by Joyce Armor
He perused her for an uncomfortably long time but still didn’t speak. She noticed he was not staring at her breasts, which honestly, were rather unremarkable, she thought. Not large and hanging out of her gown like that other woman. That was a point in his favor, she supposed. Lord, her mind was wandering.
“Please,” she said plaintively. “I need the job.”
He still wasn’t convinced. “Do you have references?”
Uh-oh. Think, think. “Not with me. But…but I could get them from…from Boston. I could work on a trial basis until then while you see I can do the job.”
He thought about this as Parley set down his items and he and Cindy Lou looked on.
Cindy Lou gave her a very unfriendly look. “You could find somebody better in town, Garrett,” she said snidely.
Bitch. Libby was appalled that she had such an improper thought. She also was affronted. “You could not,” she said stubbornly, raising her chin.
“What’s your name?”
“Libby. Libby…uh…” She glanced outside. “Wagon…er.”
“Well, Libby Wagoner.” He stared at her until she wanted to scream. Then he finally said, “I’ll take you out to the ranch and let Carmen and Jackson decide about you, if that meets with your approval.”
“Yessir, that would be wonderful,” she gushed. “Thank you.”
“Just Garrett,” he said. “Garrett Winslow.”
He grabbed the flour and box of nails and headed off. She watched him for a moment, then realized he wasn’t going to wait for her. She snatched up her satchel and ran after him, not even noticing the angry look Cindy Lou gave her as she rushed out.
Libby emerged from Finn’s Mercantile to see the cowboy standing impatiently by a wagon laden with sacks of feed and some harnesses and other hardware. His rather handsome brown horse was tied to the back. He tossed the flour and box of nails in the wagon and looked pointedly at her.
“We’re burnin’ daylight here,” he said.
“Yes, yes, of course.” She put out her hand so he could help her up.
He turned his back on her and climbed up on the seat.
She stared after him for a moment, then sighed and threw her satchel in the back of the wagon as she walked around to the other side and struggled to hoist herself aboard. “Really, I can manage,” she bit out sarcastically.
“Good. This is hard country. Get used to it or go back East.” Holding the reins, he clucked, urging the team on suddenly. Libby had to grip the seat to keep from falling as they fairly leapt into action.
Garrett didn’t speak for the first several bouncy, dusty miles, so Libby would be damned if she would. If she hadn’t been so annoyed, she would have better appreciated the countryside, which became less dusty and more verdant as they journeyed, with the greenest hills she had ever seen and majestic mountains in the distance.
She couldn’t help but notice the cowboy’s tanned, muscular forearms, covered with a light coating of brownish golden hair that matched the flecks in his brown eyes and the chest hair she had glimpsed in the mercantile. He had long eyelashes, an aquiline nose and lips that wanted to be…whoa! She stopped that thought immediately. She realized, though, if Garrett Winslow were dressed in St. Louis finery, he would be a handsome and incredibly virile man, indeed, with his strong jaw, piercing eyes and thick, light brown hair brushing against his neck. Of course, that would assume he might smile sometime, God forbid. Then she remembered he did smile, at the brazen hussy in the mercantile.
“Are you always this friendly?” she asked, finally breaking the impasse.
He remained silent for several minutes, then said, “You’re not too bright, are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t know me. Yet you’re out in the middle of nowhere, in country you are unfamiliar with, with a complete stranger.”
As he spoke, she carefully put her hand into her reticule, placing her fingers around her pistol.
“So are you.”
As he shook his head at that ludicrous thought, he heard the click of her pistol, looked into her fiery eyes and, against his will, a smile curled on his lips.
“Touché,” he said.
She was surprised the dumb cowboy knew the word. He almost sounded educated, even if he had no manners. She relaxed her hand but kept it on the pistol.
“You did not travel all the way across the country to be a housekeeper.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“Exactly.”
She sighed again. “It’s an honest job and I need an honest job.”
“Hmm,” he said.
“And what does that mean?”
“Nothing, just hmm.”
