Читать книгу Love on the Range - Jessica Nelson - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Trevor sat his mount high above Lou’s ranch and inhaled the crisp morning air. Below him Lou’s housekeeper, Mary, hung laundry. Gracie probably still slept, tuckered out by her long trip. He studied Mary. Was she happy here, in constant hiding?

She seemed content in her role, happy to clean and have a quiet life.

Not like Gracie. He remembered his impressions of her on the train, long before she’d officially met him at the station. Trouble, he’d thought.

Like Council Bluff.

Because the screams from that fiasco still rang in his ears, he focused on Lou’s niece.

So far, Gracie had proven curious but easy. He had to just keep her from going into Burns and stirring up interest in Striker.

He scanned the horizon. Mendez and his men were holed up somewhere in these mountains, searching for Mary, waiting for a chance to snatch the prey that had escaped Mendez so many years ago.

Trevor would make sure the only chance they got was to meet an unofficial noose.

That was Striker’s job, after all. He chased down criminals that the higher-ups didn’t have the time or knowledge to find, apprehending them and bringing them in. As the investigator beneath Lou, Trevor both reported to him and received cases from him. Lou was a senior investigator who’d been with the bureau since its formation beneath Chief Examiner Finch.

Bringing in Mendez was Trevor’s longest-running case but he’d determined to do it this year. Based on what he’d seen on the train, Mendez was getting loony. In the last year, Mendez had ramped up his efforts to find Striker. Sending henchmen to scour the countryside for Mary, wanting to use her to find the man who’d rescued her and foiled his kidnapping.

Mary had been Mendez’s first victim. A spontaneous deal that started an illegal thousand-dollar enterprise the government was still working to shut down. Quietly, of course.

But Trevor wanted to be done with all that.

The land called to him. It was time to settle down, own a ranch. No woman deserved the baggage he carried, though. Could he be content on his own? He’d been alone too many years to count. Maybe since he’d been a boy, even. His parents hadn’t offered any kind of protection or companionship, had never given him a reason to want a relationship with anyone, but the urge for a family niggled at him.

He pushed the feeling to the side. With a past like his, he didn’t deserve a wife. His mouth relaxed as he watched Mary go into the house. A short career, one he excelled at but didn’t love, would end with this assignment, even if the guilt didn’t.

And he’d get the one thing he longed for more than a home.

No more blood on his hands.

* * *

Gracie awoke to warm light streaming through large, arched windows into a spacious bedroom. She stretched her arms above her head, yawned and absorbed her new surroundings with all the famed curiosity of a cat.

Simplicity made the small room lovely. A bright, multicolored rug covered the honey-hued oak floor. A gilt mirror hung over a large wooden dresser in front of the bed. The bed had four large posts and the ivory quilt that draped it was warm and soft.

She swung her legs out of the bed and then began tidying up. Her jewels went into a far corner of the closet, shadowed by angles. They’d come in handy should she need to travel across the country in pursuit of Striker. Better yet, if she procured an interview and the Woman’s Liberator sent her on assignment, she’d be financially sound. She’d brought only some of her valuables; a few for sentiment, a few for wear and a few for hocking, should the need arise.

After they were stowed safely away, she unpacked her clothes into the heavy dresser, and then set about trying to make the bed, a chore usually taken care of by maids at home. But this is a new place, she reminded herself. Her fingers tucked the sheets beneath the mattress. There were still wrinkles in the middle of the bed.

She tugged on the sheet.

More wrinkles.

In the end, she contented herself with straightening the covers across the mattress as best she could. She’d just dressed in an olive-green blouse and matching skirt when a knock sounded.

“Coming.” She pulled the door open.

The Indian servant she’d seen last night stood in the hallway, holding a pile of linens. “May I come in?”

Gracie nodded and the woman glided into the room, more graceful than a monarch butterfly. Dozens of questions sprang to Gracie’s mind but she bit her lip and waited for the servant to speak first.

