Читать книгу Hill Country Cattleman - Laurie Kingery - Страница 12

Chapter Four

She should go help Milly prepare the meal, Violet thought after Raleigh and his roan had disappeared down the road. But a proper horsewoman always saw to her mount’s unsaddling, unbridling and rubbing-down before anything else.

“I’ll take care of her for you, Miss Violet,” a voice said from behind her, and she turned to see a towheaded, lanky young cowboy coming from the direction of the bunkhouse. He blushed as she focused on him, but continued gamely, “I’m Bobby Gibson, one of the cowhands. I’m sure you’ll meet the rest later, but they’re all out in the fields, tendin’ th’ stock, ’ceptin’ my uncle Josh, and he’s cookin’ beans and biscuits in the bunkhouse.”

“Nice to meet you, Bobby,” she said. “And I’ll take advantage of your kind offer, this once, since today I should like to help Milly with the cooking.”

After giving Lady a last pat, she washed her hands at the outside pump. How could water in such a hot sunny climate be so cold? It must be a very deep well indeed.

At Greyshaw, she would have nothing more to do than plan her ensemble and daydream about the coming evening until the bell for luncheon rang, Violet thought while she changed her clothes. But perhaps if she kept herself busy, the hours until she could see the handsome cowboy would not be so endless. Besides, she didn’t want to look like Nick’s spoiled, lazy sister while his wife worked so hard.

Finding her sister-in-law in the kitchen, she said, “Please, may I help you? I’d quite like to.” Would Milly allow it? At home, Cook ruled the roost in the Greyshaw kitchens and no “outsiders”—even the family who paid her salary—were welcome in her little bailiwick.

Milly looked surprised, but she smiled. “You don’t have to, but I’d welcome the company. Go tie on that spare apron over yonder,” she said, pointing to that item hanging from a hook on the wall.

“I must confess I’m totally out of my element here,” she admitted to Milly. “Cook’s quite the dictator belowstairs at home. But I would love to learn to cook, especially Texas specialties.”

“Well, Texas cooking is pretty uncomplicated compared to what you’re probably used to,” Milly said, “but we also eat a lot of dishes the first settlers picked up from the Mexicans. Today we’re having one of those—enchiladas. And the beans I started earlier, too.”

In no time, Violet learned to brown the meat, roll it up in the soft tortillas and lay them next to one another in a pair of rectangular baking pans, then mix the spicy sauce and pour it over the rolled-up tortillas. Milly sprinkled on some cheese and stuck the dishes into the oven to bake.

“Does Bobby’s uncle Josh do all the cooking for the cowboys?” Violet asked while they set the table. What they had prepared was clearly only enough for the family.

“Most of it, though I took him some of the beans earlier, and when I bake bread I share the loaves with them. He’s been the foreman here since I was a little girl, but now that he’s getting along in years, the other men do most of the work and he just supervises and handles the cooking. He cooks a lot of chili and ‘son-of-’—that is, um...I suppose we should call it ‘cowboy stew.’ The actual title is most unsuitable for a lady’s ears. I guess I’ve developed some careless habits of speech out here with all these rough men.”

Violet grinned. She loved Milly’s genuineness and lack of airs.

They drank cold tea while they waited for the enchiladas to cook. It didn’t take long for the appetizing aroma to pervade the kitchen. Edward wandered back in from a stroll around the ranch and sat down with them.

“Mmm,” Violet breathed. “If that dish tastes as good as it smells, I believe I’ll take the recipe home and teach Cook a thing or two.

“It wouldn’t hurt the old tyrant to add to her cooking repertoire,” Edward agreed. “I had them when I was here before and found the dish quite tasty.”

* * *

On the way home from the Brookfields’ ranch, Raleigh decided not to join the others at the Colliers’ table tonight, but to keep to his normal practice of taking his meals with the rest of the men in the bunkhouse. He’d never felt he was superior to those over whom he’d been made foreman—he’d been one of them until his boss had promoted him. Cookie’s grub suited him fine, as a rule.

