Читать книгу To Tempt A Texan - Georgina Gentry - Страница 10

Meanwhile, back at the ranch…

Cimarron came outside to join her husband sitting on a bench watching the fountain in the courtyard. A brown Chihuahua was curled up in his lap. “Well, Trace, is there anything prettier than a spring sunrise in the Texas hill country?”

“You, darlin’.” He put his arm around her. After twenty-four years, he was still madly in love with her.

“Oh, you charmer, you. You could sell whiskey to a church deacon.” She smiled at him fondly.

“Which reminds me, you heard anything from Lacey?”

Cimarron shook her head. “Not yet, but you knows she’s as independent as a cowboy who just got paid. I reckoned when she got back from that Grand Tour of Europe and went to work for that Dallas newspaper, she’d get over what happened.”

“It’s a little hard to forget. Half of Texas is still talkin’ about it.” He sighed and stared at the bubbling fountain.

“That’s the reason she didn’t feel she could settle around here,” Cimarron’s voice was sympathetic.

“Maybe if she’d get married…”

“After what happened?” Cimarron reminded him.

“You’re right. Still, she ain’t gonna like it up there in the Territory. You can take a gal out of Texas, but you can’t take Texas out of the gal.”

“Now, that’s a fact.” Cookie, their grizzled old cowboy limped around the oleander bushes at the corner of the adobe and joined them. As usual, his bushy gray whiskers needed trimming and he smelled faintly of vanilla.

“You through cooking breakfast for the cowhands?” Cimarron smiled at him and he grinned back. Everyone on the giant Triple D ranch knew how much he adored the missus.

“I did, but they must all be off their feed; none of them ate much.”

Cimarron and her husband exchanged glances. Cookie had been crippled when a horse fell on him years ago and Trace Durango had made a place for him as the cook for their fifty cowboys. Unfortunately, Cookie couldn’t fry an egg so a starving coyote would eat it.

Trace ran his hand through his black hair, now turning gray. “Reckon it’s time you retired, Cookie?”

“And not earn my beans around here? I reckon not.” The old cowboy was a proud one.

Trace smiled and returned to watching the fountain spray water in the air. He patted the small brown dog in his lap.

Cimarron decided to take the conversation in a new direction. “We were just discussing the fact we haven’t heard from Lacey yet.”

The old man spat tobacco juice to one side. “What got that fool girl thinking about takin’ part in the land run?”

“Maybe still embarrassed about the weddin’.” Trace said.

“Wal now,” Cookie rushed to her defense, “that weren’t all her fault. That dude she picked out—”

“My niece might be a mite impossible to live with,” Cimarron admitted.

“A mite?” Trace threw back his head and laughed.

“Double damnation, Trace, it’s just that she likes everything perfect, you know that.”

“It was a perfect weddin’,” Cookie nodded, “fanciest I ever seen. And it was perfect…wal, right up ’til the end.”

Cimarron sighed. “No girl could have dealt with that embarrassment. And in front of all those people.”

“Not to mention what happened later.” Trace said. “It’s her own fault she’s now an old maid. I don’t know why that gal keeps lookin’ for perfection in everything; especially in a husband. She ain’t gonna find a man who’s perfect.”

“You can take that to the bank,” Cimarron muttered.

“What, darlin’?”

“Nothing.” Cimarron smiled. “Maybe she’ll be a success owning a paper.”

“Ha.” Cookie spat tobacco juice. “Who ever heard of a woman runnin’ a paper?”

“It could happen.” Cimarron said.

“Yes, and hell could cool off, too.” Trace added.

“Well, double damnation, you must have thought she’d be a success or you wouldn’t have loaned her the money to do it.”

Trace petted the dog. “I just felt so sorry for her after the weddin’ mess.”

“Don’t let her know that,” Cimarron cautioned, “she’s mighty proud.”

“Of course she’s proud, she’s a Texan, ain’t she?”

“But she was born in Boston, remember?” Cimarron said.

