by Lisa Norato
He leaned forward and propped an elbow on the scarred oak table, encouraging the puncher to continue.
“Perk Davis brought her in, and seems he gave that little filly a cruel roweling in the process. We all know Perk ain’t got no patience when it comes to cayuses. Claimed he had no more use for the hoss, and was all ready to shoot her rather than waste another day’s feed. Bassil says she bucks up pretty good under saddle, and she cut a hock when she reared and kicked out a window inside the livery. But he figured you’d know how to fix her up, so he bought her off Perk cheap. He’s thinking you’ll reimburse him the five dollars and take the cayuse off his hands. He knows you don’t take lightly to a hoss being mistreated.”
“Yeah, ah . . . B-B-Bas-sil did right. I’ll go see him.”
“Say, never mind the cayuse,” Holden complained. “I want to hear about our houseguest.” He faced the punchers with a devilish grin. “There’s a new gal going to be staying over at our place for the next three weeks. Name’s Shelby McCoy. She’s Wilson Tinkler’s niece, visiting us from Cheyenne.”
“You don’t say?” Just like that, the horse was forgotten by everyone except Ruckert.
“Come now, you boys know I wouldn’t lie about a thing like that.” Holden backhanded Ruckert a whack on the sleeve to stir him up. “So tell us, is she as pretty as Cookie’s ma wrote us she was?”
Wylie heckled. “Yeah, she’s pretty all right.” He rolled his eyes. “Pretty crazy.”
Holden frowned. “Crazy? Explain what you mean by crazy.”
Wylie’s eyes widened. His nostrils flared, and he nearly rose off his seat with the indignation rolling inside him. “She done hollered at Ruckert right in front of me and Mother and demanded he speak to her!”
The table quieted. Every head turned to Ruckert for his reaction. He met their stares with silence, revealing nothing but a fire in his eyes they had seen countless times before.
The barmaid arrived with a beer. It was warm as usual, but Ruckert downed it in one tall swallow that worked the muscles of his throat until Wylie yanked it from his grasp and finished off the last fourth.
The boy slammed the empty glass down on the tabletop and burped.
Holden scowled at his young brother. “Hey, you know Ma doesn’t approve of you being in here, let alone drinking beer.”
“Ruckert said I could come as long as I helped him.”
“Helped him what?”
“Helped him find out about Miss McCoy.”
“Well, what about her, for gosh sakes?”
Ruckert rose to his feet, and as his chair screeched over the dusty, varnished floorboards, he tossed a coin onto the table with a finality that ended the conversation. Then he made for the exit, followed by his thirteen-year-old shadow.
Holden St. Cloud watched his brothers go. He lifted his hat to rake a hand through his thick, coal-black hair, then set it down again with a sigh. His expression turned apologetic as he faced his companions, and he smiled in a lazy, lopsided way that set the dimple to winking in his left cheek. “I hope my sociable brother didn’t talk your ears off, boys. Would you excuse me, please?”
“Sure, Holden. Say, you don’t mind if we pay a visit to your place sometime, do you?”
“Be my guest. But I wouldn’t wait too long. I may be married to her by the end of the week.”
They shared a good laugh at that, wise to the scarcity of women in this rugged land of their livelihood. None of them were immune to an attractive female or unaware that her arrival now offered a welcome and rare opportunity for romance.
It was on that note Holden left his friends to join his brothers. Outside, Wylie waved him into an alley behind the saloon where Ruckert stood leaning against a rain barrel, lost in some deep rumination, his arms folded across his chest.
Holden strode towards him, and even at six feet, it was necessary to glance up at his older brother. “So, what’s all this business about Miss McCoy? What did you find out?”
Ruckert told of his morning’s adventure, exercising a certain caution in repeating the story even to his own brother. He certainly would not have repeated it in front of the Lucky U punchers, for there had been something strangely personal and unreal about the whole experience. He still couldn’t figure Miss McCoy or her unexpected appearance in the road, and he wanted Holden’s thoughts. “She claims s-s-she drove in her cccc-c-c-car.”
“Car?” Holden looked from Ruckert to Wylie. “What the Sam Hill is a car . . . exactly?”
