When Grizzly turned back around, a warning beam still in his eyes, Samantha tugged his beard to make affectionate fun of his needless concern, but it left her uneasy. She felt secure in her adoptive parents’ love, like a house with a strong foundation and walls, but would the rafters hold in a storm? “Don’t worry, Grizzly. I will heed your words,” she said. “Now I have to get myself washed up and then to the books.”
Her father was awake and at his desk in the library when Samantha returned downstairs after a wash and change of clothes. The day had warmed, and the fire in the great room had succumbed to ashes. Passing by the fireplace, she stooped and retrieved the scrap of cream-colored vellum that had escaped the flames. It bore no writing, but the name of Dr. Donald Tolman was imprinted indelibly in her memory.
Neal Gordon was not a patient man, and Samantha knew he’d be hard to live with until Monday when Jimmy was to bring the morning edition of the Fort Worth Gazette to the ranch. The work crew was now so large that he and Samantha were not called upon to assist in the day-to-day, hands-on operation of the ranch, but its length and breadth demanded diligent overseeing. She and her father split duties and took shifts that required that a good part of each day be spent in the saddle, but in the intervening time before Monday, once his stint was over, Neal could not seem to settle down to any other occupation. He roamed the house, stalked the kitchen, pestered Samantha in her workshop. “What’s this?” he demanded, picking up a dark brown object that looked like a stone. Samantha hurried to rescue it from his casual handling.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I found it out at Windy Bluff. At first I thought it was a rock, but it’s fossilized bone that must have belonged to some land creature millions of years ago. See the little holes that the blood vessels went through?”
Neal peered. “How do you know it’s not a rock?”
“My microscope tells me. Because Central Texas was once covered in water, this area is favorable for preserving fossil evidence. That’s why people around here are forever bringing me chips and fragments of unidentifiable animal life to analyze.”
“Well, I’m glad you have a hobby at times like these,” Neal said, his tone dour. “I wish I did.”
Samantha laughed softly and patted his cheek. “Aren’t you always telling me not to rush tomorrow, that it will get here soon enough?”
Neal shrugged. “Yeah, well, in this case, not soon enough. What if the place is sold by tomorrow?”
Monday came and Jimmy arrived with the daily edition of the Fort Worth Gazette. Neal had Silbia send a ranch hand to fetch Samantha from a pasture where she was overseeing the reunion of newborn calves to their mothers and keeping a lookout for cows that rejected their young. Neal had located the classified section of the newspaper and had it spread on his desk when she hurried in. The farm was indeed the Barrows homestead, for the ad read that “a representative of the Barrows farm” would meet a respondent at a place of his choosing in Gainesville and drive him to the land for sale. Contact and arrangements to meet could be made by telegram through Western Union.
“Halleluiah!” Neal cried. “I’ll go into Fort Worth today and fire off a telegram to let ’em know I’m interested. I need to see your mother anyway. The seller can send a reply there and Jimmy can bring it to us.”
For the next three days they waited. Finally, Jimmy, with the air of an emissary having come on an important mission, arrived with telegram in hand that he told Silbia he must deliver to “Mr. G” personally.
The housekeeper climbed the stairs to the widow’s walk and rang a large bell atop a tall column whose peal could carry over a good portion of the twenty-thousand-acre ranch. It had been erected primarily as a summons. Silbia pulled the rope three times, the prearranged signal to alert them of the telegram’s arrival. Two miles away, Neal and Samantha, called to consider what animal had attacked and killed a young steer, heard the funereal toll of the bell. “Oh, my God, it’s come, Sam,” Neal said.
