Lucy looked down at her dress. “Is there something wrong with what I have on?”
Martha shrugged. “I just thought if you’re going to be working in the kitchen, you might want to hang up your fancy clothes and put on one of your plain dresses.”
Lucy pressed her hand against her stomach to quell the sinking sensation in her midsection. “Actually, this is one of the sturdiest dresses I have.”
Martha’s harrumph left no doubt of her opinion as to the suitability of Lucy’s attire. Leading the way to the kitchen at the north end of the house, she pointed out the pump and the kettle waiting on the stove, then reached up into a cupboard and pulled down several tins. “What kind of tea do you like?”
Lucy brightened. “Do you have any Darjeeling?”
Martha grimaced. “I don’t have any of that fancy stuff, just what I gather from what grows around here and whatever the mercantile has in stock when I make a trip into town.” She plunked the tins down on a square wooden table. “There’s dandelion, sassafras, rose hip, chamomile, and pennyroyal. Take your pick.”
Lucy stared at the assortment.
Martha harrumphed again. “I’m partial to sassafras. Let’s try that this evening.” She strode over to the stove and held one hand above the surface. “Good, there’s still some heat from when I was baking bread earlier.” Reaching into a wooden box beside the stove, she pulled out a chunk of wood, then lifted the stove lid and tossed the firewood inside. “The best way to get to know a kitchen is to pitch right in and locate things yourself. You’ll find cups and the sugar bowl in the cupboards. Spoons are in that drawer over there. The stove will be plenty hot for boiling water by the time you get the fixings ready.”
With that, she turned on her heel and headed back toward the porch.
Left alone in the kitchen, Lucy stared around her, feeling as helpless as a newborn kitten. Fix the tea. It sounded so simple when one uttered the words, but how exactly did one do it? Gertie Claasen’s teasing words about her lack of domestic ability came back to taunt her. Shaking off her dejection, she squared her shoulders and hiked up her chin. She’d drunk hundreds of cups of tea over the years, and she’d never heard anyone describe brewing it as a complex task. Surely she could figure it out.
After filling the kettle at the pump, she set it on the burner and held her hand above the stove’s surface in imitation of Martha, wondering just how hot it had to be to boil water. While she waited, she picked up the tin of sassafras tea and pried off the lid. Inside the tin she saw what looked more like a heap of wood chips than anything resembling tea leaves.
She picked up a pinch and eyed the woody texture doubtfully. How much should she put in? The amount she held between her fingers didn’t look like it would be enough to do more than add a tinge of color to the water, let alone create a bracing brew.
Lucy reached into the tin, scooped up a handful of sassafras, and dropped it into the kettle of water. Gauging from Martha’s reaction to her arrival, both of them would need all the bracing they could get.
While the water heated, she rummaged through the cupboards until she located two teacups and matching saucers. Her throat tightened when she pulled them down and saw the Blue Willow pattern. She traced the blue-and-white design with the tip of her forefinger. Not quite the same as the Spode china she’d grown up with, but close enough to make her heart ache. Lucy blinked back the tears that sprang to her eyes and continued her preparations, opening and closing more cupboard doors until she located a tray and the sugar bowl, plus spoons and napkins.
She was in the middle of arranging the pieces on the tray when she heard a harsh sizzling behind her. Lucy whirled around to see water spurting out of the kettle onto the hot stove like a miniature geyser. She grabbed a dish towel she spotted lying on the counter, wrapped it around her hand, and snatched the kettle off the stove.
Steam rose up and tickled her nose when she poured the deep red liquid into the delicate cups. She set the cups and saucers on the tray and arranged the other items beside them.
Feeling a flush of pride at having already mastered one household task—wouldn’t Gertie be amazed!—she picked up the tray and carried it out to the porch.
Martha had seated herself on one of the two rocking chairs. Lucy set the tray down on the small table between the chairs with a sense of accomplishment. Maybe serving as Martha Simms’s companion was going to work out, after all. Despite what her unwilling hostess seemed to think, Lucy had no desire to be a useless ornament.