“I’m Mary, the housekeeper.” She rolled the R in her name, her sentence ending with a charming lilt. Dark brown eyes rested on Gracie. “I’ve brought you some clean linens, and breakfast is waiting downstairs. I hope you like omelets. Lou didn’t tell me anything about you so I just mixed up something quick.”

“Omelets sound wonderful. You have a darling accent.”

Mary stepped forward, holding up the pile of linens. “Where would you like these?”

“Wherever you wish. Don’t let me get in the way. Are you Indian? You sound Irish. You dress just like me.” Gracie frowned down at her own subdued clothing. “But you’re much more beautiful. How many languages do you speak?”

Mary looked a bit taken aback, her mouth rounding into a soft O. Gracie flushed and bit hard on her lip to hold in any more nosy questions.

“Three languages,” Mary finally said, regaining her soft smile. “I’m Paiute and Irish. Do you want help unpacking?” She walked to the dresser and started straightening Gracie’s clothes. “I hope you brought some wool underclothes. It gets cold here. Biting cold.”

Gracie’s stomach rumbled loudly in the quiet room and she grimaced. Mother often found her appetite a source of embarrassment. “I apologize. Perhaps you can tell I need my food.”

“Nonsense,” Mary said briskly, as if she saw Gracie’s discomfort and sought to comfort her. “I’m hungry, too. Follow me.”

They walked to the dining room on the first floor and sat at an exquisite mahogany table loaded with dishes.

“I thought you made only eggs,” Gracie said.

“Oh, that’s the main meal. Lou, Trevor and James eat quite a bit. I’ve got to make plenty of biscuits and pancakes to go with the omelets.”

While Gracie admired Mary’s glossy black hair and exotic eyes, the men shuffled in and sat. Her impressions last night had been accurate. James looked just as grizzled as ever, offsetting Uncle Lou’s handsome features and Mr. Cruz’s dark ones. She wished belatedly that she’d taken more care with her appearance. She felt large and frumpy, especially sitting near the luminous Mary.

The men grumbled their greetings. Mary rose and bustled around the table, filling cups with coffee and orange juice. Gracie wanted to help, but had no idea how. She had never served anything more than tea. She also didn’t want Mr. Cruz’s attention on her. In the light of day he looked more appealing than ever, and the last thing she wanted was for him to notice her plain attire.

The men began devouring forkfuls of food, and Gracie stared in horrified amazement. All thoughts of remaining inconspicuous deserted her.

“Is anyone going to pray?”

Quiet descended. Forks stopped in midair and four pairs of eyes turned her way. Uncle Lou spoke first.

“We don’t put much stock in prayer here, Gracie. You’re welcome to, of course, silently. Morning, by the way. Like your dress.” He resumed eating, and so did the others, while Gracie sat paralyzed with shock. She wanted to mind her own business, she really did, and her polite upbringing struggled valiantly for several seconds before it surrendered to her emotions.

“Are you jesting, Uncle Lou?” she asked carefully.

“He’s not jesting, missy. Life is harsh. If’n there’s a God, He’s a cruel one and not who we’d like to follow.”

Gracie didn’t know whether to weep with pity or laugh outright at James’s response. She stared down at her plate, silently entreating God to give her some words, some hope for these people. She looked up at last only to find everyone eating and conversing, all thoughts of God shoved to the back of their minds.

“Tell me about your business, Uncle Lou,” she said when she had regained her composure. For the rest of breakfast they monopolized the conversation with talk of business, politics and the suffrage movement. Uncle Lou, it turned out, was in favor of women getting the vote. “1912,” he said, pride swelling his voice. “We gave women that right years ago.”

“Gracie here’s a fan of jazz.” Trevor pointed his fork at her. She flushed. He’d remembered.

“Really?” Uncle Lou winked at her. “I like Jelly Roll Morton myself.”

The heat in her face hiked up a notch. “I’ve heard his morals are questionable.”

James busted out laughing. A smile played over Uncle Lou’s face. Gracie’s brows drew together, and when she glanced at Mary she noticed the other woman’s cheeks had turned scarlet.