Of course, he had a standing invitation to meals with Jack and his wife whenever he wanted to join them, and he did so when he had ranch business to discuss with his boss. He figured if he’d been sparking one of the Simpson Creek girls, Miss Caroline would be more than happy to promote the romance by inviting them both to supper.

But Miss Violet—Lady Violet, as he liked to think of her—was no local girl. And while he could invite himself for a meal with the Colliers anytime he liked, sitting down at supper where Miss Violet and her brother were the guests of honor would be a whole different matter. The Englishwoman’s proper, stuffy brother would glare at him like he was a skunk at a picnic. And he wasn’t sure Nick Brookfield would be pleased to know Raleigh was attracted to his sister, either. He’d taken to Texas like a duck to water, but he probably had higher ambitions for Violet—like marriage to a duke, if not a prince.

So he’d make himself scarce when the Brookfields came calling at Colliers’ Roost at suppertime. Perhaps he’d get to see Lady Violet out riding his mare one day. And for now he could remember how she had blushed with pleasure when he had complimented her riding.

What he wouldn’t give to be the one to make her blush like that on a regular basis. Dream on, cowboy.

* * *

Violet couldn’t remember when she’d enjoyed an evening more. Caroline Wallace Collier was a natural hostess, and soon even Edward was smiling and praising her cooking. And when Caroline, who’d been the town schoolteacher until she’d married Jack Collier, discovered Violet was an avid reader, she’d begun talking about books a mile a minute, asking Violet what she’d read, offering to loan volumes from her library and asking if Violet had brought any reading with her.

“Only one, I’m afraid, Wilkie Collins’s new novel, The Moonstone, and I read it on the voyage,” Violet said, remembering how Edward had bustled her aboard the ship with but a few days to pack. There hadn’t been time to order new books from her favorite store in London. “You’re welcome to borrow it, of course.”

“How wonderful! I’ve read his other novel, The Woman in White. In return I will loan you part one of a marvelous book, Little Women, by an American author, Louisa May Alcott, also published this year. I like her writing, even if she is a Yankee,” she added with a laugh.

“You’re very kind,” Violet murmured, charmed by the other woman’s enthusiasm.

“Not at all,” Caroline said. “It’s too rare that I have a chance to get my hands on a new book—or a new friend.”

“Mama’s always reading,” piped up one of the Colliers’ pretty blue-eyed, black-haired twin girls. Violet wasn’t sure if it was Abigail or Amelia.

The other girl chimed in. “Yeah, and if we’re very good, Mama reads to us at bedtime.”

“You know, in England you two ladies would be called ‘bluestockings,’” Edward commented wryly. “I’m sure Violet won’t mind if I tell you she’s an aspiring novelist, as well.”

Caroline’s eyes widened. “Is that right, Violet? How fascinating! What do you write about?”

“The American West, actually.”

“You don’t say! Tell me about your story,” Caroline invited.

“I—I haven’t got very far as yet, because I felt I didn’t know enough about the area,” Violet had to admit. “Other than that there will be a romance in it. I plan to gather details while I’m here—scenery, clothing, that sort of thing. Your Mr. Masterson was kind enough to tell me the names of some of the wildflowers yesterday, and that the bird we saw was a roadrunner,” she said, trying to sound casual as she mentioned his name.

She missed the quick look Edward darted at Nick.

“Oh, yes, our Raleigh knows the country,” Caroline said. “Most of these fellows could live off the land if they needed to, so they know their surroundings. Well, be sure and let me know if I can answer any questions....”

Where is Raleigh? would have been her first question, if she dared. The addition of the handsome Texan at the table was the only thing that would have made the evening more complete. Violet hadn’t realized how much she had been counting on seeing him until she didn’t catch even a glimpse of the rugged cowboy at Colliers’ Roost. When they arrived in the buckboard, it had been another cowhand who’d emerged from the barn to see to their horse.

Where could he be keeping himself?

* * *

“See? I told you you’d enjoy meeting the Colliers,” Milly remarked as they waved goodbye to their hosts and the wagon carried them away from the house.