She spread one of the napkins over her lap while Martha reached for the cup nearest her and raised it to her lips. Lucy lifted the remaining cup and watched over the rim for Martha’s reaction to her first culinary endeavor.
She didn’t have to wait long. After the first sip, Martha’s eyes widened, then she gulped hastily, as if she’d swallowed a bug. The corners of her mouth drew down, making her look more like she’d been sucking on a lemon than sipping her favorite tea.
Lucy lowered her teacup and stared. “Is anything wrong?”
Martha didn’t answer. Without a word, she flicked the hand holding the cup to one side and sent a shower of tea spattering across the dust beyond the porch.
Baffled by the odd behavior, Lucy raised her own cup to her lips again and took a tentative sip. She felt her mouth twist into an expression that surely resembled the pucker on Martha’s face.
Martha clinked her empty cup on the tray and held it out to Lucy, who added her own cup to it. Then Martha rose and carried the tea tray toward the front door, mumbling. As she nudged the door open and disappeared inside the house, Lucy caught the muttered words, “Land sakes. I never knew a body could burn tea.”
What went wrong? Lucy had time to think back over each step in her tea-making process a dozen times before Martha returned bearing the tray, this time with a matching teapot sitting between two empty cups.
She plunked it down on the table. “Just so you know, the tea makings go in the teapot. About a teaspoon per cup. Nothing goes into the kettle but water.” She drew her eye brows together. “Understand?”
Lucy gulped and nodded.
Martha settled back into her rocking chair. “When the water in the kettle boils, you pour it over the leaves in the pot and give it a few minutes to steep.” She lifted the teapot and poured a stream of pale yellow tea into each cup.
“The color is much lighter this time.” Lucy sniffed the steaming brew. “It doesn’t even smell the same.”
“I wasn’t in the mood for sassafras any longer. This here’s chamomile. It’s good for the nerves.”
Lucy decided it was time to turn the conversation in a new direction. Looking out across the hills, she said, “This is a beautiful setting. How long have you lived here?”
Martha took a long sip of tea, then let out a contented sigh and set her rocker into motion. “Ebenezer and I moved here in ’76. He always wanted to try his hand at ranching, and he turned out to be right good at it.”
A gentle smile lit her face, and she stared off into the distance. “When we first married, he had all sorts of grand plans—promised me he’d show me the world. After he saw how well the ranch did those first few years, he thought he’d be able to make good on his word. The way he figured it, we’d keep on saving up and eventually have enough to see the sights and travel in style. Bless his heart, he didn’t count on the lean years, with rustlers, drought, and tick fever cuttin’ into our profits.”
Martha closed her eyes, and the creases in her forehead deepened. “A few years back, he upgraded our stock and thought we were getting back on track. He was all excited, told me to start thinking about the places I’d like to visit first. Then he up and died.” She pressed her lips into a tight line.
The silence stretched out for several moments before Lucy spoke again. “Andrew said you aren’t operating the ranch yourself anymore?”
Martha opened her eyes and folded her hands in her lap. “Carson Murphy—he owns the Two Bar M just north of here—an
d Ebenezer knew each other for years. Carson bought my cattle and brought in a bunch of new breeding stock, so he needed more graze land. He and I worked out an agreement where he runs his cattle on Diamond S land. The rent, along with his payment for my cattle, allows me to keep living on my own place, and I still get to look out and see cattle on the landscape. It’s been a good arrangement for both of us.”
She took a last sip of chamomile tea, then set her cup back on the tray and pushed herself up out of the rocking chair. “I don’t usually eat much of an evening, but I can round up something for you, if you’re hungry.”
Lucy shook her head and got to her feet. “I don’t want to be a bother. I still have a couple of sandwiches left in my carpetbag. I can eat them while I unpack.”
Martha grunted. “Suit yourself. I’ll bring some water up so you can wash off the trail dust.”