“Well, she and Lark were raised in Texas after her grandfather decided he couldn’t deal with the twins, and that’s what counts.” Trace countered. “She’s proud and stubborn. You know what they say, ‘the meek may inherit the earth, but the proud will get Texas.’ The meek don’t feel at home here anyway.”

“Don’t let the padre hear you say that,” Cimarron scolded. “He might think it was blasphemous.”

“Naw.” Trace shook his head, “he’s a Texan, too.”

“I am concerned about Lacey,” Cimarron worried aloud. “A woman alone in an uncivilized land rush. If she gets in trouble, she’s just like Lark, she won’t let us know so we can help her.”

Cookie sighed and surveyed the fountain. “Anybody heered from Lark?”

Cimarron shook her head. “Not in months. Of course, she was always a tomboy while Lacey was the perfect lady, so maybe Lark can take care of herself.”

“Even Pinkertons haven’t found Lark.” Trace tossed away his smoke with a sigh. “I reckon she’ll turn up when she wants to be found. She’s a lot wilder than Lacey.”

Cimarron nodded. “You’re right; I’m more concerned about Lacey. Maybe we should go up to the Territory and see how she’s doing.”

“She wouldn’t like that,” Trace said.

The old codger scratched his gray beard. “You know, I always said, if I was a younger man, I’d have gotten in on that land rush myself.”

“You, Cookie?” Both turned to look at him with surprise.

“Well, why not?” The old man said defensively, “Ain’t I got a right to some dreams besides cookin’ for a bunch of ungrateful cowhands?”

“I reckon I always thought you were happy as a dead hog in the sunshine on the Triple D.” Trace stroked the pup.

“I am and I don’t want you to think I ain’t grateful, Boss, but I always had a hankerin’ to open a cafe.”

Both the others gulped.

“I heered that!” Cookie said.

“We didn’t say anything,” Cimarron said. “Did we, darlin’?”

“Nope.” A muscle in Trace’s jaw twitched.

“Wal, you was thinkin’ it, Boss.” Cookie said and stared off toward the north horizon. “You know, I’ll bet that new town could use a good cafe. I could call it Cookie’s Kitchen.”

Trace hesitated as he lit a cigarillo. “It might be too much work for you, partner, and we’d miss you.”

“Wal, I’d be back to visit and I could see about Lacey. I reckon somebody needs to.”

Cimarron coughed, thinking of just what Lacey would say if the old cowboy showed up to check on her. Her niece was fiercely independent. “I don’t know, Cookie, opening a cafe takes money—”

“Now what you think I been doin’ with my wages all these years?” Cookie asked. “I been savin’ them, that’s what. I got enough to open a nice cafe.”

Trace took a deep puff of his cigar. “Cookie, now you might want to rethink this—”

“I don’t know why, unless you’re needin’ me to cook here at the big house again for you and the missus.”

The others exchanged alarmed glances.

“Uh, Cookie,” Cimarron said, “you wouldn’t want to do Juanita out of her job, would you? She’s got grandchildren to support.”

Cookie thought it over and nodded. “Reckon you’re right. Wal, I might just mosey up to that Oklahoma Territory and look things over. If I see a good business opportunity, I might take it.”

“Remember you’re always welcome on the Triple D,” Trace reminded him. “Long as we got a biscuit, you got half.”

A Texan couldn’t make a deeper gesture of commitment than that and Cookie was touched. “I know that, Boss, and I’m much obliged. The Durangos is the onliest family I got, that’s why I’m concerned about Miss Lacey. I could keep you informed about how she’s doin’ since she won’t write.”

“She won’t like that,” Cimarron said, wondering what she could do to dissuade the old man.

“Then let the young lady lump it.” Cookie stood up. “I’ll start makin’ my plans right now. It may take me a week or two to get everything squared away, but the more I think about it, the better I like it. Cookie’s Kitchen, best food in the southwest.”

The pair watched him limp away and disappear around the corner of the adobe ranch house.

Trace swore in Spanish. “He’ll poison the whole town.”

“I heered that,” yelled the old man.

“Now you’ve hurt his feelings, Trace,” she scolded.