Gracie saw Trevor studying her, a half grin catching the corners of his mouth. She caught her lip between her teeth. He found immorality amusing but seemed angered by her belief in God.

Maybe his perspective might change as they traveled the countryside searching for Striker.

* * *

Gracie almost went stir-crazy.

Four days passed before Mary agreed to take her around the ranch. She’d managed to steal a few moments each day exploring, but had spent the bulk of her time helping Mary with chores. And slipping in a few questions about Striker. Mary didn’t say much about him, though, and Uncle Lou proved exceptionally closemouthed.

After hanging laundry on the fourth day, Gracie borrowed one of Mary’s leather coats and soon they were strolling across the flat land, watching the mountains roll in the distance.

“What is that one?” Gracie pointed to a shrub near her feet.

“Bud sagebrush. It’s common around these parts. There’s some red top grass and winterfat over here.” Mary gestured to her right. The wind caught strands of hair and blew them across her high cheekbones. “Paiute use winterfat sometimes to treat fevers. The sheep eat it, too.”

Gracie studied the hoary white plants. By itself the plant looked ugly and bare. But where winterfat grew in bunches, the plant took on the appearance of a silver bouquet. The whole of Harney County took her breath away and she hadn’t even explored the mountains yet. It was unfortunate this land was so far removed from civilization.

They ambled along, Gracie listening closely as Mary pointed out various species of plants and gave little tidbits of information about the area. Then Mary stopped abruptly, her gaze resting on a peak in the distance.

Gracie squinted in that direction but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“I just remembered ironing I need to do.” Something like regret flashed across Mary’s face.

“Oh, how disappointing,” Gracie said. The brisk breeze caressed her face, carrying new and exciting scents. “Do you have to go?”

“I’m sorry.”

She didn’t want to offer but forced herself to anyway. “Can I help, then?”

Mary grimaced. “No. You’ve almost been insane trying to get outside. Enjoy your walk. You’ve done more than necessary.” She hesitated. “Be careful. If you see anyone, come straight to the house.”

“Wait! Do you suppose we’ll be going into Burns anytime soon?”

“If you’re really looking for Striker, you won’t find him there.” Mary turned and picked her way to the house.

“But I need a telephone.” Gracie frowned as Mary retreated without an answer. If she knew Striker’s whereabouts, and understood why Gracie asked questions, then why had she been so evasive?

As soon as Mary became a dot on the bumpy horizon, Gracie’s gaze circled back to her surroundings. Steens Mountain rose in the distance, its snowy tips glowing in the crisp air. Mary had told her the mountains were really a single fault block, rising almost ten thousand feet in places.

Good details to get down. She pulled out her map, guessed her coordinates and refolded the map. She drew out her notepad and jotted the numbers, adding a description of the terrain. Could there be caves and hidden dwelling places in these rocks?

The back of her neck prickled. Criminals of the vilest natures could find refuge here. Would Striker? It explained the sightings in Burns and other Oregon towns.

Striker wouldn’t hide with criminals, though.

She slipped the pad of paper and folded map into her coat pocket and began to walk, stripping off the coat and tying it around her waist. In Boston she was often stuck indoors sewing, knitting, learning how to run a large household and how to balance the books. With the war going on she’d been inside much of the time, doing good deeds that left her with sore fingers and crooked stitches. Despite her longing to serve her country, there seemed to be no place where she fit.

She had wanted to join the military but her parents expressly forbid it.

Gracie had considered becoming a wartime operator but her French made people cringe.

The sight of blood caused her to faint, which ruled out nursing. Thus the uneventful good deeds such as sewing came into play.

Thankfully, there were rumors the Great War would soon end. She hoped they were true for the soldiers’ sakes as well as her own.

The sound of hooves broke her thoughts, scattering them as surely as the approaching horse shook dust from the horizon. A horseman pounded toward her, gaining ground by the second. The rider’s form sharpened into a broad-shouldered man.