Who on earth. . . ?
Dori felt hot blood flood her face. She blinked and looked at the stranger again. Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a cry. No one on earth could be stranger than the person standing in her yard. The scarecrow-like man was clothed in someone’s cockeyed idea of western apparel: A purple-and-white-striped satin shirt. Kelly green pants. Fringed chaps. Spanking new high-heeled boots—and the widest Stetson ever seen in California. Twin pistols in a low-slung holster belt completed Stancel Worthington III’s outfit. A mail-order cowboy, if Dori had ever seen one.
After a moment’s hesitation, Stancel approached the fence and the staring cowboys, who were obviously struck dumb by the apparition. “I say. Where might I find Dolores Sterling?”
Curly, always the trio’s spokesman, was evidently the first to recover his wits. “Miss Sterling may be out riding.”
Dori suspected Curly bit his tongue to keep from adding, “Not that it’s any of your business” and blessed him for his evasion. Curly knew perfectly well where she was—he’d waved to her just a few minutes earlier.
The answer obviously didn’t faze “dear Stancel.”
“I am Stancel Worthington III, of England and Boston,” he announced in a haughty voice that made Dori long for one of her cowboys to flatten him. “I’m taking advantage of the summer break at the Brookside Finishing School for Young Ladies in Boston. I have come to tame Dolores, marry her, and take her back to civilization.”
He produced a handkerchief and delicately held it to his nose. “My good man, please be so kind as to show me to my accommodations—as far away from this dreadful odor as possible.”
Eighteen
The colt Seth had been breaking gave a final snort of independence, ended his fight against the inevitable, and stood quivering in the corral.
“Good boy.” Seth patted the horse’s neck, slapped him on the rump, and sent him flying. An explosion of mirth whipped Seth around. Curly, Bud, and Slim were draped over the fence howling and holding their sides. A stranger stood outside the fence glowering at the trio. Seth’s jaw dropped in disbelief. The colors of the man’s clothing far outshone even the outfits the guitar-strumming vaqueros wore on fiesta days.
Seth gave a low whistle.
Bud recovered enough to gasp, “The things a feller sees when he don’t have a gun.”
Seth joined in the laughter that followed. “Who’s the tinhorn?” he inquired, his gaze never leaving the man outside the fence.
Curly sprang down from his perch, wiped tears of mirth from his eyes, and donned his most innocent expression. “Show some respect, Brother Anderson. This here gent says he’s come all the way from England and Boston to marry up with Miss Dori. ’Course he has to tame her first, like she was a colt. Then he aims to take her back to civ’li-za-shun.”
“His moniker’s Stan-sell Worthington,” Bud helpfully put in.
“The Third,” Slim solemnly added. “Don’t fergit the Third. Hey, Seth, d’yu s’pose the First and Second will be moseyin’ along soon?”
The devilry in the cowboys’ eyes and their outrageous drawls were contagious. Ever ready for fun, Seth decided to join in the byplay. He knew all about the arrogant Mr. Stancel Worthington III, who had caused Dori to get expelled from the fancy Boston school. Seth’s blood boiled just thinking about it, even though it had brought her home where she belonged.
“If Dori’s going to marry this long-nosed Englishman, I’m a ring-tailed raccoon,” he muttered. A lightning glance toward the hacienda showed Dori watching through the open window of her upstairs room. Seth’s heart leaped. What an opportunity to get even with Worthington on her behalf.
Seth grabbed the top fence rail, vaulted over it, and landed with a resounding thud. He wiped sweaty fingers on his vest and shook his hair down over his forehead. He stretched his mouth into a wide grin and crossed his eyes. Reaching Worthington in one long stride, he grabbed the visitor’s hand.
“Welcome to this yere Diamond S,” Seth said in a nasal twang that set the cowboys off into another paroxysm. He yanked Stancel’s flaccid hand up and down as if priming a stubborn pump. “You done got yere just in time. I shore need help breakin’ this colt. These lazy, no-count hands”—he sent a warning glance at the three compadres—“ain’t worth a plugged nickel when it comes to breakin’ horses.” Seth tightened his grip. “Say, Mr. Third, how about you givin’ it a go? I done got most of the ginger out of the ornery beast.”
