Читать книгу A Gentleman for Dry Creek - Janet Tronstad - Страница 12

The leather work gloves on Garth’s hands were stiff from the cold. He was twisting a strand of barbed wire to see exactly where the cut had been made. Not that it made much difference. This time the rustlers had succeeded. His crew counted twenty cows missing.

“Might be they’ll show up on the other side of the Big Sheep,” Jess, one of his new hands, offered. Jess was nearing sixty, too old to be out riding the range in most outfits, but Garth had hired him five months ago, after all the other big outfits had turned the man down. In Garth’s eyes, every man deserved the right to prove himself, and Garth assigned him to light duty in the calving barn. Jess had been pointedly grateful ever since.

“They must have hit last night and it’s already late afternoon. I should have been paying more attention,” Garth muttered as he pulled his Stetson down farther. The air around him was so cold it hung like smoke. A wet frost had hit last night and the barbed wire had stayed iced all day. Garth had thought he was safe from the rustlers in weather like this. The thieves must be desperate to get back into operation if they’d work in this cold.

“You can’t check all your fences every day,” Jess protested loyally. “Not with the land you have. No, you couldn’t have known.”

Garth grunted. He’d never know if he could have known or not. He wasn’t concentrating like normal on business at hand. For the past two days he’d thought of little else but the camp he had promised to Sylvia. The bubble of euphoria—that Sylvia was coming to his ranch—had slowly deflated as he drove back to Montana.

No, he’d given almost no thought to his cattle. He had bigger worries. He had a three-day head start. What was he going to do with thirty teenagers? And, worse yet, what was he going to do with Sylvia?

He’d assigned every hand on his place something to clean and he’d put his sister Francis in charge of the inspections. He missed his son, but the boy had gone to Chicago to visit an old friend. Garth wished his son were here to help keep the men happy. Except for Jess, the men had all threatened to quit. They said they’d hired on to ride herd on cattle, not scrub walls. Even after Garth promised them a bonus, they still muttered. But they cleaned—cowboy-style—using a broom like a shovel and a rag like a whip.

Francis insisted they use ammonia and now the whole ranch smelled of it. Garth took a cautious whiff of his hand. Even through the glove he could still smell the stuff. The one good thing about it all was that Francis brightened considerably as she took to her task. She’d still not told Garth what was troubling her and he knew better than to push. But it was good to have his sister smiling again, and she’d promised to extend her visit until summer.

Sound traveled clearly on a crisp cold afternoon and Garth heard the rumble of a load-pulling engine before he saw the bus crawl over the hill that led to the main house.

“We best get back,” Garth said as he walked over to the horses. Garth put his leg into the stirrup and lifted himself up. “We’ve got company.”

Sylvia stood in the long wood-frame building. So this was the bunkhouse. Late-afternoon shadows filled the corners but she didn’t turn on the overhead light. She could see what she needed to see. The plank floor was unpolished and smooth from years of wear. The small row of windows were half covered with frost and they lacked curtains. Eight cots were lined against each of the long sides of the building.

Puffs of heat came toward her, fighting the cold air. Metal grates along the wall indicated gas heating, but most of the heat seemed to be coming from a potbelly stove near the door. The stove door was closed but the bright glow of a steady fire shone through the door cracks. But as cozy as the inside of the bunkhouse was, the view out the windows of the afternoon sun reflecting off the snow-capped mountains was breathtaking. The girls would like it. They might not admit to it, but they would like it. She could hear the girls now, chattering as they walked to the ranch house from the rented bus.

Above the voices of the teenagers, she could hear Mrs. Buckwalter’s deep laugh. Sylvia had to give the older woman credit. She hadn’t just written a check. She’d spent hours shopping and packing for their camp. Finally, she had confidently asked if she could ride with them to camp. Sylvia would have refused, but she could use an extra adult on the trip, especially since Mrs. Buckwalter had a quelling influence on the rowdy teenagers. No one misbehaved around Mrs. Buckwalter; whether it was the promise of new skis or the fact that the older woman formally called each of the kids by their full name, Sylvia did not know.

Sylvia, herself, kept watching the woman cautiously, half expecting something to happen that would cause Mrs. Buckwalter’s generous enthusiasm to disappear. Surely one of the woman’s relatives would step up and say Mrs. Buckwalter wasn’t competent to donate large sums of money. That was one reason Sylvia was glad to be away from Seattle. She doubted any of the accountants would bother with them when they were so far away.

Mrs. Buckwalter had made all the arrangements. The bus had been rented for a month even though the driver would fly back to Seattle once the suitcases were unloaded. The driver would return and drive them back when they were ready to go.

