Читать книгу Rocky Mountain Homecoming - Pamela Nissen - Страница 10

Zach had only just left Ivy in Violet’s care and stepped outside when a sharp whistle from the wide barn entrance caught his attention. “Zach!” Hugh Bagley, one of the ranch hands, yelled. “Come quick!”

Hugh didn’t worry about much, so the frantic way he was waving, his long arms flapping about like wind-whipped flags in the early evening, gave Zach pause.

Zach took the porch risers in one leap and raced out to the barn, each step a weighty reminder of the responsibility he carried on this ranch.

“What is it?” He pulled up beside the lanky man, scanning the solid structure, half expecting to find some horrible disaster awaiting him inside. “What happened?”

Hugh swiped a chambray sleeve across his mouth. “I was checking over the stalls when I found Mr. Harris down on all fours, heaving.” His thin lips grew rigid as he turned and stared down the long corridor.

Zach yanked the man that direction. “Where is he now?” The earthy scent of fresh hay and dank hard-packed ground filled his senses the moment they entered the barn.

“The last stall.” Hugh stopped midstride at the hub of the three rows of stalls, dimly lit by day’s waning light and several lanterns hung securely on rod-iron hooks. He blanched a sickly white, pointing down the row to the right. “I’m no good when it comes to others being sick, Zach. Honestly, I’ve never been able to handle that sort of thing. I’ll be down on all fours with Mr. Harris, if I stick around.”

Zach struggled to hold his frustration in check at the way Hugh was nearly gagging just talking about it. “I’ll see to him. You go and fetch Ben. Just make sure you don’t let this slip to others, do you hear?”

Zach’s stutter was all but gone—at least now that he was nowhere near Ivy. Ever since he’d dragged her from the mud a good hour ago, he’d tried to reason that his broken speech was a coincidence appearing at the very same moment he set eyes on that little lady. But the fact that he was speaking clearly now screamed otherwise.

She was the cause of his stutter.

And the sooner he shoved her tempting image from his mind and grabbed hold of his flailing confidence, the better off he’d be.

That task would be manageable, too, if not for seeing the moisture that had rimmed her eyes when she’d held Shakespeare. Or the vulnerability etched into her gaze when he’d pulled the wagon into the yard.

“You sure you want me to get your brother?” Hugh angled a questioning glance up at Zach as the low moo of cattle sounded in the distance. “The boss probably won’t want a doctor involved. He was furious that I was going after you.”

“If he’s sick, then he needs to see a doctor,” Zach reasoned. Mr. Harris had to be worse off than he’d thought if he let a ranch hand see him in that condition.

Hugh draped his arms about his chest. Nudged up his chin. “Your call, boss,” he measured out in a that’s-not-what-I’d-do-if-I-were-foreman kind of way that stuck Zach like a big prickly burr.

“That’s right.” Zach held Hugh’s challenging gaze, unwilling to look weak in front of the man—not when Hugh had played a big part in the years of struggle Zach had faced when he was young. “This is my call.”

Mr. Harris was sure to object to the matter. The ranch owner was an unyielding strength on this spread and abhorred looking weak in front of anyone. But as foreman, it was Zach’s responsibility to make sure Mr. Harris was taken care of. Zach had been humbled when the responsibility of foreman had been handed to him after only a year of employment as a hired hand. He wasn’t going to let his employer down.

“Well, I don’t want the big boss throwing any blame my way when your brother shows up carting his black bag.” Hugh arched one blond eyebrow beneath his brown wide-brimmed cowboy hat.

“Just get Ben.” Zach shrugged off his impatience, turned and ate up the rest of the corridor with long resolute strides.

Slowing, he entered the dimly lit stall to find his boss hunkered down against the wall, his arms wrapped tight around his middle. “Mr. Harris? Are you all right?”

The man angled a glance up at Zach. “Never better.”

Zach knelt down next to him, his concern heightened at the way perspiration beaded the man’s pale face. “That’s not what Hugh seemed to think. And now that I’ve seen you—”

“Hugh should learn to keep his observations to himself, and that flap of a mouth he has shut.” Mr. Harris tipped up his black Stetson, his squared jaw set in that steadfast way of his. “It’s nothing.”

“This appears to be more than just nothing,” Zach carefully challenged. To see how gaunt, tired and out-of-sorts he looked made Zach almost feel guilty for noticing.

With an irritated huff, Mr. Harris yanked his hat from his head. “I told Hugh not to make a fuss about this.”

He stuck his boss with a narrowed gaze. “By the looks of you, it was a good thing he did.”

“I’ll be fine.” When Mr. Harris slowly inched himself up the wall to standing, Zach had to resist the urge to help. Despite the favorable working relationship he shared with the man, there were just some boundaries he knew not to cross. “Like I told Hugh, this is nothing more than a bad case of stomach cramps. That’s all.”

