Mary Rose turned her attention to the business before her. “I’m afraid I don’t have a hat with any kind of a brim.” She touched her bare head shyly. “None of any use for keeping sun off my neck.”
Old Joe scratched his own head. “Can’t say as I have any women’s hats—couldn’t you borrow one from your grandma?”
“She’s so busy, I hate to bother her.”
“Well, I’ll find you something. Won’t be fancy, now,” he warned her, leading her to the stable, a place so tidy that Mary Rose could tell he cared a great deal indeed for the animals it housed. Though most of the stalls were vacant that morning, they all contained bright, fresh straw, ready for use.
Old Joe rummaged around in a storeroom and turned up a squashed brown hat. “You’ll want to get you something nicer.” He held it out. “But this’s all I can scare up.”
“It’s fine.” Mary Rose brushed at the brim a few times in an ineffectual attempt to remove a layer of dust.
“Most of our horses is off at roundup, along with everybody else,” Old Joe told her. “But there’s one old girl who stays close these days. Like me.” He led Mary Rose out to a small corral with one horse in it, a dapple gray. Her coat looked soft and clean, like a well-loved blanket. Old Joe pursed his lips and gave a shaky whistle. It was not needed, for the mare walked over as soon as she saw him. “Here you are,” Old Joe crooned. “Come here and meet our new friend.”
The horse reached her head over the fence rail and pushed her nose against Old Joe’s shoulder. He stroked her cheek. “This here is Patience. Come say good morning.”
Mary Rose hesitated, thinking that, for an old horse, this one still possessed a great number of large teeth. She had never been allowed to get close to the horses her father kept to pull their buggy.
Old Joe said, “Come on, now! She’ll think you don’t want to meet her after all, and you’ll hurt her feelings.”
Mary Rose summoned her courage and stepped right up to the fence. “Good morning, Patience.”
“That’s the way! Now here, you feed her this.” Old Joe held out a chunk of raw carrot. “Put it on your palm and hold your hand flat. Horses can’t tell a finger from a carrot nub until they chomp on it—least, that’s what they want me to think. So you hold your hand flat, now.”
Mary Rose held out the carrot on a hand so flat her fingers ached a bit from holding them straight. Before she could think twice, she thrust it toward those fearsome teeth.
Soft lips moved delicately over Mary Rose’s palm. The carrot disappeared with an alarming crunch, and Mary Rose believed she had performed a rather daring feat.
“Now rub her nose a little, she likes that,” Old Joe instructed. “Back behind her ears, too—she gets to itching where that halter sits. Scratch her a little under it, and she’ll be your friend for good.”
Mary Rose obediently rubbed the horse’s whiskery nose and on up around ears that surprised her with their agility, twitching every which way even while she rubbed behind them and under the top of the makeshift rope halter. She looked into Patience’s eye and tried to sense if the horse was pleased or not. But being unacquainted with horses, Mary Rose decided she would have to take Old Joe’s word that Patience enjoyed getting scratched around her ears.
Old Joe taught Mary Rose how to brush a horse’s coat and make sure its hooves were clean. Then he showed her how to toss a blanket over the horse’s back and heave the saddle on top. He explained the importance of never standing directly behind a horse. He gave her a lecture on why you should check to be sure your saddle is cinched tight before mounting even if you’d tightened it yourself a few minutes earlier. And he showed her how to get a horse to accept the bridle’s bit between its teeth before slipping the rest of the bridle on up over the horse’s head. Mary Rose listened attentively to his every word, anxious to absorb as much knowledge as she could.
Finally, he backed Patience out of the stall and led her to the mounting block outside the stable. Mary Rose trailed along after, making sure to walk behind Old Joe and not the horse. He held the horse’s reins while Mary Rose checked the girth strap and cinched it a notch tighter. Then she climbed onto the mounting block, a big tree stump still rooted in the ground. She put her left boot in the stirrup and swung her other leg over the horse’s back, and there she was, astride a horse! Her skirts bunched up in front and behind and exposed more ankle and bloomer than could be considered proper, but Mary Rose did not care. She was learning to ride a horse.
