Letter to a Lonesome Cowboy

by Jackie Merritt

  On the phone this afternoon Reed had said it again, but this time had added, “I’ve done a lot of thinking about the matter, Rand. My belief is that our perpetrator is someone who is living right under your nose.”

  “One of my men?” Instantly everyone on the ranch flashed through Rand’s mind. Besides himself, there were a half-dozen men who’d been on the ranch from the very first incident. Plus Handy and George, of course, but Rand would trust either of them with his life. The rest of the crew were too new to come under suspicion. “I’ve considered that possibility before, Reed, but I could never bring myself to believe that any of the hands who’ve stayed throughout this mess could be causing it.”

  “It could be someone else,” Reed agreed. “Just keep your eyes and ears open.”

  Rand thanked the deputy and promised to call if anything else happened. Weary of mulling the whole miserable mess over and over again, he went in search of something to read. The first floor of the building contained a modern kitchen and laundry, a large dining room, an office, three bathrooms and four bedrooms. The upper level was all single-size bedrooms and full-size bathrooms, except for one larger room where the men could play cards, watch television or just sit around and talk or read in their off time. He’d read all the books and magazines in his bedroom, so he climbed the stairs to the second floor and walked into the great room, where he thumbed through the variety of magazines lying around.

  Ignoring the girlie mags, he took one with a western theme. He noticed from the cover it was a brand-new issue. Downstairs in his room, he undressed to his briefs and undershirt, then crawled into bed. He adjusted the lamp for reading, stacked his pillows and opened the magazine.

  He read an interesting article about the history of branding irons, then yawned and desultorily flipped through the remaining pages of the magazine. At the very back of the publication were three pages of ads. He scanned quickly until he found the one he was looking for—his own.

  Although he’d heard of mail-order brides before, he’d had no idea the custom was still alive and apparently thriving until two weeks ago, when he’d first seen these ads. Imagine all those lonely cowboys advertising for wives!

  But what kind of man would settle for a loveless union just because he was lonely? he’d thought at first.

  Rand had frowned. What kind of man wouldn’t prefer a loveless marriage over living alone? In fact, the men who had placed these ads could be very much like himself. Two years ago, a good year before he’d come to the Whitehorn area to look for work, he’d been in love, engaged and deliriously happy. His job then had been on a ranch, too, a ranch that lay sixty miles from the nearest town. Sherry, his fiancée, had known from their first meeting that ranching was his career, but she hadn’t said one word about it until three days before their wedding date. Then she’d hit him with a bomb.

  “Rand, darling, I’ve found the cutest house to rent, and Larry Miller is looking for a man to oversee his feedlot. I’ve already talked to him, and he’s very anxious to interview you.”

  Rand stared at his beloved as though struck from behind. “Sherry, we’re going to live on the ranch. The owner has even given me permission to move into one of the little houses reserved for married men. Honey, I’ve taken you out there. I thought you liked the ranch.”

  “Well, I don’t, and I’m not going to live sixty miles from my friends and family. What on earth would I do way out there all day, every day? Be realistic, Rand.”

  Yeah, Rand thought wryly, be realistic. If he hadn’t been before that evening, he sure as hell had been afterward. When he hadn’t caved in and agreed to move to town and take that job in Miller’s Feedlot, Sherry had angrily called off their wedding. About three months later he’d heard through the grapevine that she had gotten married. So much for love.

  Truth was, he didn’t want to fall in love ever again.

  But neither did he want to live out his life all alone.

  The more he thought about it, the better those ads sounded. In fact, they seemed downright sensible. Any woman answering these ads would have the same attitude toward love and marriage as the men who had written them. She would be a down-to-earth person, a woman with commonsense values and enough brains to know that companionship was far more important than romance.

  It had taken Rand about ten minutes to decide. The first thing he thought of was what he had to offer a potential wife. Number one, he was a hard worker and would always have a steady job, if not on the Kincaid Ranch, then on another. Secondly, he was young, only thirty-two, and pretty darned good-looking, if he had to say so himself. He was tall and lean, with thick, almost black hair and deep blue eyes. He couldn’t call himself a ladies’ man, but women didn’t daunt him. He’d never had any trouble in talking to them, or in getting a date back in the days when he’d wanted a girlfriend.