Wylie explained. “Ruckert thought it was a Jaunting Car, like the sort of buggy folks drive in Ireland. But Miss McCoy said no, it was something called a Rav Four.”
“Oh.” Holden mulled this over and after a moment of quiet reflection remarked, “Hey, didn’t we see one advertised in the Montgomery Ward catalog?”
Wylie shook his head. “She said it wasn’t a carriage at all, but ran on an engine with the power of one-hundred-and-sixty-six horses. She begged us to ride out looking for it, and I kept on asking where she thought she’d left it, and she’d say, ‘Just a little further. I know it has to be around here somewhere.’” He threw up his hands. “Before you know it, we’re in Laramie City.”
Holden’s jaw hung slack for a moment, then a twinkle lit his eye and he commenced to roar with laughter. “Aw, what’s wrong with you two? Cookie’s niece has told you boys one whooper of a windie, and just because she’s a girl, you fell for it like a couple of greeners.”
Ruckert frowned.
Holden continued to laugh. “Well, I don’t care if she plumb dropped out of the sky. I like a woman with a sense of humor.” When his chuckles subsided, he pulled a dime from his pants pocket. Tossing it to Wylie, he said, “Here, kid. Go get yourself a haircut. I need to talk to Ruckert.”
“What about?”
“If’n I wanted you to know, I wouldn’t be telling you to get lost, now would I?”
Wylie appealed to his eldest brother as the final say on the matter. His eyes pleaded not to be excluded, not now, when he had been a major participant in the day’s excitement.
“What is it, Holden?” Ruckert asked.
“All right, have it your way. I have something to ask you Ruckert, and I need for you to tell me the truth. Now, if you tell me you have your heart set on romancing Miss McCoy, I’ll not stand in your way, for you’re the only one of us to have met her. You saw her first. On the other hand, if you’re not interested in her, I reckon she’s fair game for us all.”
At once Ruckert began to feel something he didn’t care to put a name to, but he reckoned jealousy would suit fine enough. He told himself he had no cause to feel this way. He knew his chances. He also knew no woman alive could resist Holden’s good looks and easy charm, but the admission did not come easy. “I d-d-d-d-don’t have my h-h-h-h. . . .” he persisted for what felt like minutes before Holden interrupted.
“I’m thinking maybe you do have your heart set on Miss McCoy,” he finished, although that was not what Ruckert had been trying to say. “For why else would you take such an interest in her comings and goings? I’m also thinking you’ll never get a better opportunity than this. A beautiful woman living right under our roof, so you don’t even have to leave the ranch to go courting. I know you’ve kept your distance from women in the past, but this one’s coming to you. Take a chance, Ruckert. If it happens that one of you is not inclined towards the other, there’s no harm done, because in three weeks she’ll be gone, and you’ll never have to see her again if you don’t want to.”
“You m-m-mean, if she isn’t inclined towards m-me?” Ruckert said.
“Heck no, I didn’t mean . . . well, you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know.” His stuttering was difficult enough to accept, but discussing it aloud meant an admission of failure that tore at Ruckert every time the subject came up. “D-d-do you reckon it’s that easy, Holden? Today when I met M-M-Miss McCoy, I had wanted to tell her, ‘G’morning, ma’am. It sure is a lovely day. Welcome to the Flying Eag
le and if you find you need anything, you just let me know.’ ”
He glanced away, thinking back to the moment and finished, “But I couldn’t work my jaw past the good morning. I felt real bad about it, too, because then Ma suggested I take Miss McCoy for a ride, and I had entertained thoughts of saying, ‘Why, yes, ma’am, I’d be right pleased if you’d come a-ridin’ with me. The larkspur are in bloom up in the Starlight Meadow, and I’d like it mighty well to be the one to show them to you.’ ”
And of course, because these words were not directed at the person to whom they’d been intended, Ruckert had enunciated them with no trouble.
He could never be certain when he opened his mouth whether his speech would come out sounding the way it did in his head. The reality of this struck terror in his heart. He simply could not bear the thought of Shelby McCoy’s lovely face regarding him with revulsion.
Or worse, pity.