“Yes, Caroline was very kind,” Violet agreed, clutching the volume of Little Women that their hostess had lent her as the wagon lurched over a dip in the road. “And her husband is so handsome—just what one pictures when one thinks of a Western rancher.”

“Yes...how those two fell in love is quite a story,” Milly responded with a smile. “Caroline was engaged to marry his brother Pete, you see, but he died during the influenza epidemic a couple years ago. Then, after Caroline became the schoolmarm, Jack turned up with his twin girls, not knowing his brother had passed away. Jack was a widower, and had been planning on driving his cattle to Montana, and wanted his brother and Caroline to keep the girls till he could send for them. He ended up wintering here. He and Caroline fell in love and he forgot all about Montana.”

“That is romantic,” Violet agreed with a sigh. “Why, I thought they’d been married a long time and that Caroline was the twins’ mother.” What would that be like, she wondered, to raise children to whom one hadn’t given birth? Gerald had a son off at Eton whom she had never met, so it was unlikely she would ever become as close as Caroline Collier was to the twins.

She would begin that letter to Gerald before retiring, she decided. In addition to the things she’d thought about writing to him while she lay awake last night, she’d tell him about Simpson Creek, her brother’s ranch, the pinto mare and about the people she’d met since her arrival—though not Raleigh Masterson, she thought again. Gerald wouldn’t think to mention some neighboring land agent who’d done him a couple of trifling services, would he?

* * *

Violet would have been interested to know that Raleigh had watched both her arrival and her departure from the safety of the bunkhouse.

“She’s a purty thing, right enough, that sister of Nick Brookfield and his fancy lord of a brother,” Cookie noted now, next to him.

Raleigh hoped the old chuckwagon cook hadn’t seen him jump. He’d been so intent on watching the Brookfields’ buckboard roll away with Violet in it that he hadn’t heard Cookie come up behind him.

Cookie’s comment didn’t carry far enough to reach the ears of the other cowboys, who had settled down to a game of poker as soon as the visitors’ horses had been hitched back up to their wagon. “Guess ya learned yore lesson about women down in Blanco, after ya almost got yerself hung for a murder ya didn’t commit, didn’t ya?”

“Yeah, don’t worry, Cookie. A fellow can’t get in trouble just looking,” Raleigh responded, but he let the calico curtain fall back into place, denying himself a last glimpse of the English beauty. He shuddered, remembering how being in the wrong place at the wrong time had nearly cost him his life when a girl lured him into the saloon she worked in after it had closed for the night. He’d found the saloon owner dead and been accused of his murder. He’d almost been the guest of honor at a lynching before the real guilty party was discovered.

“Yeah, that’s what Adam said when he first spied that there apple in the Garden of Eden, ain’t it?” Cookie retorted. “Where ya goin’ now?”

“I’m going off on nighthawk duty early, since you’re in a naggin’ mood,” Raleigh replied. “You tell Wes to be sure and relieve me midway through the night, hear?” he added, jerking his head toward the stocky cowboy who currently held what looked to be the winning hand.

They hadn’t stopped riding herd at night after they’d returned from Abilene, even though what they guarded were just the remaining heifers and young bulls that had been too young to go on the drive, plus the horses. There hadn’t been any episodes of rustling for quite a while, and no Comanche raids since earlier in the spring, but it didn’t do to grow careless.

* * *

“It’s such a nice day,” Violet commented the next morning over breakfast. “Would you mind terribly if I take Lady out and explore your land a bit, Nick? I thought I might find a shady spot and do some writing. That is,” she said, eyeing little Nick, who was at present throwing bits of scrambled egg down to the tiger cat who was allowed in the house, “if you wouldn’t like me to watch my nephew awhile and give Milly a break?”

“No, Nicky, the kitty’s had enough,” Milly admonished her son, then redirected his attention with a bit of bacon before turning back to Violet. “I’ll take you up on it another time,” she said with a wry lift of her brow. “Take one of my bonnets and Nick’s spare canteen—it’s going to get very hot very quickly. You can find more water if you need it where the creek widens right at the border between our ranch and the Colliers’.”

