The ranch required every bit of energy she had and then some. Her painful past had become a distraction and she needed to put it to rest. It was time to wipe the slate clean. Her future depended on it. Perhaps taming the past would even help to resolve her confusion over Luke.
With this thought in mind, she quietly left her room. Creeping downstairs, she felt her way in the dark. She wouldn’t write for long, just an hour or so. She couldn’t sleep anyway, so what could it hurt? A rush of excitement raced through her as she anticipated the thrill of running her fingers over the Remington typing machine again and writing another chapter.
Having reconstructed the chapters written at Cactus Joe’s cabin she would now have to depend on her creative skills to write the rest. That meant digging deeper into her own childhood. Perhaps even uncovering long-buried memories.
Reaching Miss Walker’s office, she lit the parlor lamp and turned to the desk.
The typewriter was gone! Shocked, she stood perfectly still for several moments before bursting into tears and running back to her room.
Luke groaned. It wasn’t a hangover, but it sure did feel like one. Or at least what he imagined a hangover felt like. His head pounded, his jaw was sore, and one eye was swollen shut. Even Homer couldn’t bring him out of his misery, though the poor dog did everything but dance on his hind legs trying to get Luke’s attention.
“Woof!”
“You’re a dog of few words. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Woof, woof!”
“Okay, I get the message,” Luke said at last. Homer could be such a nuisance at times. He rose from his stool and reached for the jar of jerky. He tossed a piece on the floor. Homer barked and wouldn’t stop until Luke tossed him another piece. Satisfied at last, the dog picked up both pieces and ran outside, presumably to share the meat with his lady friend.
Alone, Luke surveyed the work stacked up on his workbench. What he needed was a day off. He needed to go back to bed. Maybe this time he’d actually sleep. Then again, maybe not.
For some reason everyone blamed him for the fight. Certainly his aunt did. If spending half the night in jail wasn’t bad enough, he’d had to listen to her read him the riot act. Aunt Bessie had apparently gone to the house to fetch something and had missed the start of the fight. She had no idea what started it and he had no intention of saying anything about his uncle’s suspicions. Not yet, anyway.
Then there was Kate. He would never forget the look on her face as the marshal dragged him away. Obviously she blamed him. The memory didn’t just make his head throb—it felt ready to explode.
A sad-looking group gathered at dawn that Monday for the usual morning prayer. O.T. and Ruckus were the only two men not sporting a black eye or bruised chin.
Ruckus whipped off his hat and held it to his chest. “Dear heavenly Father, send rain.”
The others took off, although with less energy than usual, and Kate fell in step by Ruckus’s side. “Rain? Is that all you ever think about?”
She was in a bad mood and didn’t care who knew it. She’d had little if any sleep, but that wasn’t the only reason for her ill temper. For two days she had tried to talk to Miss Walker about the missing typewriter, but the woman had been impossible to track down.
“What about your men? Don’t they deserve a prayer?”
Ruckus stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide with surprise. “I did pray for them. I always pray for them.”
“You prayed for rain,” she argued. “Same as always.” Oh, she really was in a foul mood.
Fortunately, Ruckus didn’t seem to take offense. “Rain is just another word for blessings,” he said. “It grows, it quenches, and it heals.”
“You talk in riddles,” she snapped.
He laughed at her expression. “Us western folks are easy to understand. You ought to know that by now. We may not always say what we mean but we always mean what we say.”
When she failed to appreciate his humor, he eyed her from beneath a creased forehead. “What’s the matter with you today? You look madder than a wet rooster.”
She bit her lip and sighed. She felt guilty for taking out her bad mood on him. “I could use some of God’s blessings myself right now.”
“Yeah, and those horses could use some fresh hay. Nothing cures what ails you faster than work. Now get to work.” He gave her a cockeyed look. “So what are you waiting for?”
“A Bible quote,” she said.
“I gave you one. Exodus 5:18. It says get to work.”