“If I could hurt his feeling, he would have left years ago.” He pulled his wife to him and kissed her. “You got any tequila inside?”

“You know what your doctor said about tequila and cigars,” she reminded him and kissed him back. The kiss lengthened.

“Well, I ain’t too old for one thing,” he murmured. “Why don’t we move inside so half of Texas ain’t watchin’?”

“I’m agreeable.” She smiled at him.

They both got up, dumping the dozing Chihuahua on the patio. It promptly started for the house.

“You think I should let Lacey know Cookie’s coming?” Cimarron asked as she linked arms with her husband and they strolled toward the front door.

“Uh, why don’t we just pretend we don’t know anything?” Trace answered. “Maybe Cookie will change his mind.”

“Won’t!” yelled the old man from around the corner, “I’m goin’ to Oklahoma to rescue our Lacey.”

Cimarron smiled as they went inside. Their cowboys would get a reprieve for awhile, but God help the settlers in the Territory who ate in Cookie’s Kitchen. At least, the old cowboy would let them know how Lacey was doing.

Blackie smoked and watched dourly as the scene across the street unfolded. That annoying damnyankee gal and some short, ink-stained man were directing workmen unloading a printing press and many boxes at a site on Main Street. She looked fresh and determined this morning with her hair up in a bun, and wearing a no-nonsense plain dark skirt with a small bustle and a clean white shirtwaist with the new leg o’ mutton sleeves. She wore horn-rimmed glasses and a determined expression.

Blackie was in a bad mood as he watched. Miss Iron Corset, yes, that was a good name for that ornery gal. She must have rented herself a lot on Main Street for her damned reformer rag while she waited the outcome of the contested land. If she thought she could be as stubborn as Blackie O’Neal, she had another think coming. He decided at that moment that he would make her so miserable, she would be happy to shout “calf rope,” forget her prissy goals, and leave town.

That decided, Blackie looked about the bustling, busy settlement this third day after the run and went to find the owner of the lot directly across the street from Miss Iron Corset’s newspaper. His bartender, Moose, and Flo and the girls would be arriving the day after tomorrow to open and as yet, there was no saloon to put them in. Maybe Blackie could rent that lot.

The whole settlement was a madhouse, most of the businesses attempting to open along the dusty streets were in tents, with a few already building more permanent structures. Hammers echoed throughout the area with horses and buggies moving up and down through the higgledy-piggledy crooked lines of shacks and tents.

He scowled at the choice corner lot when he passed it; a perfect place for the finest saloon in a wide-open, wild settlement with a name like Whiskey Flats. Yes, he nodded with a smile at the thought as he headed to the railroad station, Whiskey Flats was a great name men would like. It would signify the kind of town real men could gather in, drawn like magnets to the liquor, gambling, and wild women; the kind of women Miss Iron Corset would not approve of.

At the railroad terminal, workmen were just unloading a freight car of fresh, pine-scented lumber. However, when he tried to buy some, he was told Miss Durango had come in only an hour earlier and bought most of that load. The rest was headed to the new Peabody General Store that was already operating out of a big, flapping tent at the end of Main Street.

He would not be outmaneuvered by that staid temperance leader. “I’ll pay more.” he offered.

The balding clerk hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said, “Miss Durango is planning on buildin’ a newspaper office. Town needs a newspaper.”

Blackie grinned and offered the man one of his own fine cigars. “You know what I’m plannin’ to build? The finest saloon, gamblin’ palace, and dance hall in the whole West.”

“Dance hall?” The man took the cigar.

Blackie winked. “You know what I mean. Why, these gals that are comin’ in on the train from Del Rio are the purtiest you ever saw.”

“Texas gals? Texas gals are always the best.”

“Ain’t it the truth?” Blackie nodded and reached for his wallet. Given a choice between a town newspaper and a big saloon and bawdy house, of course there was no contest. Men would always be men.