In the great room, Neal snatched the telegram from Jimmy’s fingers and let out an exultant cry at its message. He passed it to Samantha, who read that a representative of the Barrows farm would be happy to meet with Neal Gordon in the coffee shop of the train depot at two o’clock in four days’ time. Neal snorted at the high-sounding tone of “representative.” Why not just come out and name the member of the Barrows clan that would be meeting them? “Pack your bags, Sam,” he said. “Looks like you’re going to the Barrows homestead as a representative of Las Tres Lomas de la Trinidad.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
So it was settled, the only question being who would go along as a companion and lady’s maid—in reality, a bodyguard—to Samantha. Samantha said she didn’t need a bodyguard, but her parents insisted. One woman alone was an easy target; two, a deterrent, especially if both were handy with self-defense weapons. Billie June’s and Millie May’s names came up, since the sisters were dead shots, but it was decided that Mildred would accompany her. The housekeeper’s formidable countenance and bearing suggested a woman not to be fooled with. She was likely to be one who carried a knife in her garter and had the skill and fervor to use it. Neal believed that one look at Mildred and any ruffian entertaining unwholesome ideas about his daughter would think twice about implementing them.
The women would take the eight o’clock train to Gainesville, arrive by noon if it was on schedule, and meet with the farm owner at two. Since it was assumed the ride to the property and tour would take several hours, it was decided that an overnight stay in Gainesville was advisable. A return by train the same day would put the travelers in Fort Worth late at night—“when robbers are about,” Estelle warned in disapproval of the whole idea of the women going. It was her notion that Neal should be making the trip. He could sleep the whole way and wake up when he got there. The women would stay in a Harvey House hotel and eat in its restaurant, one of a chain of such establishments built along railroad routes that was known for its clean rooms, fine food, and excellent service. Samantha used the Singletons’ telephone at the Triple S to make the hotel reservation.
As she was returning the receiver to its hook, Samantha felt a presence behind her and turned to find Sloan Singleton leaning against the doorway of the great room, watching her. Her heart did a somersault—but only out of surprise, she thought, excusing her reaction. She hadn’t expected him to be in the house that time of day. Millie May and Billie June had gone into town shopping. The housekeeper, a sweet-natured little Mexican woman who had been with the Singletons since before Sloan could reach the cookie jar, had let her in.
“I hope you didn’t mind,” Samantha said, gesturing toward the wall phone. “Consuela gave me permission.”
“Why would you feel I would mind or that you even had to ask? Mi casa, su casa—always,” Sloan said.
Not always, Sloan, Samantha thought. What an absurd word: always. And this house would never be hers. Once Sloan married, this house would belong to Anne Rutherford, and she’d never set foot in it again. To her humiliation, she realized that tears had sprung to her eyes.
“Good Lord, Sam! What is it?” In two strides, Sloan crossed the hall and took her by the shoulders.
“It’s nothing,” she said, stiffening. She knew what he would feel if she should suddenly burst out with her true feelings for him. First, embarrassment that the lifelong friend he thought of only as a sister was in love with him, and then pity that he could not return the “compliment” of it, he would say, or some such silly thing, because he would be inordinately kind. She would not have him look at her out of those blue eyes in the way someone would regard a proud cripple—bloody, but unbowed.
“Yes, I can certainly see that,” Sloan said, dropping his hands. “What’s wrong?”
What was wrong with her, welling up like that? “I’m just having… one of those days.”
“Oh,” he said, the simple statement full of understanding and a trace of embarrassment. To a man growing up with sisters, “one of those days” cou
ld mean only one thing.
“I’ve got a lot on my mind,” she said to correct the misassumption.
“Oh,” he said again, duly corrected. “You seem to have a lot on your mind these days. Melancholy things?”
“Yes, melancholy things.”
“Like what?”
It was the same question put to her at the crossroads, and like then, Samantha thought that once upon a time she would have told him. She would have revealed her mild depression at turning twenty with maidenhood lurking around the corner, the letter in the fire, the haunting image of a tiny, unwanted baby girl left in the hands of strangers at midnight by a doctor who disappeared before dawn, and her sudden forbidden and traitorous urge to learn why she’d been rejected. But all that unburdening carried the risk that Sloan would recognize the real cause of her melancholia.