Kate groaned. She should have known. Ruckus really did have a Bible verse for every occasion.
During the next hour she helped unload two wagons of hay. Although still early, it was already blazing hot and her clothes clung to her body. After the empty wagons left to be reloaded, she walked over to the windmill and drenched herself with water.
Someone rode up on a black-and-white pinto, an Indian. Her heart pounding nervously, she glanced around. Ruckus had disappeared into the barn. Though he was still within earshot, she would have felt a whole lot better had he been visible. Since her kidnapping, strangers made her nervous, even ones she knew couldn’t possibly be Cactus Joe in disguise.
The Indian reared his horse in front of her and lifted an arm, palm outward, to show her he meant no harm. He pointed to the water tank and she nodded.
He slid off the bare back of the pinto, and while the horse drank from the trough, he cupped his hands and helped himself to water from the tank.
Never having met an Indian face-to-face, she couldn’t help but stare. He seemed normal and nothing like the savages she’d read about in Boston’s newspaper. Nor was he like the wild tomahawk-wielding Indians she’d written about in her novels who wore breechcloths and war paint and said “How.”
Dressed in an odd combination of Indian and white man’s clothes, he wore moccasins, Levi pants, and a poncho-style shirt. Dark skin stretched over high cheekbones, his black glossy hair arranged in a figure eight bun with a colorful band across his forehead.
He wiped his mouth dry with the back of his hand and regarded her with intelligent brown eyes. She guessed he was in his late twenties or early thirties.
“I came to see Miss Walker,” he said. He spoke good English, pronouncing each word precisely.
“Miss Walker is out on the range,” she said. “May I help you?”
“Tell her Sky Runner send gratitude.” Hand on his chest he inclined his head slightly as he spoke.
Sky Runner. Did Indians have barn names too? And how did he come to be called such an intriguing name? “You want to thank her?”
He gave a single nod of his head. “She give family two goats, chickens, and milk cow.” He stuck out his chest as if showing off a medal. “Now we have farm.”
“Miss Walker did that?”
He nodded again and thumped his broad chest with his fist. “You tell her Sky Runner heart big with gratitude.”
“I’ll tell her,” Kate promised.
Thanking her, he mounted his horse and rode away so quickly, his horse’s hooves barely seemed to touch the ground.
Ruckus walked out of the barn, pitchfork in hand. “We have company?” he called.
“Yes,” she hollered back as she hurried across the yard to join him. “Do you know a man named Sky Runner?”
Ruckus stood his pitchfork against the wall. “Yep. He’s part Navajo. Lives north of here. Was that him?”
She nodded. “Did you know that Miss Walker helped him start a farm?”
“’Course I knew it. I helped ready the animals myself.” He studied her. “Don’t look so surprised.”
“It just seems like a kind thing to do.”
“The boss lady does a lot of kind things. Not too many people know it. That’s how she wants it.”
Kate recalled the steer and other animals carted away her first day at the ranch. Now she knew why José had been so secretive.
“Every year the boss lady picks out a family or two to help. She gave m
y daughter a heifer for a wedding present. That’s so my daughter and her new husband could start their own ranch. It’s a Last Chance tradition and goes way back to when Miz Walker’s ma received a steer from an Englishman.”
“Miss Walker told me about that. She said her mother saved the man’s life.”
“That’s what I heard. One heifer and now look what we have.” He gestured with his arm. “Like the Good Book says, cast your bread upon the waters and it’ll come galloping back with a whole gang.”
Kate laughed, her earlier bad mood forgotten. “I expect it’s a whole lot easier to cast bread than a steer.”
His mouth twisted wryly. “I reckon you’ll find out once you take over the ranch.”
Once she took over? Was that a vote of confidence? Sure did sound that way.
She stared out over the land. She could no longer see Sky Runner, but the mirage of a lake shimmered in the distance.