  He was honest and only cussed once in a while, unlike some of the ranch hands who couldn’t complete an entire sentence without substituting obscenities for every adjective, adverb and a lot of the nouns. He didn’t smoke or drink—well, maybe a beer now and then—and while he wasn’t a churchgoer, he believed in the Almighty and lived accordingly. Actually, Rand decided, he would be a darned good catch for some lonely gal.

  Yep, two weeks ago it had seemed like a great idea. But now that he’d seen his ad in black-and-white, somehow he wasn’t so sure….

  Two

  Rand took the handful of mail from the mailbox and quickly thumbed through it. He’d been watching the incoming mail very closely, thinking one minute that no one would answer his ad and certain the next that someone would.

  At last, Rand thought with a quickening of his pulse. Today’s mail included an envelope that he knew was an answer to his ad. He read the return address: Suzanne Paxton, Baltimore, MD. Suzanne suddenly seemed like the loveliest of feminine names, and, sitting in his pickup, he rolled up the window and slid his finger under the sealed flap of the envelope.

  A photo fell to his lap as he extracted a folded sheet of paper. Rand picked it up and could hardly believe his eyes. This sexy, beautiful girl was Suzanne? “Holy smoke,” he mumbled, thinking that he’d hit the jackpot for sure. After reading Suzanne’s letter, he felt almost light-headed. The lady was more than interested, she was eager!

  Turning the truck around so fast its tires spun, he headed back to the compound. Before he did one other thing he was going to answer Suzanne’s letter. And he wasn’t going to wait for tomorrow’s mail delivery to send it off, either. He would drive to town and take it to the post office. He might even send it one-day delivery service so the luscious Ms. Paxton would get it tomorrow.

  Parking near the bunkhouse, Rand was out of the truck before the engine had completely quit running. Dashing inside, he dropped the other mail on George’s desk, mumbled something about being in a hurry and all but ran to his bedroom, where he closed the door, shrugged out of his jacket and sat at his small desk to begin his letter.

  Dear Suzanne,

  Your letter is a dream come true. You sound, and look, exactly like the type of woman I’ve been hoping to meet. I can’t thank you enough for answering my ad.

  Let me tell you a little about myself. I’ve always worked in ranching, and presently I’m the foreman of the Kincaid Ranch. It’s a beautiful place, with breathtaking scenery in every direction. You said you’ve been longing for the wide open spaces, and you would certainly find them here.

  You’ve probably been wondering why I felt the need to advertise for a wife. There are single women in the area—many of them—but I’m not looking for romance, Suzanne. I’m looking for a woman with both feet firmly planted on the ground, a woman with pragmatic views on marriage, a woman with old-fashioned ideals and one major desire—to marry for companionship, a good home and a husband who will always support her. I would like to have children someday and hope you feel the same on that point.

  I have enclosed a snapshot of myself. I’m thirty-two years old, six-feet-one-inch tall and weigh one-n
inety. From your photo, you are obviously a very beautiful woman. I hope my photo measures up to yours in your eyes.

  Please answer right away. I will be watching the mail every day for your letter. One thing more. If traveling money is a problem, let me know. I would be honored to send you enough to cover airfare and incidentals.

  Sincerely yours,

  Rand Harding

  Rand read his letter twice, then folded it, and inserted it and his snapshot into an envelope, which he sealed and addressed.

  Yanking on his jacket, he stuffed the envelope into a pocket, then hurried away to tell George he had to go to town. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  George merely nodded, and Rand quickly left the bunkhouse to climb into his truck. He hadn’t felt this excited in a very long time, and he drove to Whitehorn with his eyes on the road and his thoughts on Suzanne Paxton. Good fortune was smiling on him today, that was certain.

  Rand wasn’t back at the ranch five minutes when a four-wheel-drive vehicle pulled into the compound. The vehicle was unfamiliar, though it bore Montana plates. Rand strolled over to the truck. Its driver, a stranger, got out just as Rand approached.