“I’m at a loss to say,” she said, tamping at the overflow with the heel of her hand.
Sloan reached into his back pocket and withdrew a handkerchief. “Here,” he said. “It’s unused. Did you know I’ve seen you cry only once before?”
She dabbed at her tears and tried to smile. “Well, that’s because I’ve never had much to cry about.”
“That time you did.”
“Oh? When was that?”
“The time you rode Pony to the orphanage and learned that the little girl you met there when you were ten—Susie, I believe her name was—had died.”
Samantha studied him, speechless. Sloan’s eyes were quiet upon her, patient, waiting.
“How… could you recall that after so many years?”
“Some things are hard to forget. Going on a trip?”
Samantha explained her upcoming mission to Gainesville. “You should have asked me to accompany you,” Sloan said.
She chortled. “And what would Anne think of that?”
“Why would she think anything?”
Samantha handed back the handkerchief. Smart men could be so stupid. “She might have minded, Sloan. Women mind things like that.”
“She’d be foolish to. Anne knows what you mean to me.” He squeezed her elbow. “I’ve got to get on, but you’ll be careful on the trip, won’t you?”
She was close to tears again. “I’ll be careful,” she said.
Outside, as she mounted Pony, Samantha put it to her imagination that she could still feel the warmth of Sloan’s squeeze on her elbow. He had gone out of the house through the kitchen, she assumed, but as the quarter horse cantered out the gate, she happened to glance back and saw that Sloan had come to the door of the ranch house to watch her leave.
“Now, you know what to look for, what questions to ask,” Neal said in their final hour together before departing on her mission. Soon, a ranch hand would drive her and her portmanteau to Fort Worth in one of Las Tres Lomas’s distinctive ranch wagons. “Make sure the place is as described with its own underground spring. Look over the house, make sure the buildings, corrals, and fences are as advertised. No need to tell that old coot Liam Barrows or whichever son is running the place now what we want the farm for, but try to find out why it’s being sold. It’d be helpful to know. If the price is right and everything is as we hope, you can say it’s as good as sold. Neal Gordon will be coming with check in hand.” When the time came to go, he assisted Samantha up into the wagon and said, “Be sure to kiss the baby for me and tell your mother not to worry her pretty head over your safety.”
“I might as well try to divert a charging Big Horn ewe with a tea towel, Daddy,” she said. The baby mentioned was the infant to be christened on Sunday. Samantha was leaving on Saturday for Fort Worth because of the early baptismal service the next morning.
“You got some mail, Miss Sam,” Mildred said when she arrived. “It’s in the tree stand drawer. Two of ’em look like they’re invitations to bridal parties for Mr. Baker and Miss Warner, and there’s also a note from Barnard Laird hand-delivered this morning. You were asked to call him as soon as possible. It sounded urgent.”
Samantha wondered what urgency would require her to telephone Barnard Laird. He was a former classmate who lived two blocks over and was a good friend of Todd Baker but not necessarily of hers. Samantha unfolded the message and read that Barnard had learned from Todd that he’d given her two tickets to a paleontologist’s lecture Saturday night that she’d not be using. Might Samantha part with one of them? He was interested in the subject matter because, like Todd, he believed the next fortune to be made in Texas was in the discovery of oil. If she could let him have one of the tickets, would she mind sending it over to his house? As compensation, it would be his great pleasure to take her to a fine restaurant of her choosing at a time convenient for her.
Samantha refolded the message. Of course she’d part with a ticket, but that left an extra. When she sent Jimmy to Barnard’s, she’d include the other with the suggestion he invite a friend to go with him. “Mildred, call the Laird residence and leave word to expect the tickets soon, will you? I’ve got to run up to see Mother.”
“She’s in a cross mood, Miss Sam.”
The image of the Big Horn ewe crossed Samantha’s mind.