“Nothing is what it seems,” she said. Miss Walker certainly wasn’t. Nor, for that matter, was Luke. He seemed honest and kind, but she now knew he also had another side.
“That’s the way God planned it,” Ruckus said. “It forces us to give the world—and each other—a closer look-see.”
Chapter 31
Five days after the barn dance, Bessie found a box on the kitchen table. It was a plain white box wrapped with a red ribbon and tied with a big fat bow. A card read, A good old gal if there ever was one. Always, Sam.
Old gal? Is that what he thought of her? And why was he giving her a present? Her birthday and Christmas were still months away. That could only mean one thing. Sam was still acting out of guilt.
She quickly pulled off the ribbon and opened the box. It was a pudding pan that matched the skillet and saucepan that Sam had previously given her. Tears sprang to her eyes. After the dance, she had almost convinced herself that Sam had lost interest in the other woman, but this latest enamelware gift proved her wrong.
Mercy, what would be next? A matching teakettle? Anger soon replaced her hurt. After giving Sam the best years of her life, this was how he treated her.
She slammed the pan back into the box, walked into the kitchen, gathered up her skillet and saucepan, and dropped the whole kit and caboodle into the trash. Brushing her hands together, she threw back her shoulders. She would not play second fiddle to some husband-stealing tramp. She had her pride. Granted, she didn’t have much left at this point, but what little she did have she intended to keep.
She stormed through the house and into the bedroom. Pulling a battered valise out of the closet, she stuffed it full of her old clothes. She left her new satin unmentionables behind, for all the good they’d done her.
She would not spend another moment under the same roof with that two-timing husband of hers.
In no time at all, she finished packing and harnessed the horse to the wagon. Lula-Belle pulled up in her buggy just as Bessie drove away.
“Where are you going?” Lula-Belle called.
“I’m leaving Sam. I’m going to Marion’s.” Their older widowed sister lived in Tucson.
Lula-Belle’s eyes grew as wide as the discarded pudding pan, but Bessie had no time to argue with her or spell everything out.
Just then Sam returned from his daily walk. He called to her but Bessie drove right by him like he didn’t exist.
She followed the stagecoach road to Tucson, which cut through miles of desert. She would have to spend the night at Mescal, of course, and maybe even a night at Wilmot. She would also have to telegraph Marion to let her know she was coming.
It was hot, but Bessie was too angry and hurt to give it much mind. Forty years she’d given that man. Forty of the best years of her life. She had washed and cleaned and cooked for him. Laughed at his dreadful jokes. Listened to his endless war stories. Picked up after him. And what did she have to show for it? A pudding pan!
So deep were her thoughts that it took her awhile to notice she was being followed. Thinking it was her fool sister, she slowed down, but after spotting Sam in the driver’s seat of her sister’s buggy, Bessie slapped the reins against her horse’s rump, forcing the startled animal to pick up speed.
A few miles later she glanced back, but Sam was still on her tail. “Gid-up!” she yelled. She had nothing to say to him, and at that moment she didn’t care if she ever saw him again. God help her.
The road rose over a hill, twisting and turning around outcrops of huge boulders. She didn’t chance looking back until she reached the summit. Sam had apparently given up the chase for there was no sign of him. She rested her horse in the shade and let him drink from a natural spring. She dipped her handkerchief in the water and mopped the sweat off her forehead.
Ha! Give up, did he? He chased her long enough to appease his conscience, but he obviously had no intention or interest in catching up with her. Not that she cared. Of course she didn’t care. Why would she? After the way he treated her. Still, the least he could have done was try a little harder to catch her. After all the years she’d given him, he could have acted like he didn’t want her to leave.
She hoisted her skirt and climbed on the rocks to view the road below. In the far distance the eastbound train from Tucson looked like a metal snake, but there was no sign of Sam. Strange. If he wasn’t on the way home and he wasn’t on the road behind her, then where in tarnation was he?