How hard could it be to be a housekeeper? She was familiar with hard work, as Elias had always viewed her as a burden and made her earn any benefits by cleaning, scrubbing, dusting, polishing furniture and even cooking on occasion, although her skills in that area were weak. But weren’t all those chores keeping house? Hopefully, she would not have to keep the household books, as math and accounting were not her strengths.
Her gloves had disappeared somewhere on the train, and Garrett suddenly grabbed a bare hand, sending a tingle up Libby’s spine.
“This isn’t the hand of a housekeeper.”
She snatched her hand away from him. “We wear protective gloves now. That’s the way it’s done in the civilized world. And I apply lotions to keep my hands soft,” she spat out, only a little embarrassed at how petulant she sounded. This man brought out the worse in her.
If this chit was not everything he hated about women, Garrett didn’t know who was. She was haughty, condescending and a know-it-all, and far too delicate for the harsh realities of a Montana winter. And she was not what she claimed to be. Jackson and Carmen would see right through her and send her packing. He must have been out of his mind to even agree to bring her to the ranch for an interview. He would give her credit, however, for carrying the pistol and making him believe she would use it. Maybe she had a little sense, at least. And in some deep recess of his mind, he realized that, despite her disheveled and dusty appearance, Libby Wagoner…if that was her name, which he doubted…was quite attractive, with a pretty face, pert little nose, jet-black hair and a shapely body. He didn’t have the specific thought, but on some level he knew she was dangerous to his way of life and everything he held dear.
“How far is it to the ranch?”
“A few more miles to the ranch house, but we’re on Butterman land now. The house is about 12 miles from town.”
“My heavens. That is so big.”
“Big enough. This area has good bunch grass for the cattle and horses. The Butterman spread is 21,000 acres. To put it in perspective, Conrad Kohr’s ranch is 10 million acres.”
Libby could not even fathom that much land belonging to one man. “Oh, my goodness. That is enormous.”
“Maybe you should be his housekeeper.”
She ignored the jibe. “Are there…do you have any trouble with Indians?”
The last big attack was the massacre on the Marias River about two years ago.”
“Oh, no. How many were killed?”
They hit a gopher hole and Libby grabbed onto Garrett’s arm to keep from falling off the wagon. As soon as the danger was over, she pulled her hand back as if she had been burned.
“The ‘savages’ killed one, I believe. The U.S. army killed about 200 Piegan Blackfeet, mostly women, children and the elderly.”
“Surely…” she started to object.
“Yes, surely,” he said. “While no organized tribes are wandering around this area, we still always face the possibility that things will change. And there’s always a few renegades in any race, so while you’re here, watch yourself, and do not travel anywhere alone.” Now why had he said that? She wouldn’t be staying.
Renegades. She would just add them onto to her list of potential dangers, along with the other people who wanted to kill her. She almost laughe
d. It didn’t seem real. She knew, however, she needed to take the danger…all potential dangers…seriously.
They rode in silence for a few minutes before she got up her nerve to inquire about Jackson. “Is Carmen Mr. Butterman’s wife?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
Garrett chuckled. “No, she’s been his cook since before I got there. Probably knows him better than a wife would.”
“When was that?”
“What?”
“When did you get to the ranch?”
“About 12 years ago.”
“But you must have been just a boy…”
“Enough questions,” he said abruptly.
“Just one more,” she pleaded. “Is there a creek or somewhere I could clean up between here and the ranch house?”
“No.”
“Now you’re just being obstinate,” she huffed.
“Willow Creek is on the other side of the ranch house, but I’m not going there. I have work to do.”
“Well, I would not want to interfere with your important chores.” She sat there and fumed but was not defeated. Just pile on the agony, cowboy. Lionhearted Libby can take it. She didn’t grow up in Elias Parminter’s house without learning how to take abuse. In fact, Garrett Winslow was an amateur in comparison to her stepfather. Stepfather. It felt so good to think that the man was not her father and never had been. She would make this work. She simply had to.