Old Joe gave her the reins. “We need to raise them stirrups a mite.” He fiddled with straps on both sides of the saddle until Mary Rose’s boots rested correctly inside them. Then he took the reins back and led horse and rider to the little corral and all the way around inside it twice so Mary Rose could get used to the horse’s motion.
“Ready to try it yourself?” he asked, looking up at her with those lively eyes far younger than the rest of him.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Good enough.” He passed her the reins and stepped back against the fence. “Give her a little kick with your heels and tell her to get up, now.”
Mary Rose tapped Patience with her heels and said, “Get up!”
Patience swished her tail but did not move any other way.
Mary Rose tried again with a firmer tap.
Patience turned her head and nipped at a fly.
Old Joe said, “You got to mean it. The horse has to know you can boss it around. Don’t ask it like a favor, tell her it’s time to get going.”
Mary Rose kicked the horse’s sides with both heels. “Get up, now!” she said the way she would have spoken to one of her little brothers.
Patience walked forward. Slowly, it’s true, but Mary Rose was not yet ready for anything but the slowest of walks anyway.
As she rounded the corral, quite proud of herself, Mary Rose saw the ranch house door open. Was her grandmother coming to watch? She hoped so—she wanted to show Jubilee that she was learning and enjoying herself.
But no, it was Mr. Linden who stepped out onto the porch. He put a cigar between his teeth and lit it, then strolled down the steps and on over to the corral. Mary Rose and Patience turned their backs on him before he arrived, since they were following the corral fence in an endless loop, but when they faced the house again, there he stood, one foot up on the lowest fence rail and his arms resting on the top one as if he belonged there. “Look at you,” he remarked when she passed. “Quite the little cowgirl.”
Mary Rose’s cheeks flushed with annoyance, not embarrassment. The words may have been complimentary, but his tone was the patronizing one he’d used in the stagecoach the previous day. She did not reply. With her free hand, she tugged her skirt lower over her bloomers.
After she’d made several rounds following the fence, Old Joe tried teaching her how to turn. “Cross your reins over the way you want her to turn,” he explained.
From the fence, Mr. Linden added, “Always remember, a horse is ten times bigger and ten times dumber than you are. Point their nose the direction you want to go, and the rest of them will follow.”
Old Joe said, “Hah!”
Mr. Linden shrugged. “Of course, I haven’t been around horses as long as you have, but that’s my experience.”
“Uh-huh.” Old Joe nodded, his hat brim flapping up and down. “Calling me old and senile don’t change the fact that you is plumb wrong, buster.”
“About which part?”
“All of it. A horse has sense not to run toward danger, don’t it? Which is more than I can say for a lot of folks walking around on two legs.”
“A horse’s idea of danger can be nothing more than a nightshirt on a clothesline.”
“And a man’s idea of courage is doing things that a sensible critter would shy away from.” Old Joe stomped around the fence until he stood next to Mr. Linden.
Mary Rose wondered if she should continue riding or wait for them to finish arguing. Since she wasn’t sure how to stop
, she let Patience drift back to the fence and resume walking around and around next to it.
Old Joe pointed his soft, bewhiskered face up at Mr. Linden’s clean-shaven and angular one. “I heard you was supposed to be straightening up Miz Jubilee’s bookkeeping. I don’t see no books out here.”
“All right, all right.” Mr. Linden raised his hands. “You win. Horses are the most intelligent animals on God’s green earth. I’ll be on my way.” He tipped his hat to Mary Rose and sauntered back to the house. He did not go inside, however. Instead, he continued watching the lesson, smoking the rest of his cigar while leaning against one of the porch supports.
Old Joe muttered a few choice words under his breath. When he saw that Mary Rose had gone back to riding in long, slow circles, he said, “Now, try turning her again so’s you’re going the other way.”