Estelle was at her writing desk where she could be found every Saturday morning composing her correspondence. When Samantha bent to kiss her cheek, her mother pointed to two train tickets on a side table. “I bought them yesterday,” she said, “but it was like buying tickets to purgatory. The very idea of your father putting his daughter in the way of train robbers and kidnappers. And there are still rogue bands of Comanche roaming about. They could recapture Mildred.”
“I’d like to see them try,” Samantha said with a laugh. “Gainesville is not purgatory, Mother. I’m not going to be kidnapped, and the Katy from Fort Worth to Gainesville wouldn’t be worth robbing. It’s a passenger train.”
Estelle ducked her chin and eyed her over her reading glasses. “There’s always a first time for everything, my girl. What if that ad is a nefarious attempt to lure pretty young women like you into a trap, and you go missing? It’s been done before.”
Samantha opened her other two pieces of mail as a distraction from her mother’s harping. They were indeed prenuptial invitations to honor the coming marriage of her good friends Todd Baker and Ginny Warner. “I doubt the owner of the property had that in mind when he submitted his advertisement, since he’s expecting a man to show up,” she said. “Chances are he knows of Neal Gordon.”
Samantha’s logic missed the mark. Estelle continued. “Neal should have his head examined. The idea of a grown man afraid of a train compartment, especially a man like your father who fears nothing. I’ll be worried sick until you get home. So will your father, but he deserves to be.” She glanced at the invitations that Samantha handed her and asked, “What did Barnard’s note say? I was upstairs when it was delivered.”
Samantha told her, then excused herself to send Jimmy off with the lecture tickets. As she slipped the pair into an envelope with her written suggestion, she thought, Why don’t I go to the lecture instead of a friend? Barnard was as exciting as boiled milk, but he was a better choice to spend a Saturday evening with than her mother, who would trot out every reason against going to Gainesville until the world was flat. Samantha had to admit that she was interested in the lecturer’s explanation of how oil could be derived from fossils. It was a theory she’d challenged at Simmons. She rewrote the note.
A reply came by telephone. Barnard was delighted she’d changed her mind about attending the lecture. He would pick her up in the family carriage at six o’clock. Also, if it pleased her, they would be joining Todd and Ginny for supper afterward at the Worth, where he would have the pleasure to treat her to that meal he promised.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The lecture was to be given in the auditorium at Polytechnic College, an institution established in 1891 by the Methodist Episcopal Church to promote Southern Methodism. The campus was located four miles east of Fort Worth and advertised itself as safe from Hell’s Half Ac
re, the notorious mecca for gamblers, prostitutes, and outlaws that continued to be a thorn in the side of the city council. As a result, the liberal arts venue attracted guest lecturers of some renown and large crowds to hear them. The lobby of the auditorium was thronged by the time Samantha and her escort arrived, Barnard craning his neck to spot Todd and Ginny.
“There they are,” he said, pointing at a group buried among the crowd.
Todd Baker and Ginny Warner were chatting with two men that Samantha took to be father and son based on their similar physical features and color of eyes, a remarkable shade of blue, she noticed when they drew to the group. The older man was speaking. As she and Barnard joined them, his eye lit upon Samantha, and he paused in midspeech. Todd’s exclamations of surprised pleasure that Samantha had shown up—and with his best friend—covered the abrupt halt of the man’s conversation. Introductions followed, Todd saying, “Mr. Waverling, may I present my best friends, Samantha Gordon and Barnard Laird. Sam, Barnie, this is Mr. Trevor Waverling and his son, Nathan. Mr. Waverling is the owner of the drilling tool company where I’m happy to say I’m employed.”
Samantha extended her hand to each of the men, a little disconcerted at the interest she’d attracted from the senior Waverling but who was too much of a gentleman to allow to linger. His son, too, appeared to make a conscious effort not to stare. Barnard addressed the older man as they shook hands. “I understand from Todd that your company is branching out into the manufacture of oil drilling tools, Mr. Waverling. That must be an exciting new venture for you.”
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