Milly’s mention of the Colliers’ ranch reminded Violet of their foreman. Perhaps if luck was with her, she might catch an inspiring glimpse of that intriguing cowboy at work. It was all grist for the literary mill, wasn’t it?

“Stay out of the north pasture. That’s where the cattle are grazing. I don’t think they’d bother you, but they’re not used to you,” Nick added from across the table. “Oh, and Raleigh told me Lady’s been trained to ground-tie—that is, you can just drop the reins on the ground. She’ll graze and not wander too far.”

“How convenient,” Violet said, thinking of how their high-spirited mounts at home would bolt for the barn, given such an opportunity.

“Merely a well-trained Texas cowpony,” Nick responded with a smile.

“Be sure and mind where you walk,” Edward added. “Remember what that Masterson fellow told you about snakes.”

Violet swallowed hard at the thought as she left the room to change into her riding clothes. It was good to be reminded that not everything in Texas was as civilized as England.

* * *

“You don’t think you should go with her, or send one of the hands along?” Edward softly asked his brother after he heard the door shut to Violet’s bedroom. “What about Indians? Or outlaws? Will she be safe, riding alone?”

Nick was glad he hadn’t mentioned the Indian raid to the east a few months ago, or their kidnapping of Faith Bennett, one of the townswomen whom the preacher rescued and then married.

“She’ll be plenty safe enough on the ranch. The boys are out there riding fence and checking on the stock,” Nick said in his imperturbable way.

“Besides, the heat she’s not used to will bring her back in before long,” Milly put in from where she was tugging a fresh shirt over Nicky’s head.

“I suppose it might not be a bad idea to give her some lessons with a pistol and have her carry one when she’s out riding,” Nick added.

Edward shuddered at the thought, but knew he could hardly object when he’d raised concerns about her safety.

Nick leaned forward. “Edward, the quickest way to send her running back into the arms of Gerald Lullington would be for us to monitor her every movement and make her feel like she’s little more than a prisoner while she’s here. She’ll be imagining she’s Juliet and he’s Romeo—without the quick tragic consequences, of course. And the result will be a slower tragedy for her. I think we have to show her she’s worthy of trust.”

Edward sighed. “I hope you’re right.”

* * *

The first thing Violet, on Lady, did was to climb the sloping hill near the ranch house, upon which Nick and the hands had erected a small stone lookout fortress. From here she enjoyed the bird’s-eye view of the mesquite and cactus-dotted fields and the blue hills in the distance. Then, after they descended the hill, she enjoyed the feel of the horse’s powerful muscles moving beneath her in a smooth canter. More than once a jackrabbit sprang up just ahead of Lady’s hooves, and although the mare snorted, ears pricked forward, her steady lope never altered. Violet saw the cattle in the north pasture from a distance, a quiet mass of multicolored beasts with elongated horns, some with calves, all grazing or lying placidly in the shade of a grove of live oaks. It was hard to believe they could be as dangerous as she’d been told.

The sun beat down upon Violet as predicted, making her glad of the bonnet that shaded her head from the worst of its glare. She felt a trickle of perspiration snake down her back. The pinto’s withers were damp, though she had slowed the mare to a walk after a quarter of an hour. It was time to find the creek, and then some shade where she could do some writing.

Heading east, she came to the place where the creek widened just before flowing over the boundary between Brookfield and Collier land. The fence had terminal posts on both sides of the creek so the cattle of either ranch had full access to the widest part of the creek. The north side of the creek was rimmed by a wide rocky ledge.

On the south side of the creek lay a shady grove of cottonwoods and live oaks—the perfect place to write, Violet thought. It would give her a sheltered vantage point overlooking Collier land while she did so.

She let Lady go forward and drink from the stream as long as she wanted to before reining her into the shady grove and dismounting. As soon as Violet dropped her reins, the pinto lowered her head to graze. Milly had sent along an old quilt, and now Violet took that down from where it had been rolled up behind the saddle and spread it out under one of the cottonwoods, settling herself against its rough bark. Pulling the ruled copybook she had brought to write her story in along with a sharpened pencil from the deep pocket of the divided skirt, she set them upon her lap and opened the notebook to the first page.