Back inside, they separated in the parlor, with Lucy heading for the stairs and Martha turning toward the kitchen. A framed drawing near the stairs caught Lucy’s attention, and she stopped for a closer look. “Is this a scene from Paris?”
Martha walked over to join her. The lines on her face softened when she gazed at the picture. “That’s the Eiffel Tower. Ebenezer saw it in a magazine about that big fair they had in Paris in 1889. It’s one of the places he planned to take me when we’d saved up enough. After he died, I put it in a frame and hung it there. It makes me feel like I still have a bit of Ebenezer with me every time I look at it.”
Lucy’s heart squeezed, feeling an unexpected kinship with Martha. “Something like that happened with my father. He and I talked about going to the World’s Fair in Chicago this summer.” Her eyes misted. “But then he died, and everything changed.”
Martha nodded, and a tight smile stretched her lips. “Life is full of changes—that’s for sure.” She turned back toward the kitchen, and Lucy continued up the stairs to her room.
By the time Martha came up with a pitcher of steaming water, Lucy had unloaded all her dresses from the trunk and spread them across the bed. Martha set the pitcher on the dresser next to the basin and watched Lucy attempt to shake the wrinkles out of a blue paisley frock. Stepping over to the bed, she eyed the other dresses and gave a tsk.
“One thing for sure, these fine clothes were never meant for ranch life.”
Lucy tilted her chin. “These are the only clothes I own, so they’ll have to do. I’ll make them work. You’ll see.”
Martha clicked her tongue again and started for the door. “I’ll loan you one of my aprons. That’ll help protect them. Even so, they’ll never look the same again.” She looked back over her shoulder as she left the room. “Better use that water before it gets cold. If you need anything else, I’ll be up a while longer. It’s a full moon tonight.”
Lucy nibbled on her sandwiches while she hung her dresses in the wardrobe and stowed her other belongings in the dresser drawers. By the time she finished, the sky had darkened, but Lucy felt too keyed up after the day’s events to think about sleep.
Taking off her traveling outfit, she washed up before slipping into her nightgown and brushing her hair. Then she walked over to the window, raised it a few inches to catch the evening breeze, and stared out across the moonlit landscape. Such a peaceful, idyllic scene! If only she could draw on that peace to soothe her mind.
A passage of Scripture would be perfect for calming her spirit. Lucy pulled her Bible from her carpetbag and climbed into the inviting bed. Settling back against the pillows, she propped her Bible against her knees. A yawn stretched her mouth wide as she thumbed through the well-worn pages. Her fingers stopped on Psalm 121.
“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord. . . .” Before she reached the end of the sentence, the words began to swim before her eyes. Maybe sleep would come more easily than she’d thought. Lucy closed the Bible, laid it on the bedside table, and blew out the lamp. She hadn’t gotten very far in her reading, but she could meditate on the Lord’s ability to help in her current situation while she drifted into slumber.
She pulled the sheet up around her shoulders and stared into the darkness, her thoughts on the way the Lord had brought her to Martha Simms and her nephew. Andrew seemed utterly convinced that his aunt suffered from some form of delusions, yet after studying Martha all evening, Lucy hadn’t seen anything to suggest that. Martha might be grumpy at times, even grouchy. But crazy? No.
Lucy’s eyelids refused to stay open, though her mind continued to mull over the situation. She would keep a close watch on Martha until Andrew’s next visit and see if she could spot any unusual behavior. Wouldn’t he be glad if she was able to tell him his fears were all for naught?
The next instant, her eyes flew open. But what about me? While it would surely be a relief to Andrew to learn his concerns were groundless, the good news for him might spell calamity for her.
If Martha proved to be every bit as sane as the next person, there would be no reason for Lucy to stay on. And in that case . . .
Her apprehension mounted. Would Andrew see that as a reason to ship her back to Dry Gulch?
“‘My help cometh from the Lord,’” she whispered, wishing she felt the full conviction of her words. She half expected her turbulent thoughts to keep her tossing and turning for hours, but despite her fears, the strain of the past few days took its toll, and sleep claimed her.