Sylvia looked around the bunkhouse again, reassuring herself that she had made the right decision. She had excused herself from the others, saying she needed to change her blouse. She had spilled coffee on it this morning, but the small spot wouldn’t ordinarily stop her. No, she wanted a few minutes alone to gather her thoughts before she faced Garth again.

She remembered being in Garth’s house that morning when he’d found her half-frozen and had brought her to his ranch. She could almost picture where he must be sitting now. He’d have his boots off and his feet propped up in front of the fireplace. Garth hadn’t come to the door when the bus pulled up. It had been Francis who stood on the porch and called out, asking everyone to come up to the ranch house for a cup of hot cocoa and some cookies.

Sylvia had asked Mrs. Buckwalter to tell Francis that she’d be up soon. She had thought a five-hundred-mile bus ride would prepare her to meet anyone again. But it hadn’t.

Now here she was—hiding out in the bunkhouse like a coward. She shook her head ruefully as she set her suitcase on one of the chairs near the stove. Even with the stove’s heat, it was still a little chilly in the room. Sylvia took off her coat and opened her suitcase. She’d be quick. Maybe she’d put on her red blouse for courage.

Garth swore as he rode over the hill and looked down at his house. The bus was parked in the driveway and he could hear the sounds of voices coming from the living room. Knowing Francis, she had everyone inside thawing while she fed them cookies. Garth hoped she kept everyone there for a few minutes. He wasn’t ready to meet Sylvia. She was a city woman and he didn’t think she’d appreciate being greeted by a man whose hands smelled of ammonia and whose feet smelled of cattle. Fortunately he could slip into the bunkhouse and wash up before he headed up to the house.

Garth opened the door to the bunkhouse.

Mercy!

Since the time he was a small boy, Garth had been taught to close the door behind him in winter. It was a cardinal rule in these mountains. Heat was precious. But, so help him, he couldn’t move.

Sylvia stood there. Her midnight-black hair was loose around her shoulders. Her turquoise eyes were opened in surprise. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. It wasn’t until he noticed the red start to creep up her neck that he realized she wasn’t wearing a blouse. And the lace contraption she wore for a bra made him warm even though it was cold enough inside the bunkhouse to frost the windows.

“Excuse me,” Garth finally managed to say. His manners kicked in and he stepped inside. “I didn’t mean to let the cold air in.”

Once he was inside, Garth kicked himself again. He’d obviously stepped the wrong way. Sylvia looked embarrassed and he certainly didn’t mean to embarrass her. “Don’t mind me. I didn’t know someone was in here. I can leave. I just came in to wash my hands.”

Garth turned to go.

“It’s all right. You can wash up here.” Sylvia spoke. Garth had fished on creeks with thinner ice than Sylvia had in her voice. “The sink’s in the back.”

Sylvia wrapped her blouse around herself, waiting for Garth to pass.

What could a man do when he’d done everything wrong so far? Garth walked down the aisle between the beds to one of the sinks at the end of the bunkhouse.

He’d turned on the faucet before he looked up. Hallelujah! The mirror above the sink gave him a clear view of Sylvia. Her skin was golden in the light from the stove. Her hair shone like black coal. It took him a full minute to realize that Sylvia was half-frozen. He’d seen that same stiffness in fawns caught in the headlights of a tractor.

He lowered his eyes and quickly washed his hands before turning off the faucet.

“There’s lots of extra towels if you or the girls need them,” Garth said as he turned around. Maybe Sylvia was shy. He pointed. “In the cabinet right here.”

“We’ll find them, I’m sure,” Sylvia said.

Garth sighed. She had her blouse buttoned to her chin and her arms crossed.

“Anything you need, just ask.” Garth wondered how mannerly he would need to be to make Sylvia smile at him. She certainly wasn’t smiling now. She did nod.

“Well, okay, then,” Garth said. He thought about removing his hat, but it seemed foolish since he hadn’t taken if off when he’d first entered the bunkhouse. Instead, he nodded, too. “I guess the others are up at the house?”

Sylvia nodded.

Garth was defeated. He nodded again. This time he closed the door very carefully on the way out.

The sound of teenagers greeted Garth as he stepped on his front porch. He hoped they, at least, would talk to him.

Sylvia sat down. She was out of breath. She hadn’t had an episode like that in years. She thought she had gotten a handle on her fears about men. And usually she was all right. Her days at the youth center had helped her deal with violence and fear. But sometimes something would happen that would take her by surprise and she wasn’t in control. Like just now. With Garth. He’d appeared so suddenly and she’d thought she was alone. She hadn’t had time to steel herself, to hide her primitive reaction.