Stancel jerked his hand free. “My name is Mr. Worthington.” Icicles dripped from his words.
“Sorry.” Seth dug the toe of his boot in the dust as if abashed, then looked up and confided, “You gotta make ’lowances fer Slim. He’s done been tossed off broncs and lit on his noggin so much he ain’t alwuz quite right. Shall I round up the colt fer you?”
The ridiculously garbed man’s pale gaze impaled him like a tomahawk in the hands of an expert. If looks could kill, Seth Anderson would be dead and buried on the spot. “I didn’t travel thousands of miles into this godforsaken country to break horses or converse with a bunch of ruffians. I insist that you take me to my accommodations.” His voice was muffled by the handkerchief he still held to his nose.
He spun on one high-heeled boot, tripped on an uneven spot in the ground, and sprawled full length just outside the dusty corral. Obviously stunned, he lay there blinking—until Dori Sterling exploded through the ranch house door. Her clear voice rang in the air.
“Just what are you doing on the Diamond S, Mr. Worthington?”
Seth’s lips twitched. He started forward to help the man up, but Stancel rudely shoved Seth’s extended hand aside in an obvious attempt to gather the remnants of his dignity. “You know why I came,” he told Dori in a condescending voice. It stilled the laughter and brought Bud and Slim off the fence to align themselves next to Seth and Curly. “A Worthington always gets what he wants.” Stancel cast a disparaging glance at the four cowboys, then back at Dori. “You should thank whatever gods there may be that I’ve come to save you from marrying one of these louts.”
Dori’s magnificent eyes shot blue sparks. “I’d marry any of my cowboys before I’d marry you,” she blazed. “Where are those English manners you boast of having? Not one of these gentlemen would arrive on a girl’s doorstep and tell a group of complete strangers he has come to marry her.” She paused and took a deep breath.
“Yippee-ki-ay,” Curly chortled, but Dori wasn’t through.
“Western hospitality demands that we allow you to stay for a time, but I’m warning you: Watch your step. I don’t know anything about how girls and young women in England are treated, but out here, folks hold them in high regard. Westerners get riled up real easy by anyone who persists in making a nuisance of himself.” She flounced away, then sent a conspiratorial look back at Seth. “Show our visitor to the bunkhouse, will you, Seth? He can eat at the house, but I’m hoping the boys will teach him some things he needs to know.”
“Yes, Miss Sterling.” Seth picked up Worthington’s valises and smothered a grin. As soon as he could get Curly, Bud, and Slim to one side, he’d put a bug in their ears and ask them to enlist the rest of the hands in a campaign guaranteed to send Stancel Worthington III packing. Aided and abetted by Dori, who had wordlessly made it clear she was throwing Stancel to the wolves, the boys would topple Stancel from his high horse in short order.
❧
Dori had always laughed when Solita reminded her that Dolores meant “sorrows” or “sorrowful.” But the day Stancel Worthington III arrived on the Diamond S was the beginning of misery. The insufferable man dogged her steps, either blind to Dori’s contempt or convinced he could show her how far superior he was to any westerner. He seemed bent on impressing the “laughing hyenas” who jeered at him from the corral fence and in the bunkhouse. Ignoring advice about riding alone, the day following his arrival, Stancel took off by himself. An hour later, he dashed into the yard and up to the porch where the womenfolk were sitting with Matt and Seth.
&n
bsp; “Rustlers. Out there.” Stancel waved back over his shoulder.
“How do you know they were rustlers and not our hands?” Dori demanded.
“My dear woman, uncouth as they are, surely your employees wouldn’t shoot at me.” Stancel triumphantly exhibited a hole in his oversize hat.
Galvanized into action, a dozen men, including Matt and Seth, galloped off in pursuit of the cattle thieves, leaving Dori to stew over being left behind when she itched to be part of the chase. “It isn’t fair,” she blurted out. “I can ride and rope and shoot, and I own half the cattle.”
Stancel looked horrified. “No lady hunts outlaws.”
Dori rounded on him. “Will you get it through your thick head that I am not a lady? I never have been and never will be. Why don’t you go back to Boston and marry Gretchen van Dyke?”
Stancel gave her what was as close to a leer as Dori could ever imagine him showing. “I. . .ah. . .Miss van Dyke does not possess one of the qualities I admire in you.”