Next, Mary Rose learned how to stop her horse. Then Old Joe taught her how to kick Patience up from a walk to a trot, though Patience’s trot was not much faster than her walk. Still, Mary Rose got some good practice at not falling off despite getting bounced up and down like a colicky baby. Old Joe promised that he would have her galloping by the end of the week. Mary Rose assumed he meant on a different horse, since docile Patience was surely not the sort of horse who galloped anymore.
At the end of her lesson, Old Joe opened the gate and let Mary Rose ride to the mounting block without his leading her. Mr. Linden beat them there. He took the reins from Mary Rose and gave them to Old Joe, then grasped her hand until she had dismounted from both horse and tree stump. “Nicely done.” He squeezed her fingers just a little. “I can see you’re a quick learner.”
“Thank you.” Mary Rose decided to forgive Mr. Linden for annoying her with his condescension and unsolicited advice. Her heart was too full of joy over her successful riding lesson to leave room for such petty sentiments. So charitable was her mood that she even took his arm when he offered it and allowed him to escort her back to the house.
Chapter Five
The following day, Mary Rose awoke early, anticipating another run in the cool morning air. But when she slid out from under her bedcovers, she discovered that her muscles had other ideas. Two hours on horseback, for someone unaccustomed to the activity, resulted in some peculiar sensations.
Mary Rose tried not to hobble on the way to breakfast. All through the meal she tried to figure out what she would do that day. She’d counted on another riding lesson, but that clearly would have to wait. Finally she decided to see if she could find a book to read. That is, if no one else had anything planned for her.
When Jubilee and Mr. Linden paused in a discussion of cattle prices, Mary Rose asked, “Grandmother, is there anything you need me to do today?” She thought that was more respectful than announcing she would like to spend the day in comparative idleness.
“Why, no, my dear. Not especially. You are free to occupy yourself however you please until next week. Then I’ll expect you to help get the house ready for the dance.” Jubilee set down her coffee cup. “I saw you down at the corral yesterday. Did you enjoy riding Patience?”
Mary Rose was pleased to hear that her grandmother had noticed. No one had mentioned her riding lesson the previous evening, and she had lacked the temerity to bring it up herself. “I did, yes, thank you! I’ve wanted to learn to ride for a long time, but I guess there wasn’t much opportunity at home.” Or much need, not in the city, but she didn’t want to explain that. “I was wondering if you might tell me how to make one of my skirts into a riding skirt?”
“Haven’t you any? Whatever were you riding in yesterday?” Jubilee asked.
“Just an old skirt.”
“I’ll have one made for you as soon as possible, my dear. Until then, you may borrow one of mine. My green skirt should suit you, with a belt.”
“Thank you!”
Jubilee turned her attention back to Mr. Linden. But Mary Rose added, “And may I read the books in that glass case in the sitting room? I saw the door was locked, and I thought perhaps they were reserved for you.”
“Goodness, no, they’re not reserved for anybody. The key is right on top of the case. I don’t know why I even lock it anymore. I used to keep medicines in there when your—” Jubilee hesitated, then continued, “your father was small. Read whatever you like from it.” She asked Mr. Linden, “Are you ready to resume our assault on my tangled records?”
“I am at your disposal.” Mr. Linden tossed back the remainder of his coffee and stood. He and Jubilee left the room already deep in another of their financial conversations.
As soon as she’d finished her last bite of toast, Mary Rose headed straight to the sitting room and its glass-fronted bookcase that stood taller than her head. A moment’s searching along the top with her fingers was enough to locate the key, and then she had the doors open and a glorious world of books in front of her. Six shelves of books—more than she had ever seen in one place outside the Peoria Public Library.
It was almost too much. Mary Rose didn’t know where to begin. So many possibilities—how could she ever choose which to read first? She scanned the titles, waiting for one to catch her eye.
On the fifth shelf, she found what she hadn’t known she was looking for. There stood six books by Jane Austen, each novel comprised of two or more volumes. They looked well used but neglected. The dusty green binding of Pride and Prejudice called to Mary Rose, and she pulled the first volume from the shelf. She had read Austen’s Emma and found it entertaining, but her mother had pronounced it “a silly book about nonsensical people.” The way she had frowned when Mary Rose asked to read Pride and Prejudice convinced the girl it was useless to ask again. Not that her mother disliked the reading of novels. She simply required them to be instructive as well as interesting. Especially if Mary Rose was the one reading them.