Worried now, she walked back until she could see the road leading up to where she stood. Nothing. Heart pounding, she ran to her wagon, turned it around, and started back down to the valley below. She then spotted a spinning wheel off the side of the road.
Crying out in alarm, she yanked on the hand brake of her wagon and jumped to the ground. Sam was sprawled in a ditch a few feet from the overturned buggy. Lula-Belle’s horse, Jordan, was on his side, squirming. Spotting Bessie, he let out a frantic whinny.
Ignoring the horse, Bessie slid down the embankment and rushed to Sam’s side.
“Are you all right?”
He grimaced. “It’s just my leg. Take care of Jordan.”
“But—” Torn between seeing to Sam and helping the horse, Bessie tried to think what to do.
“I’m fine.” Sam sounded more annoyed at himself than hurt. “I should have watched where I was going.”
She gave Sam’s leg a worried look before scampering toward the distressed animal. “You’re all right,” she said soothingly, stroking Jordan’s neck.
Once she got the gelding to calm down, she unbuckled the back strap and undid the traces. She moved slowly so as not to startle the fallen animal.
“Be careful,” Sam called. “I don’t want you getting yourself hurt.”
Touched by his concern, she stepped back as the horse struggled to his feet. This was the dangerous part. The horse could easily stomp on her with flailing hooves. His eyes looked wild, but fortunately he showed no sign of injury. She led him out of the ditch and tied him to the overturned wagon before returning to Sam’s side.
“Let me look at your leg.”
“It’s just a twisted ankle,” he said.
She shook her head. “You’re an old fool.”
He stared at her from beneath knitted eyebrows. “I’m a fool? What about you? You’re the one who’s all hung up on that Parker fella.”
Bessie sat back on her heels. “What are you talkin’ about? What about Parker?”
“Don’t look so innocent,” he charged. “I know you’ve been seeing him on the sly.”
Shocked by his accusation, it took her a moment to gather her thoughts. “Is that what the fight was about?”
Sam had refused to tell her what caused the fight that ruined the dance, and her annoying nephew was equally closemouthed.
“I couldn’t help myself. Knowing that you and him was dilly dallying behind my back made me see red.”
Bessie’s temper snapped. How dare he try to wiggle out of this one by placing the blame on her! “Don’t you go accusin’ me of fooling around when you’re the one lolly
gagging with some other woman.”
Sam’s eyes widened in astonishment. “What are you talkin’ about? Lollygagging?”
“You don’t think I know why you bought me that pudding pan? It’s to ease your guilty conscience, that’s why. Just like you bought that skillet forty years ago after making eyes at that Mexican woman.”
He frowned. “You knew about that?”
“Yes, I knew about that.”
“I was a young fool back then. But I swear to you I’ve never looked at another woman since.” He shook his head. “And I sure didn’t expect you to go lookin’ at another man.”
Bessie stared at him. He actually seemed to believe his own ridiculous accusations. “Why in the world would you think such a thing?”
“You’re the one who’s been acting all strange. Wearing those slippery undergarments and fancy dresses cut down to your knees.”
“I did that for you. I . . . eh . . . have it on good authority that men like silky things.” She didn’t want to admit she’d read one of Kate’s dime novels.
“For me? You mean you and Parker ain’t—”
“Can’t stand the man. Why, the last time I mailed a letter, he tried to overcharge me.”
A smile as wide as the Grand Canyon suffused Sam’s face. “I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to hear you say that. I don’t need you to wear no fancy garments. I like you just the way you are. I love you, Bessie Sue, and there’s no other woman I’d rather be with.”
“You . . . you still love me,” she stammered. “After all this time?”
“Of course I love you. Do you think I’d waste my money on pots and pans if I didn’t?”
“Oh.” Tears sprang to her eyes and his face turned all buttery.
“Come here,” he said and held out his arms. She melted next to him and he groaned in pain. “Are you all right?” she asked anxiously.
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