Garrett wanted to just shove little miss prissy off the seat, drive away and be done with her, but she did have that weapon. They rode in silence for another forty-five minutes or so and then crested a rise where he halted the team. Ahead, in a glorious green valley with a magnificent mountain view, sat the Butterman ranch house.
“Oh, my,” was all the awestruck Libby could manage. “It’s right out of a picture book.”
At least she had the sense to appreciate beauty. “Yeah, I know,” said Garrett, remembering the first time he had crested this hill as a desperate teenager. He gazed down for a few moments on the only real home he had ever known and then urged the team on.
Thirty minutes later, he pulled up near the porch and jumped down. Libby didn’t bother to see if he would help her down. She just awkwardly descended on her own, stumbling a moment before righting herself. Then she stomped to the back of the wagon, where Garrett pulled out her satchel and the five-pound bag of flour and thrust them into her hands.
“Give this to Carmen,” he ordered and walked around the wagon to remount.
“You won’t even introduce me?”
“I told you, I have work to do.” He vaulted onto the seat and drove off toward the stable with a “Yah!” to the horses, leaving her standing alone, thinking murderous thoughts. Tired as she was, her anger and frustration gave her a second wind. She took a moment to catch her breath. It would not do much good to face her potential employers with a scowl on her face anyway. She looked longingly toward the water trough beside the barn but decided she needed more than horse water to get clean. Sighing yet again, she blew out a breath and tried to smile, hoping it covered her upset. Adjusting the heavy sack and clutching her satchel, she marched up the porch steps. She waited a few moments, gathering her courage, and then knocked on the door, only slightly panicked. What if Jackson Butterman answered? What would she say? What would he say? This was a big mistake. She wanted to run and keep running until she reached the Pacific Ocean.
Fortunately, he did not appear. A friendly, middle-aged, dark-skinned woman opened the door.
“Jes?” she queried in a Spanish accent.
Libby curtsied as best she could with her burdens, and introduced herself. “I’m here to apply for the housekeeping position,” she explained. “I know I am a sight. I have been traveling by paddleboat, train and stagecoach for weeks. I got off the coach in Deer Lodge and went to the mercantile to inquire about lodging. There I met the happy cowboy…” She rolled her eyes…“who asked me to give you this flour, by the way, if you are Carmen.”
Carmen smiled at her description of Garrett. She could just imagine how he would have behaved around this creature. Hmm…a young, attractive woman living at the ranch. Even covered in dirt she was a beauty. Carmen’s wheels began to turn. Could this be the answer to her prayers?
“Is Jack…Mr. Butterman in?” Libby asked tenuously.
“No, he is branding cattle today. Oh, excuse my manners, señorita. Please do come in.” She took the flour sack from the young woman and led her inside.
Libby’s jaw almost dropped. It was magnificent, not because the house was opulent, although the dark furniture looked expensive, as did the western-style paintings in the vestibule, one that looked like a cattle drive and another of a cavalry patrol. Off to the left was a large room with a stone fireplace, a deep magenta rug with a gold border and brown leather sofa and chair that looked so soft she yearned to ease herself onto one of them. What made the house so wonderful was that it was warm and charming and inviting, a true home as she had never known. Not like the elegant, pristine, “perfect” mansion in St. Louis. Libby could feel it in her bones. She was truly home. If Jackson Butterman was not her father, maybe he would adopt her.
Chapter 6
Libby sipped gratefully on a steaming cup of coffee and started on her second warm blueberry muffin. She and Carmen sat at a huge handcrafted pine dining table that could likely accommodate 15 or 20. The kindly woman had spent a considerable amount of time describing the ranch, where horses and cattle were raised; and the meal schedule, with breakfast at sunrise, dinner around noon and supper anywhere from 5 o’clock to 7. It was some time before she finally got around to asking Libby about her experience.
“Have you held a job as a housekeeper?” Carmen asked, looking as if she could see right through the young woman.
For a split second, Libby thought of lying. She had certainly gotten a great deal of practice at it lately. But there was something so pure and good about Carmen, an earth mother quality, that she couldn’t do it. “No,” she said, “but I have kept house. I am a conscientious and hard worker and a fast learner. If you hire me, I promise I will not let you down.”