She wondered if he knew she had been paralyzed. She hoped not. It wasn’t his fault she’d had bad experiences with men and violence. And she didn’t want to hear his apology or, worse yet, the polite questions that invited her to tell her whole sorry story. Sylvia reached into her suitcase and brought out her Bible.

She sought the comfort of Psalm 91. The psalm had been with her for years and it always served to anchor her. “He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust.” She repeated the verse. The familiar words soothed her. The psalmist was right. God was her fortress. She relied on that fact every day of her life. She hid herself in the folds of His love. He protected her. There was no other way she could have taken her fear of violence and used it to start erasing violence in the lives of the kids who came to the center.

But lately she had begun to wonder if she could continue living in that fortress. She was safe, but she was also alone. She knew God would not want her fear to be a prison. She closed her eyes in weariness. Dear Lord, show me how not to be so afraid. Show me how to stop my fears.

Tiny flakes of snow were falling by the time Sylvia stepped out of the bunkhouse to walk to the main house. She’d put several pieces of wood in the bunkhouse stove. It was almost dark outside even though it must not have been later than six o’clock.

Snowflakes settled on Sylvia’s cheeks as she lifted her face in the early-night sky. She’d never seen darkness fall like this in Seattle—a blanket of thick gray covered the sky. No stars sparkled. No moon dipped in the sky. When night fell completely it would be deep black. She was glad the camp could start in the winter. It was a lovely time of year here.

Squares of golden light showed the windows of the main house. Sylvia heard the hum of voices before she climbed the steps to the house.

“Sylvia!” Francis opened the large, oak door before Sylvia had a chance to knock. The woman was wearing a denim skirt and tennis shoes. She had a dish towel draped over her shoulder and a plate of cookies in one hand. The smell of fresh-baked oatmeal cookies mixed with the soothing smell of real wood burning in the fireplace. “Come in. You must be frozen! I was just going to send Garth down to check on you. I just turned the gas heat on this afternoon. I wasn’t sure you’d be here tonight. It’s too cold—”

“There’s a fire going,” Sylvia protested as she shook the snow off her hair. She looked around the room. Francis looked as friendly as she remembered. The teenagers were grouped around something in the dining room. A few squeals from the girls told Sylvia she wouldn’t get their attention soon. “It will be fine—”

“I don’t want the girls to be uncomfortable,” Francis said worriedly. She put the plate of cookies down on a small table near the door. “I know how girls like nice things.”

“They like cookies even better,” Sylvia said. She doubted the kids had had homemade cookies in years. Most of their mothers worked long hours. Cookies were a luxury.

“You’ll have one?” Francis offered the plate. “I haven’t made any since Tavis—that’s Garth’s son—is away. I put in extra raisins. Kids generally like raisins.”

“Thank you.” Sylvia took a cookie. “And thank you for the warm welcome. You’ve gone to so much extra trouble.”

“I’ve been looking forward to everyone coming since Garth first called.”

“And you’ve been busy. I saw that all the cots were made up.”

Francis smiled. “We worked on the girls’ bunkhouse first. I had Garth do some rewiring so they have more outlets for blow-drying their hair, and he even put in a telephone that goes between the bunkhouse and here.”

“A telephone?” Sylvia said in surprise.

“I told Garth you might feel more comfortable that way.” Francis looked more relaxed than she had in December when Sylvia had lain unconscious on the living room sofa. “That way, when you’re in the house with us, you’ll be able to call down and see that everything’s all right. That is—” Francis looked shy “—I’m hoping you’ll stay in the house with us. I told Garth he was to ask you. We have so much to plan—with Glory’s wedding and all—”

“Wedding! The last I talked to Glory, they were going to go to a justice of the peace.”

“Oh, not for our angel! Well, they are going to a justice for the wedding, but not for the reception. Not with Mrs. Hargrove around.” Francis smiled. “When they said they didn’t have patience for the details, Mrs. Hargrove told them she’d organize it all for them—this Saturday night. The whole town is in on it. I’m baking the wedding cake and you’re to be the maid of honor.” Francis hesitated. “I know you haven’t had a chance to talk to Glory since you’ve been driving here, but she told Mrs. Hargrove you were the one she wants to stand beside her when they repeat their vows here. I’m to help make you a dress—so you see, you need to stay in the house with us. I told Garth he was to insist.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—” Sylvia bit off her words. Garth hadn’t mentioned anything to her earlier about staying in the house. He might not want her there. They were renters, after all. Not guests. “I couldn’t leave the girls alone.”

“But with the phone you can call anytime,” Francis protested, the disappointment evident in her voice. “And later when you hire more camp counselors.”