. She likes to write and I like to talk. I’m going to tell her some of the stories about the ranch.” She grinned and tagged him lightly in the ribs. “I hope she writes better than she cooks.”

  “Not much of a chef, is she?”

  “She can learn. Anyone can learn.” The woman shook her head. “But I can’t make her like it. Her attention wanders off something awful. Seems to me she’d rather be doing something else than flipping pancakes. Not that I blame her. Men have all the fun.”

  “And I’d say most of the hard work,” Jim said with a wink.

  Miss Stella’s brow dove together in a deep, disapproving v. “Clegg Hoyt, don’t you ever say that again. I herded cattle and fixed fences with my husband my first year out here. A woman can do most things a man can do and we most definitely can work just as hard.”

  Jim raised his hand, patting the air to stop her rant. “You know I’m only funning you, Miss Stella. And if Miss Swank can’t cook, then maybe we both ought to consider her as a ranch hand. Maybe she can rope and ride.”

  Miss Stella’s mouth fell open, then she smacked him in the ribs again, harder this time. “You’re teasing me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He twirled his hat thoughtfully for a moment, aware he should confess something to his employer. “Miss Stella, Miss Swank came out here not necessarily to accept my proposal, but to see if we would even be agreeable together. After our buggy ride last evening, I may have helped her make up her mind. You may not want to invest too much time in her. I kissed her and all she wanted to do was run. All the way back to Boston, I think.”

  The woman hugged the book to her bosom and looked at Jim with one eyebrow raised. The expression plainly said he was some sort of idiot. “That girl is over the moon for you. This is all so new and different. Give her some time. Treat her like a skittish colt.” The woman’s eyes suddenly rounded. “A colt that can’t cook.”

  The acrid smell of something burning assaulted Jim’s nose. He followed Miss Stella into the smoky kitchen but stood back as the woman flung open the oven, snatched pot holders off the counter, and pulled out two black, smoking loaves. “Glory be,” she muttered, tossing the pot holder down. She and Jim both surveyed the smoky kitchen. “Where could she be?” Miss Stella asked, dropping her hands on her hips.

  Wondering if maybe they just couldn’t see Miss Swank for the smoke filling the room, he reached over and flung open the window—and caught sight of the bunkhouse door, wide open, moving with the breeze.

  Ellie glanced around the empty, silent bunkhouse. She was sure the pounding of her heart was audible. Exhaling softly, Ellie lifted the wallet from the box. Flat and rectangular, a simple strap held it closed.

  Hands shaking, Ellie slid the strap out from its loop, and carefully opened the wallet. Several cards and one Double Eagle nearly fell out. She juggled them frantically and managed to keep them together. The contents under control, she skimmed through the cards. Lizzie Beth . . . dip your wick. Margaret Kate . . . gentlemen callers welcome—

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. Prostitutes.

  Every card. At least ten of them. She huffed, disapproving, disappointed. Mr. Reynolds did not set his sights very high. Moving on, she examined the twenty-dollar coin. Polished. Shiny. It glimmered like the proverbial new penny, as if it had come straight from the mint. That was odd, but she didn’t know what it meant. If it meant anything at all.

  “See here!” A hand snaked out, snatching the wallet and coin away from her. The
cards rained on to the floor. Ellie jumped back with a squeak, but Mr. Reynolds clutched her arm with his free hand. “You’re a thief, then—?”

  “No! I’m sorry. I wasn’t stealing anything.”

  He snatched her arm around. “Then, what, lass, what? Did ye think ye’d be rolling ol' Sh—er—Dave Reynolds.”

  In her panic, she’d still heard the slip. Sean? Sean O’Dea. “I’m sorry. You misunderstand. I wasn’t stealing, I swear.”

  He squeezed her wrist, a sneer twisting his lip. “I’ll not have a sweet, little angel stealing me hard-earned cash, girl.” He moved nose-to-nose with her. “You want it, ye’ll earn it.”

  Suddenly, Mr. Reynolds’ eyes widened broadly as he was jerked back hard. Mr. Hoyt, snarling like an outraged bear, had the man by the collar. He released him only to grab the front of his shirt and spin him round. “What do you think you’re doing, Reynolds? That’s no way to treat a lady.” Reynolds swatted at Mr. Hoyt’s hand, but he didn’t loosen his grip even a hair. “Answer me.”

  “Ask your ruddy bride there, sir. She was going through me wallet.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” Ellie shot back. “I wasn’t.”

  “I don’t care if she was stealing your lifesavings.” Mr. Hoyt shook Reynolds. “Touch her like that again and you’ll have to crawl off this ranch.” The two men glared at each other, but after a moment Reynolds’ countenance sagged in angry defeat. Mr. Hoyt let him go.

  “I saw the box . . . under your bed,” Ellie tried to offer a halting explanation. “I thought I recognized it.” So why did she have his wallet in her hand? “I had your wallet . . . because I spilled it. I mean, I saw the pocket watch and . . . ” Nervous sweat formed on her upper lip; her armpits grew clammy. She licked dry lips. “The cards and money fell out of your wallet when I picked up the pocket watch.” She ricocheted a pleading gaze between the two men. “This is nothing but a misunderstanding. I shouldn’t have been in your things, but this isn’t what it looks like.”