  “Hello,” the man said.

  Rand nodded. “Hello.”

  The stranger was as tall as himself and had a lean, wiry build. He was dressed like Rand, in jeans, boots, hat and heavy jacket. Although the hat covered most of the man’s hair, what showed below it was a pale, silvery color. Rand judged this unexpected visitor to be several years past forty.

  The man smiled slightly. “I think I’m lost.”

  “Where are you heading?”

  “A little town called Whitehorn.”

  “Oh, well, you’re not far from your destination.” As Rand recited directions to town, he noticed the man’s gaze sweeping the compound, as though he was trying to take in everything at once.

  He seemed to be staring at the big, empty house. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

  “I only work here. I’m the foreman. This is the Kincaid Ranch, but there are no Kincaids living on it. The house is vacant. All the hands and such live in the bunkhouse.” Rand figured it was time they introduced themselves, and he offered his hand. “Rand Harding.”

  The man noticeably hesitated, and Rand felt a little silly standing there with his hand out. But then the stranger shook it and stammered, “Uh, J.D., uh, J. D. Cade.”

  “Nice meeting you, J.D. By any chance, you wouldn’t be looking for work, would you?”

  J.D.’s gaze returned to the house. Rand suddenly got the strangest sensation, almost a premonition. “Have you been here before?”

  J.D.’s head snapped around. “Never been in this part of Montana at all till today. You got a job to fill?”

  Rand snorted out a short laugh. “More than one, J.D. I’m going to be honest with you. There’ve been some mighty strange happenings out here, and I’ve been losing men over it. Have you ever worked on a ranch?”

  “Yeah, I have.”

  “Well, you don’t look to me like a man who’d run from trouble. Are you interested in that job?”

  “What kind of trouble are you talking about?” J.D. asked.

  The intensity with which J.D. looked into his eyes startled Rand, although he maintained an impassive expression. There was something different about J. D. Cade, something Rand couldn’t get a handle on. He had no choice but to believe J.D. hadn’t been in this area before, and yet there remained the question of how a Montana man, even a stranger to these parts, could get lost looking for Whitehorn and end up at the Kincaid Ranch.

  Putting that niggling doubt aside for the time being, Rand braced himself to answer J.D.’s question. He hadn’t yet lied to any man about the unexplainable events on the ranch and he wasn’t going to start now. He related the strange events, then added, “Been quiet for a couple of weeks now, and I keep hoping it’s over, but I can’t guarantee it, J.D.”

  “Why do you think this particular ranch was targeted for sabotage?” J.D. asked. “Or have other places been bothered, too?”

  “None that I know of, just this place. I like your word sabotage. It’s logical, at least. A lot hasn’t been in the past few months. Some of the hands that quit thought we were being invaded by UFOs, others laid the incidents on ghosts.”

  “Ghosts! Good Lord,” J.D. muttered. “Whose ghosts?”

  “The Kincaid family had some troubled times,” Rand explained. “Some people say…” Rand abruptly stopped himself from repeating the silly gossip. J. D. Cade stared at him intensely, but said nothing.

  “Listen, I have no idea why this particular ranch is targeted, and neither does anyone else,” Rand continued. “Frankly, we’re getting quite a reputation in the area, which I’m sure you’ll hear in great detail if you’re going to be in Whitehorn very long.”

  “Well,” J.D. drawled with another look around the compound, “I intend hanging around awhile, but maybe it’ll be out here instead of in town.”

  “You’ll take the job?”

  “Don’t know for how long, Rand, but yes, I’ll take the job.”

  “Great! I’ll take you to meet the bookkeeper, and he’ll get the payroll data out of the way. You can move your things into any empty bedroom on the second floor and start work in the morning. That okay with you?”

  “It’s okay with me,” J.D. said.

  At supper that evening Rand introduced his new hand. “Everyone, this is J. D. Cade. He’s starting work in the morning.”

  Some of the men said hello and then started eating. Rand pulled out a chair next to his for J.D. “Dive in, J.D. Handy’s a pretty good cook.”