His remark stunned Dori, but she said in an imitation of Gretchen’s simper, “And which quality, pray tell, is that?”
Stancel checked both ways, as if to make sure he wouldn’t be overheard. His long face reddened. “A bit of fire. A man wants more than a pretty face.”
Dori fled—and stayed in her room until she heard the pound of hooves in the yard hours later. She rushed downstairs and outside, ignoring Stancel, who rose from a chair on the porch. Fear in her heart, she counted the riders. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Terror gripped her throat until she could barely breathe. “Where are the others?” she finally asked Matt. “Curly and Bud and”—her voice broke—“and Seth?”
Matt leaped down from his horse and caught her when she swayed. “They’ll be along soon. Right now they’re busy taking a couple of two-bit rustlers to Sheriff Meade and the Madera jail.” He snorted. “The rustlers didn’t put up much of a fight.” Matt’s forehead puckered. “I thought one might be Red Fallon. No such luck. In spite of rumors, it appears he’s long gone from the valley. Good riddance.” Matt went up the steps and plumped Dori into a chair.
“Thank God our hands are safe,” Dori whispered.
Just then an unwelcome voice grated on her nerves. “I say, I’m a bit of a hero, right-o?” Stancel beamed at the assembled crowd.
“You? A hero?” The men’s faces reflected Dori’s incredulous exclamation.
Stancel puffed up until he looked like an overstuffed owl. “It’s jolly well true. If I hadn’t risked life and limb and been shot at, you wouldn’t have known about the blighters, much less been able to catch them.”
It was the last straw. For the second time that day, Dori fled, only this time it was amid shouts of glee that rang to the heavens at Stancel’s taking credit for the arrest. Sick of the houseguest who showed every sign of staying until, as Matt put it, “The last dog is hung,” Dori hatched a devious plan. A discussion at supper solidified it. As usual, Stancel took center stage. After Matt asked the blessing, Stancel said, “A family custom?” He helped himself generously to roast beef so tender it cut like butter and mounded mashed potatoes on his plate.
Dori opened her mouth to reply, but Matt beat her to it.
“In this house we give thanks to God for what He provides.”
“How quaint. Commendable, of course, if one believes there is a God.” Stancel stroked his chin with a bony finger. “I personally find it hard to swallow.”
Matt laid down his fork and said, “God not only exists, He created and rules the world and all that is in it. He loved us so much that He sent His Son, Jesus Christ, to die on the cross so all who believe on Him might have eternal life. You appear to be a learned man, Mr. Worthington. Surely you have read John 3:16 in the Bible.”
Stancel gave a dismissive wave. “Oh yes. Something Jesus Christ supposedly said. If Jesus really lived, He appears to have been a pretty good chap. Perhaps even a great teacher, but the Son of God? Surely you don’t believe that.”
Matt’s voice rang. “I do. We all do. You are sadly mistaken. Jesus was not just a good man or a great teacher. He was either insane to claim divinity, the greatest liar who ever lived, or who He said He was—the Son of God. The subject is closed. There will be no more such talk in this house.”
Stancel blinked and subsided, but Dori inwardly raged. Stancel had shown his true colors and removed any second thoughts she had about carrying out her brilliant plan.
Nineteen
When Stancel spouted off about God at the supper table, Seth longed to shake the Englishman until he rattled. A quick look at Dori showed that for once they agreed. It also showed she was up to no good. Mutiny darkened her eyes and warned she’d hatched a plan designed to penetrate even Worthington’s thick hide. Seth silently cheered. Stancel the Third needed straightening out.
Dori’s voice yanked Seth from his musings. “I have something in mind that may interest you, Mr. Worthington. Do stay for a while after supper.”
Seth noticed she avoided looking at the others around the table. No wonder. The sudden change from her frigid treatment of their self-invited guest to warm and friendly had caught even Seth off guard. Dori’s barely concealed excitement verified his suspicions. He’d bet his bottom dollar it had to do with the upcoming cattle drive. Seth inwardly groaned. Stancel’s purple and white satin shirt and fancy green pants were enough to stampede the herd.
When supper was over and everyone gathered in front of the sitting room fireplace, Dori fired her opening gun. Seth noted she directed her remarks to their guest.
