Romance Rides the Range

by Reece, Colleen L.

  Spring also had sounds of its own: the peeping of baby chicks, music to a child’s ears. The clang of the triangle outside the cookshack and the stentorian command “Come and git it before I throw it out” that roused grumbling hands from their beds earlier than they had grown accustomed to rise during the slower winter months.

  Whenever young Matt could escape his parents’ watchful eyes, he delighted in sneaking out in his nightshirt to eat breakfast with the cowboys. He later laughed at the childhood glee he had felt at outwitting his parents. He hadn’t found out until he was ten years old that he hadn’t put anything over on them. William and Rebecca Sterling had recognized their son’s need for independence even at that early age. Besides, no harm would come to Matt in either the cookshack or the bunkhouse. The hands adored the plucky little boy who manfully tried to ride everything that moved, including uncooperative cows, squealing pigs, and even a turkey whose tail came off in Matt’s futile grab to keep from sliding off. If a laughing, hip-slapping cowboy hadn’t rescued the youngster, Matt would have been in danger of being seriously pecked by the irate, partially denuded fowl. With Matt’s penchant for mischief, it wasn’t the last time a ranch hand came to his rescue.

  The Sterlings’ carefree life ended with the death of Matt’s mother when he was only fifteen. Yet God had not forgotten the family, which had grown to include Robert and Dolores. In the midst of their sorrow, God sent Solita, whose name meant little sun. The round-faced Mexican housekeeper and cook more than lived up to her name. She not only brought sunlight back into the grieving family’s dark world, but she also became a substitute mother. She spoiled the children rotten, especially “Matelito.” But when Matt took his position as head of the family after his father’s death, he became Senor Mateo to Solita, and she became his confidante and guiding light. Matt loved her dearly and was never too proud to seek and heed her advice.

  The second spring after Seth Anderson came to the Diamond S meant that Matt, Seth, and the rest of the hands spent every waking moment outdoors as the ranch swung into full operation. This particular year, the amount of work was heavier than ever. A deep frown creased foreman Brett Owen’s leathery face when he approached Matt and Seth, who were leaning on the corral fence, watching a frisky colt.

  “This spring is fixin’ to be the driest in years,” Brett predicted. “How about drivin’ the herd up to the high country early this year?”

  “Good idea,” Matt agreed. “The grazing down here is already getting mighty poor.”

  “Yippee-ki-ay. Up to the high country!” Seth leaped into the air, clicked his heels together, then reddened and looked sheepish. “Sorry, Boss. Sometimes I forget I’m not still a kid.”

  Brett shook his finger at Seth. “You ain’t so all-fired old,” he admonished. “And you’ll live to be a lot older if you don’t tangle with rustlers or all the other confounded trouble a feller meets while herdin’ ornery cows.” He turned on his heel and stomped off, but a loud haw haw floated back to the corral.

  “He’s right,” Matt said quietly. “A man mean enough to steal another man’s stock is either a coward or crazy. Either can be dangerous in the right circumstances.” He lightly punched Seth’s shoulder. “Let’s go tell Solita we’re going on a roundup.” He grinned, knowing it was all Seth could do to restrain himself from yippee-ki-yaying again. For the hundredth—no, the thousandth—time, Matt thanked God for sending the young man so like Robbie to fill the empty spot in his life. Seth was totally absorbed in what he considered the best profession on earth: ranching. He was also loyal and true, a boy after Matt’s own heart.

  Seth had only one fault: the desire to draw Matt into the social doings of Madera. Although Matt enjoyed socializing with the townsfolk, he drew the line at getting involved with the fairer sex. He steadfastly declined Seth’s invitations to any entertainment that would force him into their presence and compromise his stance.

  “Why?” Seth wanted to know.

  One day, Matt, in a fit of exasperation, blurted out, “When I was about your age, I met a girl I thought was an angel straight from heaven. She wasn’t.”

  “Oh?” Seth cocked an eyebrow, obviously waiting for Matt to continue.

  He didn’t. Instead he walked off, feeling Seth’s gaze bore into his back. But those few words opened a floodgate of memories that began five years earlier, memories Matt had thought were banished forever. . . .