And so he said, “I don’t know whether you can savvy this, Holden, but I have a demon hiding inside of me, and I wrestle with him every day. Sometimes I talk just fine, but there’s many a time he takes hold of my tongue. I gasp and choke and strain, and I still can’t get the words out. I don’t reckon that’d be a pleasant sight for a lady like Miss McCoy. So I’m telling you straight, like I told Ma. I’ll have nothing to do with that woman.”
Holden didn’t push his point further. The look in his brother’s eye told him it would be futile. He said only, “Fair enough, then.”
“F-f-fair enough.”
Chapter Five
“Would you look at that sweet face? There’s just something about a redhead that turns a man’s head, and you are the second I’ve met today.”
“Who was the first?” livery owner Bassil Farthing wanted to know.
Holden whooped. “I knew it. You wouldn’t admit to it, Ruckert, but I figured she was handsome.”
“Who?” Bassil asked again.
Ruckert turned from the seven-foot corral fence where he’d been watching Bassil’s sorrel filly. Her light chestnut coat put him in mind of Miss McCoy, or maybe Miss McCoy had been on his mind all along. He explained to the livery owner that the Flying Eagle had welcomed a new houseguest this morning.
“I have never seen a woman with hair such as hers. It’s clipped to about here.” He indicated his jaw. “Reminds me of golden apricots, and it flows just as free and easy as the waters of a creek on a cool spring day. If the wind comes along and blows it about her face . . . well, she just lets it blow. She stands as tall as a man and tramps about in trousers and boots like a tenderfoot at the Annual Stock Convention. Now, Bassil, in all your comings and goings these past couple of days, have you seen a www—” He stalled, tried again, “a w-w-w-woman to fit that description?”
“She mighta’ been wearing dark spectacles, pretending to be blind,” Wylie added.
Bassil started to grin, then seemed to think better of it and rubbed a beefy palm across what, on most men, would amount to a full day’s growth of beard but had taken the livery owner only until early afternoon to grow. He appeared to ponder for a moment, then glanced up at Ruckert with deep gray eyes, close-set and bright with disbelief.
“I know it ssssounds c-c-c-crazy but sh-sh-sh—”
“She’s for real,” Holden finished. Ruckert hated when folks did that, but Holden paid him no mind. He crossed his arms over his chest and told Bassil, “I think Ruckert’s got a Cupid’s cramp on her.”
Bassil’s thick brows shot up. “That true, Hoss Man? You got yourself a woman?”
“Nnn—” His tongue had adhered itself to the roof of his mouth. His listeners stared in silence as he struggled to push out the sound. Ten seconds later, Bassil got bored. His attention drifted to a point somewhere down Fifth Street, and everyone turned to see what the livery owner was looking at.
“Might that be her?” Bassil asked.
Wylie eyes grew wide as he combed his fingers through his shaggy brown hair. “Jiminy.”
“Hot dog!” Holden squared his shoulders and tipped the brim of his hat to the back of his head. He took a good, long look, grinned, then narrowed his eyes and asked, “But what in the thunder is that little black cloud of dust at her feet? Sure does make a heap of noise for something so small.”
“That’s Hawr-hey,” said Wylie.
“Wa’al, Hoss Man,” Bassil said, “I have to agree, she’s fetching, all right, but as far as appearances go, she don’t hardly fit your description none, does she?”
* * *
Shelby halted in her tracks. There he was again, the first class jerk. He stood among a small group of men, all gawking at her—Ruckert, Wylie, some short, burly guy and another handsome young cowboy who bore a resemblance to the jerk.
What did they find so fascinating? There was no reason for her to attract stares now. Shelby felt like she was actually beginning to blend in her new dress. Granted, it was simple—a shirtwaist day dress of butternut brown gingham interwoven with blue and gold threads—but oh, what a relief not to be walking the streets of Laramie City like a pariah. The dress had princess seaming and three-quarter length sleeves edged in white lace. Rose had promised to lengthen the flounce hem, but for the present, Shelby’s brown leather riding boots were visible beneath.
Jorge stopped barking long enough to gaze up at her with dark, intelligent eyes that inquired as to why they were standing idle by the side of the road. He made an attempt to follow after Rose, came short of his leash, then barked back at Shelby, “Grrrr-ruff!”