Lacey was more than annoyed when she went to the train station to see about her shipment of lumber. The balding clerk mumbled an excuse and promised a later delivery. Despite her protests, she did not get her building supplies. Outrageous. She marched back along the dusty street to the big tent where Isaac was setting up the press. Her mood did not improve when she saw two wagon loads of fresh lumber being unloaded across the street under the watchful eye of that terrible Rebel who was contesting her for the choice lot. Worse yet, when he saw her, he grinned and tipped his hat. She, on the other hand, put her nose in the air and went into the tent. “That sleazy gambler has our lumber.”

Isaac looked up from setting type. He was a small, stoop-shouldered Hungarian immigrant with ink always smeared across his homely features. “We get the paper out anyhow, yes?”

She paced up and down, ignoring Precious who attempted to rub against her legs. Every now and then, Lacey peeked out the tent entrance to watch the pile of lumber across the street grow and grow. Blackie O’Neal spotted her peeking and waved to her. Embarrassed to be caught watching him, she turned suddenly and fell across the cat, who fled with an indignant yowl.

“Miss Lacey, you hurt?” Isaac came around the press to stare down at her.

“Only my pride.” She got up and dusted herself off. “That sidewinder Rebel, he’s deliberately baiting me.”

“He seems to be doing a pretty good job, yes?” Isaac observed.

“I will not let that tinhorn gambler get my goat,” she declared, “that’s exactly why he’s doing it. I only wish I knew what he promised that railroad clerk to give him my lumber. I intend to help build a perfect town with no room for the likes of trashy saloons; I’ll see to that.”

She sat down at her desk, picked up a pen and pad and thought aloud. “Let’s see, an editorial for our first issue: “Welcome everyone to a new town, a new Territory and a new day. The old wild west is dead and good riddance. First, this settlement needs a name that will draw settlers, lawabiding citizens and families.” Absently, she lay down her pen and strolled to look out the back flap of the tent. While the front of the tent faced on the busy, dusty street and the hubbub of construction, the back view was serene with green rolling prairie. “Yes, this settlement needs a name that will draw the kind of citizens we want, something like Pleasant View, Greenville, or Pretty Prairie.”

“Pretty Prairie, perfect.” She returned to her very organized desk, picked up her pen and scribbled furiously.

Behind her, Isaac cleared his throat. “The people will get to vote on the name, yes?”

“The men will.” She frowned in disgust. “But women’s rights is something I will tackle later.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so,” Isaac said, “the men won’t vote for a name like Pretty Prairie. It’s too—too—”

“Civilized?” Lacey chewed on the tip of her pen. “Not brutish enough? You’re right about that, but there has to be a way to do this.”

Isaac groaned aloud. “Miss Lacey, if you don’t mind me saying so, let’s not go tilting at windmills. Let’s just get out the newspaper. First we need advertisers.”

“On the contrary, the business of a newspaper is to tilt at windmills. The public has a right to know the facts.”

“Opinion is not facts,” Isaac reminded her gently. “Save your thoughts for the editorials, Miss Lacey.”

“Of course. Now the first thing we need is a building instead of a drafty old tent.” She heard a noise outside and went out to greet a driver who was delivering a small load of lumber. She looked at the huge stack across the street as she signed for the building supplies. “All right, you cheap tinhorn,” she muttered, “two can play this game. You can’t outsmart a Texas girl.”

Maybe he hadn’t yet hired workmen, and carpenters were surely in short supply with all the new construction.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Lacey yelled to Isaac and started off down the street. Soon she had hired the last three available carpenters by offering what she considered outrageous wages and that afternoon, as she and Isaac set type for their first edition, the sound of hammers echoed around them outside the tent. She hated the noise and confusion but she would persevere. “This will work fine,” she shouted at Isaac, “they’ll build the building completely around our tent and then we’ll take the tent down. I’ll get more lumber somehow.”

She made sure her top of her desk was neat as she sat down. Precious jumped into her lap to be stroked. She patted the cat, chewed her pen and smiled, imagining the look on that Blackie O’Neal’s face when he found out he had lumber but no carpenters. The thought gave her grim satisfaction as she listened to the hammers ring. “About the town’s name…”

…bam, bam, bam.