  “Thanks,” J.D. said.

  Dale Carson sat across the table. Dale had worked on the ranch almost as long as Rand had. Rand considered the young man a good hand, although he wasn’t overly bright. But he had a strong back, a willingness to work hard, an open, honest face and had been raised on a ranch. The Carson family had lost their land years ago, and from what Rand had heard from Dale himself, Dale wanted to earn enough money to one day buy his own ranch. Rand thought the young man’s goal to be admirable, very much like his own. Someday Rand, too, would like to be the proud possessor of his own land and cattle operation.

  Dale started asking J.D. questions. “Where do you hail from, J.D.?”

  J.D. glanced at the younger man. “Here and there,” he replied calmly.

  To Rand, that sort of answer to a question was a signal to drop the subject. But Dale proved again that he was a little light in the upper story by pressing on. “You’ve got Montana plates. Where’d you live before coming here?”

  J.D. merely sent Dale a noncommittal look. Regardless, Dale continued his interrogation. “What does J.D. stand for? What’s your real name?”

  Apparently J.D. had had enough. “Listen, fella, if I wanted everyone to know my business I’d put it in the newspaper.”

  No one at the table said a word, not even Dale. Rand continued eating, but chuckled inwardly. He liked J.D.’s ways, even if J.D. did seem to possess an air of mystery. Obviously the man was intelligent, and if he wanted to keep his affairs to himself, it was fine with Rand. He suspected, gleefully, that he’d hired a darned good man today. Only time would tell, of course, but right now Rand would bet anything that J. D. Cade knew his way around a cattle ranch as well as he did.

  The following morning Mack left the apartment for school, hid behind a long line of garages and waited until his sister drove away in her ongoing quest for a job. Then he returned to the apartment and let himself in. He liked being home alone. Turning on the television set, he made an enormous, triple-decker sandwich, poured a huge glass of cola and settled down in the most comfortable chair in the living room.

  He was still watching TV two hours later when the doorbell rang. “Yipes,” he muttered. Should he answer the door? Maybe a nosy neighbor had heard the TV and was coming by to check up. He’d been caught doing this before and Suzanne had thrown a fit.

  Mack tiptoed t
o the door and peered through the peephole. The postman! Hastily he undid the locks and yanked the door open.

  “Delivery for Suzanne Paxton,” the uniformed postal worker said.

  “She’s my sister. I’ll take it.”

  “Sign here, please.”

  Mack scrawled his signature and took possession of a large express-mail envelope. “Thanks, man,” he said, and shut the door. He nearly shouted with glee when he saw the return address: Rand Harding, Kincaid Ranch, Whitehorn, Montana.

  Sitting down again, he tore the mailing envelope open. Inside was a smaller envelope, hand-addressed to Suzanne Paxton by Rand Harding. For a few moments Mack just sat there and grinned. Even the guy’s name sounded western. This was so great he could hardly believe it was happening.

  Unconcerned that the envelope really belonged to his sister, he slid his finger under the flap. Inside was a letter and a snapshot. Mack studied the picture. Hey, he thought, Harding’s a good-looking guy! All the better. Unfolding the letter, he pored over every word.

  Now he could hardly wait for Suzanne to get home, although he couldn’t help being a little nervous over how she would take his news.

  But, heck, he thought, why wouldn’t she be thrilled to hear a man in Montana wanted to marry her? There sure wasn’t anything going on here to keep her in Baltimore.

  She’d be thrilled, Mack decided. Darned thrilled.

  “You what?” Suzanne asked, her pretty face registering shock and disbelief.

  “I answered an ad in a magazine. This here letter came today. Suzanne, the guy wants to marry you.”

  “You answered an ad using my name? Mack, have you lost your mind?”

  “At least read the letter, okay?” Mack held it out. “This guy is legit, Suzanne. He really wants a wife.”

  Suzanne was momentarily speechless. Mack had always been a handful, no two ways about it, but this went far beyond anything he’d pulled before. Weakly, feeling utterly helpless, she sank to the sofa. “I can’t believe you did such a thing, Mack.”