But here was the very book she had wanted, and with her grandmother’s full permission to read it. Mary Rose closed and locked the bookcase and carried her prize to a chair near a window that opened onto the back porch. She curled up in the chair and spent a happy hour getting acquainted with the Bennet family and their new friends. She was delighted to find that Elizabeth Bennet was a considerably more sensible creature than Emma Woodhouse—Mary Rose thought her mother might almost enjoy this book if she could be persuaded to try it.
She was interrupted when the sitting room door opened. Mary Rose looked up, expecting either her grandmother or Mrs. Mills, the housekeeper and cook.
Instead, in walked Mr. Linden. “Here you are. What are you reading?”
Mary Rose resented this intrusion. She’d ensconced herself in the doings of Meryton and its environs, and now she had to leave them to make polite conversation with a man whose company she did not want. So she held up the book to allow him to see the cover. Which was a mistake, for he came close and took the book from her to read the title. “Ahh, Miss Austen. Very good.”
“You’ve read it?” Mary Rose reached for her book.
“I have.” Mr. Linden allowed her to take it back. “Do you mind if I join you?”
Mary Rose did mind. She wanted to resume reading her book. But she knew she ought to be polite. “I suppose not.”
“Excellent.” Mr. Linden drew up a chair with a bit of a flourish and sat down right in front of her. “I had no idea you were interested in books.”
“I might have said the same.” Mary Rose closed the book on one finger to keep her place.
“Is that so?” He raised an eyebrow.
“You seem more interested in the stock exchange and other money things, that’s all.”
“Believe me, Miss Mary, my interests are wide and varied—more so than you can imagine.” Mr. Linden leaned forward. “I’m happy to see yours are too.”
“Thank you.” Mary Rose grimaced at his persistent refusal to call her by her full name.
“I must admit I’m surprised to find such good books here.”
“What? That is, why does that surprise you?”
“Oh, you know.” He settled back in his chair and clasped his hands in front of him.
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, I suppose it’s just that Jubilee’s such great friends with Hauer—I suppose I didn’t expect a woman who takes up with a half-breed would read something like this.”
Mary Rose felt as though her breakfast might disagree with her. “Are you suggesting there’s some kind of... of impropriety in their friendship?”
“Not at all! I suppose a woman of her age could still be a little naïve.”
“About what?”
“Why, about half-breeds.”
Mary Rose frowned, her eyebrows drawing together. “I don’t believe I understand you.”
“Then may I be frank?”
“Please.”
“Miss Mary, you’re new to these parts. To you, Wyoming Territory is like a dime novel come to life. But let me assure you of this: You can only trust an Indian to do one thing.”
“And what is that?”
“Whatever you don’t want him to do.”
Mary Rose wanted to stand up and leave, but Mr. Linden had pulled his chair so close that she would have to brush against him if she uncurled from her seat. Instead, she averred, “In this case, I’m sure you’re mistaken. Mr. Hauer is a gentleman. And anyway, he’s half-Indian.”
“Half is as bad as whole, and maybe worse.”
“I’m sure you’re wrong.” Nothing Hauer had ever said or done had given Mary Rose any reason to distrust him. And yet... she did not know him well. But her grandmother must, after all these years.
Mary Rose looked at Mr. Linden and saw that he was gazing straight at her and smiling in a curiously satisfied way. Somehow, that bolstered her confidence in her grandmother and Hauer. It was a cruel, calculating look, though an instant later Mr. Linden replaced it with an expression of total affability.
“If you don’t mind,” Mary Rose said, trying to make her voice firm like her mother’s, “I’d like to read another few chapters before lunch.” She held her book up in front of her so she could no longer see him.
Cloaked (Once Upon a Western Book 1) Page 4