Rose noticed Shelby’s absence beside her and turned. “What’s wrong, dear?”
Shelby patted the back of her head to make sure everything remained in place. Her hair had been pinned beneath a straw bonnet, all except for a few loose tendrils. Silky, blue ribbon bonnet ties formed a fat bow beneath her chin.
“You look lovely,” Rose assured her.
Rose had made the purchases along with several other items Shelby would need during her stay. Shelby didn’t like relying on a stranger to foot her bills. She felt she had imposed enough already. But what else could she do? With every moment that passed and her predicament remained the same, she grew more and more convinced she wouldn’t be waking up from this bizarro dream anytime soon. In the meantime, she would need clothing and a few essential toiletries.
She promised to repay Rose by fulfilling her duties as ranch cook, and tried to stick to basics on their shopping spree, but when they passed the bolts of cloth, Rose had got a dreamy look in her eyes. The woman’s fingers caressed a roll of pressed-finished dress flannel, and she lamented how she’d always wished she’d had a daughter she could sew dresses for.
Shelby had shaken her head. “Oh, no, Rose, I couldn’t ask you to do that.” She felt like an imposter. She didn’t belong in Rose’s world. She didn’t know the first thing about wearing a bustle. But neither could she bear the disappointment on her hostess’s face. In the end they settled on a pale shade of chambray blue to be trimmed in black silk lace. And Shelby promised herself she’d work extra hard cooking grub for those cowboys.
A small sound drew her attention back to the present, and she realized Jorge had risen on his hind legs to pummel her shin with his front paws.
Shelby peered down at him. Where would they be if Rose had scoffed at her because she seemed odd, the way Shelby had scoffed at Ruckert? Rose had taken her from an unbelievable panic situation to a place where Shelby could almost feel the return of her sanity. Rose had helped out of the goodness of her heart, no questions asked. This afternoon, Rose had won Shelby’s unfailing loyalty.
So, didn’t she owe it to the woman to try and get along with her son? Shelby not only owed it to Rose, she owed it to herself to try and figure out what was going on. Somehow she knew it was the only way she’d ever find her way home.
* * *
Ruckert wore a deep crease between his brows as he watched his mother and Miss McCoy approach. It was one thing to ignore Miss McCoy while she went about duded up like a fellow,
but dressed as a lady . . . well, he couldn’t manage to tear his eyes away.
Of course, he’d been attracted to her from the first. Something about that female oddity drew him in a way he’d never been drawn before, and seeing her in a dress only spurred his interest. A person might never know her hair was clipped, the way she’d tucked it under that straw sunbonnet. A wide brim shaded her pretty face and those foxy, narrow eyes. With her height, she stood out in comparison to other women like a bright sunflower in a field of dandelions.
He excused himself from the group. I want no part of that gal, he reminded himself as he untied the horn string on Chongo’s saddle and removed his rope. Fact was, he couldn’t bear to watch while Miss McCoy met his brother and Holden romanced her with all the sweet words Ruckert himself could not say.
Now was as good a time as any to begin work with Bassil’s sorrel. He swung the corral gate open, and the filly swiveled her ears forward at the sound. She looked a lonely, pitiful sight, a rack of bones, standing not more than thirteen hands, with an auburn star centered on the forehead of an otherwise entirely white face.
When he stepped into the corral, she lifted her head, throwing her weight back on her haunches as if wary to the point of rearing. Eyes rimmed in white, she shivered, then turned tail and trotted off to the other end of the pen.
Ruckert noticed she favored her left forefoot. He wondered about that cut on her hock, but they had some getting-to-know-each-other to do before she’d allow him close enough to examine her wounds.
She seemed to have taken a cruel roweling from a pair of spurs, and considering sorrels were known to have tender hides, Ruckert had a few unkindly thoughts for Perk Davis. Yet beneath the bloody scars and a hide dulled by dirt and grass stains, he saw beauty in this little sorrel. He recognized a trace of thoroughbred descent in the small pointed ears and graceful legs. Mustang ancestry shown in her feathered forelocks and long mane. He envisioned what she could be, groomed and with some added weight. He imagined her reddish amber coat gleaming in the sun, golden-brown eyes lively, wind playing with her long, pinkish forelock.