When they’d boarded the steamer for America, she’d thought she might be able to write an entire rough draft of her novel during the voyage, and merely polish the manuscript while she was in Texas by adding authentic details—verisimilitude, she’d learned it was called—that she would learn during her stay. She’d imagined filling page after page with her story, the hours passing by like minutes, and stopping only when writer’s cramp forced her to. She’d brought a stack of copybooks in her trunk, sure that her novel would be long and her prose lyrical.

When it came down to actually writing, however, she found it difficult to concentrate. Not only was she acutely missing Gerald, of course, but Edward was rarely long absent from her side except when they went to their respective staterooms at night. It was as if he feared one of their assorted fellow travelers, or even one of the deckhands, might tempt her to folly if she was alone. When other passengers stopped to chat, her brother’s manner seemed excessively jovial, as if he was desperate to convince everyone they were on a pleasure trip, and he was not escorting his notorious sister away from England just ahead of scandal.

Now Violet stared at the lines she had penned during the voyage. It was utter and complete tripe, all of it. She had had no idea how to begin a novel about the American West, never having seen the land she was writing about. She had only the most amorphous idea of her hero, and how he should accomplish winning the heroine’s love.

She’d started out describing Gerald as the hero, but she couldn’t imagine Gerald as anything but what he was—an English aristocrat in tweeds rather than cowboy garb. And Edward’s constant presence by her side made Violet too self-conscious to write. It didn’t take long before she put the copybook back in her trunk and only read the book she’d brought with her.

Now, however, she had the perfect opportunity and solitude to make a brilliant new start. Ruthlessly ripping out the four pages she’d written on the ship, she crumpled them into a ball and threw them to the other end of the quilt.

Violet supposed she should start by setting the scene, and so she wrote several lines about the landscape, the cactus, the mesquite, the brightly colored wildflowers...but no, that was dull. Perhaps she should describe her hero, using Raleigh as the model as she had decided the day she arrived in Simpson Creek. But what to call him? She dared not use the same name, for her brothers would think she had developed an inappropriate, schoolgirllike infatuation for the Colliers’ foreman.

Riley? That was close to Raleigh, but perhaps too close.... She should get away from “R” names. Charlie? Marcus? Monty? Yes, Monty, that was just right.

She would start in the middle of the action.

Monty, his pistols still smoking from the shots he had fired, reined in his magnificent blue roan stallion and gazed at the heroine, who looked up at him with undisguised adoration. A tear trickled down her lovely alabaster cheek.

“You have saved me from a Fate Worse Than Death, sir, yet I don’t even know your name,” she said. “How you happened along just in the nick of time, I’ll never know, but I’ll be eternally grateful....”

He dismounted and took hold of her lily-white hand. “Why, I’m Monty—”

Here Violet stopped, chewing on the end of the pencil. What should his last name be? Brewster? Montgomery? No, something simpler—Simpson, for Simpson Creek. When the book was published and she became the darling of the literary world, her hero’s surname would be her tribute to where she’d written the manuscript.

Violet continued writing.

“I’m Monty Simpson. And what might your name be, my fair one?”

Violet giggled. Would a cowboy speak that way? Probably not. She crossed out the last three words and wrote instead, “pretty lady.”

“I’m Lily Lawrence.”

Goodness, it was hot. Milly hadn’t been exaggerating. Heat waves shimmered beyond the shade of the live oak. Violet fanned herself with the copybook, then loosened the top two buttons of her blouse. She probably ought to return to the ranch house soon, but she wanted to write a little more before she left. Besides, she hadn’t so much as caught a glimpse of any cowboys, let alone Raleigh.

The heat was making her drowsy—that, and the early hour she had awakened, thanks to her nephew’s penchant for running through the house exercising his lungs. Violet took a drink from the canteen and thought about splashing some of the water on her face. Perhaps that would make her more alert....

In the distance, a cow bawled.

Surely it wouldn’t hurt to just close her eyes for a moment, and ponder the next lines of dialogue between her hero and the heroine....