“Pretty Prairie would be a fitting name for this…”

…bam, bam.

“…settlement, and when we choose a city council…”

…bam, bam, bam.

“…this newspaper suggests to all law-abiding citizens that they should choose a name that shows a bright future.”

…bam, bam.

She fiddled with her pen, and readjusted her horn-rimmed spectacles, deep in thought. She must really stop and take a pitcher of lemonade out to her carpenters after awhile.

Isaac cleared his throat. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?” She looked up from her writing.

“The noise has stopped.”

Lacey paused and looked around. She could hear the sound of wagons passing in the street, a child laughing, a dog barking somewhere, but no hammers. “Maybe our carpenters have stopped for lunch.”

Isaac pulled out his pocket watch. “At nine-thirty in the morning?”

The sound of hammers began again, but this time, they sounded farther away. “My word,” Lacey said, “what do you suppose?” She got up, dumping the indignant white cat out of her lap as she went outside to investigate.

Across the street, that tinhorn nodded to her and toasted her with a tall glass, no doubt full of whiskey and ice. He was clean now, but he still looked like a gambler; bright silk vest, flat panama hat, a string tie, and a diamond ring on the little finger of his right hand. Didn’t he know it was not proper for a man to wear diamonds?

“What am I thinking about? Blackie O’Neal and ‘proper’ in the same sentence?”

Abruptly what caught her attention were her three workmen now hammering away at the site across the street. She marched across, barely avoiding being hit by a beer wagon. “You!” She waved her finger at Blackie and her indignation knew no bounds. “You stole my carpenters!”

“Guilty as charged.” Blackie grinned and sipped his drink. Miss damnyankee Iron Corset was almost pretty when she was angry, except her mouth was a thin, grim line. Not very kissable and that was always the first thing Blackie thought about when he looked at a woman’s mouth. Oh, hell, it was what any man thought about. “You can have them back when they get my building finished.”

Her nostrils flared like a fine racehorse’s as she took a deep breath and glared at him over her spectacles. “My newspaper is certainly more important than a watering hole for whiskey-swilling toughs.”

“Well, now, Miss Durango, that’s a matter of opinion, now, ain’t it?” He was loving this, after what the prim temperance crusader had put him through over the lot.

She took another breath and blinked rapidly. For a moment, he almost thought he saw tears there, but decided she wasn’t feminine enough for that. She’d probably gotten dust in her eyes.

Now she whirled and her small bustle waggled invitingly as she marched over to yell up at the carpenters on the scaffold. “You there, whatever he’s paying, I’ll pay more.”

The men hesitated, shamefaced, and looked toward Blackie, then went back to work. Bam! Bam! Bam!

“Didn’t you hear me?” She called.

Bam! Bam! Bam! Apparently they didn’t.

“It’s no use, sister.” Blackie grinned as he sauntered over and took in the scene with satisfaction. “They ain’t gonna quit my job.”

She whirled on him, arms akimbo. Yes, indeedy, Miss Iron Corset was almost pretty when she was furious. “What is it you offered them if not better wages?”

“Well, for starters, all the beer they could drink and a chance to meet my girls.”

“Girls? What girls?” She looked around.

“They ain’t here yet.”

For a moment, she seemed speechless, which for the prim newspaper woman was probably a rarity, then a deep blush crept up the neck of her crisp white shirtwaist and spread across her face. “You mean—?”

He nodded. “You know what I mean. The kind of girls men like will be comin’ in on the train from Del Rio.”

“This is outrageous! You disgusting Rebel, I shall write an editorial!” She turned, nose in the air, and marched back across the street, narrowly missing tripping over Lively who was asleep in the middle of the road.

Blackie watched her go and smiled. She had challenged him and he was responding. If Miss damnyankee Iron Corset wanted to act like a man, Blackie was up to the challenge. He yelled at Lively to move out of the street and returned to supervising the construction. Later, he could sublet this building to someone else when he built an even bigger and better saloon on that choice corner lot. In the meantime, it had been a good morning because he had bested the annoying Miss Lacey Durango.