  Lydia Hensley was the daughter of the supervisor for the California Lumber Company from Chicago, sent out west to prepare for laying out the new town of Madera and the sale of the lots. Lydia was lonely, so far from home, so Matt received permission from her father to escort her to social engagements in Fresno—twenty-two miles south.

  Lydia hit the San Joaquin Valley like a tornado. She created havoc among the young men and heartburn among the girls. Matt fell head over heels for the young miss the first time he saw her—a vision in a soft pink gown, white skin shaded by a ruffled pink parasol. She was the prettiest and brightest girl Matt had ever met. Time after time he wondered why he had been so fortunate to be chosen as her escort from the dozens of swains who flocked to her doorstep. Lydia’s green eyes flashed with mischief or softened into languishing glances, depending on her mood. Not a single ash-blond hair ever seemed to be out of place.

  The smitten Matt escorted Lydia to parties and dances all spring and summer. He sat by her in church. He took her on picnics, little realizing he’d been chosen to be the favored one not only for his good looks but because he owned the Diamond S and was considered a catch.

  Lydia led Matt on, driving him to distraction. He lost interest in the ranch, left its running in Brett Owens’s capable hands, and spent most of the season calling on Miss Lydia. He dreamed of making her queen of the Diamond S.

  Love’s young dream ended six months later when the surveying ended. Hensley and his daughter packed up to head back to civilization. Lydia’s parting with Matt was a disaster. He managed to extricate her from the young people who had gathered for a farewell party and led her to a secluded alcove.

  Heart beating double-time, Matt went straight to the point. “I can’t let you go, Lydia. Will you marry me?” He held out a diamond ring the size and brilliance of which was unknown in the valley.

  Lydia stared at the beautiful ring as if unwilling to let such a treasure slip through her white fingers. She stroked his lean face with a well-manicured hand and looked deep into his eyes, the sign of affection she often employed. An incredulous smile crossed her face. “Matthew Sterling, you don’t really expect me to stay out here? I belong in Chicago where it is civilized. I do appreciate your asking me though.” She glanced down then back up with the appealing look that brought suitors to their knees and subject to her will. “If you want me to take the ring to remember my Westerner, I’ll be happy to do so.”

  Disillusionment swept through Matt like the San Joaquin River in flood. “Your Westerner, Lydia? Have you only been amusing yourself to pass the time?”

  She had the grace to redden but tossed her head. “It was fun while it lasted. You’ll have to admit that.” She gave him the smile that had formerly bewitched him and now left him as cold and hard as the diamond in the ring he had so carefully selected. “About the ring—”

  Scales fell from Matt’s love-blinded eyes. He saw Lydia for what she was: a selfish, greedy girl out for all she could get. Brokenhearted he raised his head in a gesture that would have impressed anyone with the sensitivities of a turnip. Then he slipped the ring into his pocket and said, “You will have no keepsake to remember me by, Lydia.” He marched out, head still high, like a one-man army with flags waving. And he vowed the San Joaquin River would run dry before he ever again trusted any girl or woman except Solita.

  Matt had faithfully kept that vow until the wrinkled and much-handled picture of Sarah Anderson, taken just before her brother left home, kindled a spark of interest and admiration. Such an honest and steady gaze in the young girl’s face. The delicate way her ha
nds were clasped. Her eyes radiating love for her Seth and her mother. And all that beautiful hair, long and rippling to her waist.

  The second picture threatened to undo the weeks, months, and years Matt had spent locking up his heart and throwing away the key. It didn’t help when Seth asked Matt to take the picture as a favor.

  “Maybe you could look at it occasionally and say a prayer for her and my mother. I worry about her constantly.”

  “I will, but I don’t need the picture,” Matt protested. Yet when Seth insisted, Matt’s hands turned sweaty, and his heart beat unnaturally fast. He slipped the picture into the pocket inside his vest “as a favor to Seth,” he reminded himself, and was never without it.

  The image of Sarah’s honest face rode sidesaddle with Matt across the California range even when he wasn’t looking at it. In spite of his unwillingness to admit the rusty hinges of his heart were creaking open, the image of Sarah’s sweet face was like oil to a long-unused lock. Over and over, Matt wondered how any man could treat an innocent girl the way Gus Stoddard treated Sarah. He found himself wishing he could intervene, “for Seth’s sake, of course,” he reminded himself.