A loud cry startled her awake. Lucy lay perfectly still, trying to get her bearings. I’m at the Diamond S, she recalled with sudden clarity. As she propped herself up on one elbow and strained to listen, she heard the cry again.
Martha. The sound was muffled, as though coming from a distance. Maybe she was still downstairs. Was she hurt—perhaps ill—and calling for assistance?
Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Lucy pushed her self upright and started to swing her legs over the side of the bed when a loud blast shattered the night.
She let out a shriek and tried to scramble out of bed, but her legs became entwined in the sheets, and she landed on the floor in a heap. Pulling her knees to her chest, she curled into a ball and wrapped her arms around her head. What is going on?
Martha’s voice rang out again. Lucy couldn’t make out the words, but the sharp, angry tone came through clearly enough—definitely not that of someone pleading for aid.
She remembered Martha’s account of standing off rustlers and other marauders. Could it be happening again? Was the ranch under attack?
If that was the case, Martha would need help. Lucy tore free of the sheets and sprang to her feet. Without taking time to put on her wrapper, she charged out the bedroom door in her nightgown and felt her way down the stairs with one hand on the wall and the other gripping the stair rail.
Another blast echoed from below, and Martha hollered again. Lucy flinched but pressed on.
The front door stood open. Through the doorway, she could see the moonlight bathing the landscape in a silvery glow. Martha stood in front of the house, breaking open a shotgun. A tendril of smoke curled up from the breech as she shoved in a new round of shells.
A floorboard creaked under Lucy’s bare feet as she approached the doorway. Martha snapped the shotgun barrel closed, raised the gun to her shoulder, and swung back around toward the house.
Lucy ducked behind the door. “Don’t shoot, Mrs. Simms! It’s me, Lucy!”
“Did you see it, too?”
“See what? What’s happening?”
Martha gestured skyward. “The cow jumping over the moon.”
Lucy sucked in her breath at the reminder of Andrew’s muttered comment, and her throat tightened. “You were shooting at a cow?” She pointed overhead. “Up there?”
Martha grunted. “Nah, over there.” She jabbed the shotgun sideways. “Cows don’t fly. Somebody has been making this happen. I saw a shadow near the corner of the barn and let off a round.”
Lucy scanned the area Martha indicated. She saw no move ment, only streams
of water gushing out from holes in the side of the rain barrel.
Martha followed her gaze and sniffed. “The varmint must have ducked behind it when I swung around. Then I heard someone else up on the roof.”
Lucy padded her way across the packed earth to Martha’s side and peered up at the top of the house. Moonlight glinted on the mangled remains of the brass weather vane she’d noticed on her arrival.
She laid her hand on Martha’s arm and spoke in a soothing tone. “Mrs. Simms, it’s only the weather vane.”
“I’m pretty sure I winged him. He must’ve ducked behind the chimney when he saw me take aim.” Martha shook her head. “They pulled that stunt the last two full moons, with a cow floatin’ up there in the sky. The first couple of times, it took me by surprise, but this time, I was ready for them. They probably didn’t expect that.” She gave a dry chuckle.
“But there’s no one there now. Where could they have gone?”
Martha peered into the shadows. “Guess I scared them off. They probably kept the house between us and them and hightailed it out of here while we were talking.” She lowered the shotgun, looking mildly disappointed. “Might as well go back inside.”
Despite the warmth of the summer night, Lucy shivered as she stood in the parlor and watched Martha drop the heavy bar across the door. The older woman walked to a nearby cabinet, where she pulled more shotgun shells from a box and dropped them into the pocket of her robe.
She glanced over at Lucy. “Just in case. Always best to be prepared.” A yawn stretched her lips wide. “We might as well go back to bed. Now that they’re gone, we should be able to get a good night’s sleep.”
Lucy merely nodded, unable to think of any appropriate response.
A Match Made in Texas Page 19