“Where did you come here from?”
Oh dear, she had implied…or maybe even right-out lied…to Garrett that it was Boston. Still, there was something about Carmen…“St. Louis.”
“Are you sure you will be content out here where there is no city and no close neighbors?”
Libby fought the urge to grin. “I think I could use the peace and quiet.”
“It is not always peaceful and quiet here, señorita, but this is a fine working ranch with good people.”
“What kind of man is Jackson Butterman?” Libby asked, trying to keep her hand from shaking as she set her coffee cup in its saucer. She couldn’t think of any better way to find out about him than to ask the people who knew him best.
Carmen smiled. Libby could hear the affection in her voice. “He is a good man, a bull at times with a head that is made of stone, and you do not want him as an enemy, but he is a man of honor. And compassion. He does the right thing.”
“Is he bossy?”
“Oh, jes.”
“I already know what Garrett Winslow is like,” Libby scowled.
Carmen studied her for a moment. “Do not be too certain, señorita. He also is a fine man, one who has some diablos…demons…in his past but, he is, how you say, a diamond in the rough. He is señor Jackson’s foreman, and muy talentoso…talented, skilled at his job. The men respect him.”
“Hmmph.” Libby did not doubt he did his job well, but a fine man? Hah! He was stuffy and a bully. That handsome face and finely muscled frame was wasted on a scoundrel like him. He could have that woman in the mercantile. They deserved each other.
Carmen looked at her with a frighteningly discerning eye. “I think you will be good for him.”
“Me? He cannot abide me, nor I him.” She thought about that for a second. “I would not let that interfere with my work, though. I swear.”
“Jes, this is a good start.”
Was she even listening? Libby looked at her as if she had two heads, but Carmen just smiled. “Come,” she coaxed, “I will show you where you will sleep and I will fix a bath for you.”
Libby stood, her heart caught in her throat. “You mean I have the job?” Not that she wouldn’t have been equally grateful just for the bath.
“I will have to get señor Butterman to agree, but I think jes, you have the job. You will bathe and rest and then eat supper with us and you will start tomorrow. You will eat all meals with us and attend church with us on Sunday.”
Libby stepped back, clearly aghast. “Oh, but is that right? I mean, I will just be the housekeeper.”
“And I am just the cook, and I eat and pray with the family.”
“Oh, Carmen…should I call you Mrs. Someone?…thank you so much.”
She hugged her benefactor happily.
The older woman smiled warmly. “I am just Carmen.”
“And I am just Libby.” And I am home.
* * *
It felt so positively divine to relax and get the multiple layers of dirt off her that Libby lounged in the copper tub long after the water turned tepid. When she started to shiver, she poured a pitcher of almost cold but clean water over her head to rinse off and shivered more, then rose and dried herself with the stiff yellow towel Carmen had provided. After that, she donned a cream-colored chemise she had retrieved from her bag. She walked to the window, moved the white muslin curtain aside and gazed out at a lovely view of the stables and the mountains beyond. Turning back to the room, she marveled at how cozy it was. Though smaller than her room in the St. Louis mansion, with a comfortable-looking bed, a dressing table and chair with a mirror, pine nightstand and wardrobe, it suited her perfectly.
Now that she was clean, Libby felt suddenly beyond exhausted. On leaden feet she headed for the bed, which was adorned with a beautiful pink and yellow flowered quilt. That was another difference between this and the St. Louis house. This house felt festive, more alive, both in its furnishings and the people. Well, that might be a stretch since she had only met two people. Carmen was a joyous person, and while Garrett obviously was not, he was still vital, so alive. She lifted the covers, expecting scratchy sheets, but they were soft. She was in heaven. She climbed in, sinking into the fluffy pillow as she pulled the covers around her neck. It was perfect, the bed inviting and warm, the best sleeping accommodations she experienced since running out of her former home, and a moment later she was sound asleep.