  Just before spring roundup, the town of Madera planned a money-raising event. Seth Anderson was wild to go. Matt was sitting in the kitchen watching Solita toss tortillas when Seth raced in. “What time are we leaving?”

  Matt gave him a puzzled look. “Leaving for where?”

  “To Madera. This Saturday. There’s gonna be a baseball game and stuff for the little kids and a box social. I’ve never been to one. Gus didn’t cotton to such, so even though he took us to church, we didn’t get in on the fun. I’ve been saving my money to bring Sarah out West, but Solita can pack me a lunch. It will be fun to watch you bid on a young lady’s box.”

  “Me!” Matt’s stool tipped and threatened to spill him on the floor. “A box social is the last place I intend to go.”

  “You gotta go, Boss. It’s to raise money to repair the church roof.”

  Matt stood. “I’ll make a contribution.”

  Seth looked so disappointed that Matt relented. “Tell you what. I’ll go to the game, and I’ll give you some money to bid.”

  “It won’t be half as much fun without you.”

  Seth’s disappointed response convinced Matt. “Well, if it means that much to you, I suppose I could go and watch. But don’t expect me to bid, no matter how fancified the boxes are or how much they smell of fried chicken and chocolate cake.”

  “Is that what they put in them?” Seth licked his lips. He staggered out holding his stomach, leaving Matt wondering why he’d agreed to appear at the social.

  Solita told him, “It is good that you are going, Senor Mateo. There are many nice senoritas in Madera who will be glad.”

  “I am not going to make senoritas glad,” Matt mumbled. “Did you cook this up with Seth?”

  Solita placed her hands on her apron-covered hips. “Would I do such a thing?” she demanded, but Matt noticed she didn’t deny his charge.

  For the rest of the week, Matt felt like a trapped bobcat. On Saturday he reluctantly donned his best plaid shirt, tied on a red neckerchief, and crammed his Stetson down to his ears, feeling like he was headed to a hanging. By the time he and Seth reached Madera, the boy had lost some of his high spirits. With a pang of regret for being surly, Matt suggested they volunteer for the ball team.

  Seth immediately perked up and showed a surprising amount of skill.

  The dreaded box social finally began. Matt had never seen such an array of ribbons, ruffles, and flowers as adorned the boxes, but he kicked himself for coming.

  Evan Moore, Madera’s portly postmaster, made a fine auctioneer. “Who’ll start the bidding?” he called, holding up a box and sniffing it. “Smells like fresh-baked apple pie.”

  “Two bits.”

  “Two bits?” Evan looked outraged. “Twenty-five measly cents for this lovely basket? What kind of miser bids two bits?”

  The crowd roared.

  The bidder quickly raised his hand. “Sorry, I meant to offer six bits.”

  “Not good enough. This is worth at least a couple of good ol’ American dollars. Dig deep, folks. None of us want to be dripped on next winter ’cause the church roof leaks.”

  One by one, the baskets sold. Seth bid twice but dropped out when others “dug deep.” Only a worn shoe box tied with string remained. Evan held it up. “Almost through folks. What am I bid?”

  Stone-cold, dead silence greeted his plea.

  Evan cast an imploring glance toward Matt. Despite his resolve to have no part in the social, Matt’s heart ached for the owner of the unattractive box. He opened his mouth.

  Seth beat him to it. “I bid a half eagle.” He fished a five-dollar gold piece out of his pocket and held it up. “It better be enough. It’s all I’ve got.”

  The crowd gasped. Only one or two of the fancy boxes had sold for that much.

  “Sold!” Evan shouted. “What lucky lady gets to eat supper with Seth Anderson?”

  “Me. Bertha Bascomb.” A wispy, white-haired old lady hobbled forward.

  Seth led Bertha to a nearby table. When he opened the box, a sour smell rushed out.

  Matt’s heart sank. Not only were the bread and cheese ancient, but Bertha was proudly lifting out the sorriest excuse for cake Matt had ever seen. If it hadn’t been so pathetic, it would have been hilarious. Matt quickly said, “Mrs. Bascomb, I missed out on a box. Is there enough for three?”

  “If you ain’t too big an eater,” she grudged. “I don’t want to skimp on this young man.”

  Seth remained gallant. “My boss and I had a big dinner so there should be enough.”