“In a few days, we’re going to drive a great many of our cattle to the high country,” she said. Anticipation sparkled in her eyes. “Can you imagine the joy of sleeping out under the stars, breathing mountain air, and eating food prepared in a chuck wagon, Mr. Worthington?”
Seth grinned. Dori had scrupulously omitted mention of dust, ornery cows, possible storms, rattlesnakes, and the like. He stifled a laugh when she tossed out what was undoubtedly the clincher.
“Sarah and Katie and I are all going, but if you think it’s too much for you, we’ll understand. You’re welcome to remain at the ranch.”
The animation in Stancel’s face told Seth all the wild horses in California wouldn’t keep Worthington from the high-country trip.
He confirmed this by saying with more spirit than Seth had seen him show, except after he’d been shot at by rustlers, “How ripping. When do we go?”
The conversation turned to planning but Seth scarcely heard it. For better or for worse, Stancel Worthington III would be on the cattle drive. And if Dori carried out whatever outrageous plan she obviously had in mind, it would be for the worse.
❧
That night, Dori lay in bed, looking out her window at the stars. Her conscience jabbed. How fair was it to expose a greenhorn to the hardships of the trail?
“With so many real men along, nothing much can go wrong, God,” she whispered. “The trip might even change Stancel’s life. He made it plain at supper that he doesn’t know You or Your Son. How can he not respond to the wonders of Your creation: the elk and pronghorn antelope, the rushing streams and pine-scented air? If they don’t convince him there is Someone behind it all, Stancel will surely be affected by the deep faith Matt, Sarah, Seth, and even Katie display in everyday life.”
She squirmed and sighed. “I have to admit, Lord, it won’t be from watching me. I’m not much of a witness for You.”
“You could be.”
But Dori was too involved thinking of what tomorrow might bring to heed the quietly spoken message to her heart.
❧
In spite of Stancel buzzing around Dori like a persistent mosquito, plus annoying the outfit with ridiculous suggestions, the cattle drive went well. Perfect weather prevailed, with mornings as crisp as Cookie’s bacon and stentorian call, “Come an’ git it before I throw it out.” Sunny afternoons and glorious star-studded nights followed.
“I’m more alive than I ever was in B
oston,” Dori told Seth the afternoon they reached the high country and turned the cattle loose. “I haven’t forgiven Miss Brookings, but I’m so glad to be home that her accusations don’t bother me as much.” Dori’s laughter trilled. “Still, revenge is sweet. If only Genevieve could see ‘dear Stancel’ now.” She pointed to the disheveled man, unkempt from life on the trail. “She would clasp her hands in horror and pray for her nephew to be delivered from the savage West. . .and from me.”
“He sure is a sorry sight,” Seth observed.
Dori smirked. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
Suspicion flickered in Seth’s eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Wait and see.”
That night around the campfire Matt announced, “We’ll head back to the Diamond S tomorrow.”
In spite of Stancel’s presence, Dori didn’t want the trip to end. “Matt, can we go home by way of the logging camp? I haven’t been there since I was a little girl, but I remember how lumber from the sawmill boomed down that sixty-mile flume to Madera.” She added, “It’s sure to interest Sarah and Katie and Mr. Worthington. Seth, too, if he hasn’t been there.”
“I’ve seen it,” Seth agreed. “It’s a sight to behold.”
“Wouldn’t you like to see it, Stancel?” Dori held her breath waiting for his answer.
Obviously saddlesore and weary of the woods, Stancel hesitated, then said, “Perhaps I should, since this is my only chance. Once we’re married and living in Boston we won’t return to California.”
Any chance of Dori abandoning her latest and most diabolical plan vanished. She felt hot and cold by turns but finally broke the stunned silence. “It is your only chance to see the flume, Mr. Worthington.”
A murmur rippled through the circle around the fire, but Matt quickly said, “I doubt the hands want to visit a lumber camp. They’ll want to get back to the ranch.”
A chorus of approval confirmed Matt’s statement, but Curly looked at Katie and drawled, “I don’t mind stayin’. Without the bawlin’ critters, we can make good time on the way home. Say, Boss, why don’t you send Cookie and the chuck wagon back? I’m a pretty fair camp cook. Besides, Mr. Worthington can help me.”
Romance Rides the River Page 11