  The two men somehow choked down the terrible meal, amid grinning townsfolk and cowboys. Looks of respect showed that Seth Anderson’s kindly bid had endeared him to Madera.

  ❧

  Matt’s stomach had barely recovered from the box social when a few days later a young lad galloped up to the Diamond S corral where Matt and Seth were leaning against the fence. He reined in his horse and leaped from the saddle.

  Matt blinked in surprise. “What are you doing here, Johnny? And how come you’re in such an all-fired hurry?”

  Johnny rubbed a grimy hand over his freckled, sweaty face. “Telegram. Mr. Moore said I was s’posed to get it here pronto.”

  Matt’s heart lurched. A lump as solid as Bertha Bascomb’s sour bread and heavy cake formed in the pit of his stomach. He hated telegrams, especially since Dori had gone back east. Had something happened to her? Matt shook his head. It was far more likely that his impetuous sister had been expelled from the eastern academy she attended. Matt had received previous warnings about Dori’s conduct. Her shortcomings had only been tolerated by the grace of God and several generous contributions to the prestigious Brookside Finishing School for Young Ladies in Boston.

  Matt reached for the telegram.

  Johnny shook his head. “It ain’t for you, Matt,” he said. “It’s for Seth.” He tossed a soiled envelope to the younger man. “From St. Louis.”

  Seth’s face went paper white.

  Alarm shot through Matt as Seth ripped open the message. “Is it about Sarah?” he demanded. “Bad news?”

  Seth looked stricken. “The worst.”

  “Well?” Matt’s question cracked like a bullwhip.

  “Read it for yourself.” Seth thrust the telegram at Matt, eyes filled with pain and hopelessness.

  Matt snatched the message and read:

  Sarah Disappeared Stop May Come to Madera Stop Hold for FiancÉ Tice Edwards and Me Stop Gus Stoddard

  The words slashed at Matt’s heart like a hunting knife, cutting and tearing until he could barely breathe. Sarah engaged to be married? “Who is this Tice Edwards fellow?” he demanded.

  Seth looked defeated. “A real rat. Everyone in St. Louis knows him. He owns a riverboat where folks go to gamble.”

  Matt caught his breath. Such a monstrous thing co
uldn’t be true. Not when he had fallen in love with her picture. How could such a sweet and innocent-looking girl be promised to a riverboat gambler?

  Ten

  The news that Tice planned to wed her the following day sent Sarah into a panic. She must disappear. Tonight. But how? At least Gus and Tice hadn’t waited until evening to spring the bad news. By midnight the children would be asleep, and the two men she hated and feared most would probably be having an early celebration: Tice, knowing tomorrow he would have her in his control, and Gus, ecstatic at having his six-thousand-dollar debt forgiven and at receiving unlimited gambling privileges.

  Sarah checked the time. It wasn’t quite six. No wonder Gus had been grumpy. After his nights of gambling and carousing, he tended to sleep much later. “Lord,” she whispered while beating the biscuit dough until it threatened to fight back, “I have eighteen hours. If I fly around and finish my chores quicker than usual, I should be able to make it.”

  A single glance around the shack sent hope plummeting to her toes. The place had never looked worse. How could she accomplish everything from washing the streaked windows to scrubbing the worn floor? She also needed to bake and wash clothes. Gus would rage if, on what he considered a special day, things weren’t spick-and-span. Sarah set her jaw in a manner that boded no good. If she did all that needed doing, she wouldn’t have a smidgen of time for herself. She would not bake bread. She would not wash clothes. They could wait until tomorrow—and by then she’d be gone. Fleeting pity for the burden soon to fall on Ellie’s eight-year-old shoulders stirred Sarah, but she shrugged it off. Let Tice hire someone to help. Or as Gus had said, he could always get a woman to replace his long-suffering wife.

  Sarah patted out her biscuits with well-floured hands, planning as she worked. If I can catch Timmy alone and offer him a cookie he might help me, she decided. There’s no use asking the boys or Ellie for help, even if they were around. They’d make a worse mess just to be ornery. Her fingers itched to get started sweeping and cleaning instead of cooking mush and setting out butter and jam. Thank goodness they were out of bacon and eggs. Gus would roar, but when she’d asked for money to replenish the larder, he’d refused to give her any.