“This isn’t the first time this has happened, though, is it?” Zach stood face-to-face with his boss, noticing the frequency with which Mr. Harris swallowed, as though fighting off another bout of nausea. “If there’s something more going on with your health than what I’ve noticed up to now—”

“There’s been nothing to notice,” Mr. Harris defended in a nonnegotiable kind of way as he stuffed his hat back on his head. “Listen … if I thought it was something to be worried about I’d be the first one to let you know. Do you think I’d keep something like that from my foreman?”

Zach contemplated, snagging Mr. Harris’s pain-pinched gaze. “I’m worried. If you’re feeling—”

“Snap off that worrying branch, Zach! It brings out the worst in me.” Fishing in his back pocket, he pulled out a wrinkled white handkerchief. “It always has.”

“Maybe you need to let someone worry over you now and then,” Zach encouraged, not at all surprised at the way the man drew his shoulders back in a stubborn show of pride.

Just like a certain young woman, cut of the same cloth.

“It’d be a good thing to have Ben come out and check you over, don’t you think?” He braced himself for a fight.

“Absolutely not. It’d be a waste of Ben’s time.” Mr. Harris jammed his hands at his hips and peered at Zach. “And just in case you already sent for him, I’ll tell you right now that he won’t be looking me over. You can have Violet send him home with a healthy dose of dessert for his trouble.”

With an uncharacteristically wobbly hand, the man drew the cloth over his forehead and neck. When he gave an abrasive cough then wiped his mouth, Zach noticed a small splotch of red.

His concern kicked up several notches. “Mr. Harris, is that blood?”

His boss glanced down at the cloth then stuffed it into his pocket. “I must’ve bit my lip.”

Zach studied the man. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” his boss roared, taking Zach aback.

“All right.” He held up his hands as though surrendering. Silently, however, he vowed to keep a much closer eye on the man’s health—especially with Ivy being here now.

Zach’s chest tightened at the thought of her.

“I’ll decide when someone should worry.” Mr. Harris clenched his jaw. Gave the slightest wince. “Besides, Violet—as good as that woman is—is about to drive me half mad with the way she flutters about like I’m knocking on death’s door.”

“She obviously cares about you.”

“Well, Violet cares too much, then,” Mr. Harris dismissed,

as he straightened the worn suede collar of his dungaree jacket.

If his boss had a problem with Violet pampering him and fussing over him then surely he’d be mad as a snake that Ivy was back in town … and all because of his health.

“Now, tell me where things are with the stock,” his boss said, strategically shifting to another topic. “We need to make sure we put away plenty of feed and hay before winter comes nipping at our toes.”

“It’s done,” Zach assured, wondering how that monumental task had escaped the man’s keen attention. “We put the last of it away yesterday.”

“Good man.” He clapped Zach on the shoulder and stood a little straighter, his coloring still uncharacteristically pale.

“In fact, with the banner hay crop we brought in this year, we’ll have more than we’ll need.” Zach nodded up above at the sturdy loft floorboards where hundreds and hundreds of bales of dried hay had been stacked. “Unless it’s a long hard winter, that is.”

“Hopefully, we’ll be sitting just fine to help out if other ranchers run low.” Mr. Harris exited the stall and started down the long corridor in that purposeful, albeit slower, stride of his that closed a conversation.

“Mr. Harris,” Zach called, shoving his hands into his pockets as he stepped into the aisle. Zach felt it only right to tell the man about Ivy’s arrival. If there was tension in their relationship, then having some forewarning might help ease the shock.

The man turned around. “What is it, Zach?”

“I thought I better inform you … there’s someone who’ll be joining you for dinner tonight.” His heart beat a little faster just thinking about the young woman.

Mr. Harris reached out and grasped a thick beam as though to steady himself. “It’s not a good night for company, Zach. Tell them to come around another evening.”

A silence fell between them, and for some unexpected, hair-raising reason, Zach just knew that Ivy being here now was every bit as much providential design as it was Violet Stoddard’s.

“It’s not that easy,” he began, searching for the right words as he caught movement coming from near the center of the barn.

Mr. Harris’s jaw ticked. “Why in the world not? Who is it?”

“Father …” Ivy called, willing the tremor from her voice. She hugged Shakespeare tightly as she peered around the corner down the west-facing row of stalls.

When she spotted her father, halfway down the corridor, she had to will one shiny, booted foot in front of the other in his direction. She’d known it would be difficult returning home, but she’d had no idea just how unnerved she could be at the sight of her very own father.

Violet had tried to ease her distress minutes ago, but there was no dispelling Ivy’s apprehension. The day she’d left for the east coast six years ago had been a bitter taste of life, indeed.

He’d not so much as offered her a goodbye hug.

He turned to face her, his long legs braced in that familiar way that had always made Ivy think that he was ready to ride at any moment. His thick shoulders were every bit as broad as she remembered—and yet his dungaree coat seemed to hang bigger than usual.

Violet had hurried her through a hot bath and had laid out a fresh shirtwaist and silk taffeta skirt from one of Ivy’s valises. Though Ivy’s hair was still damp and her skin still pink from scrubbing, the woman had all but shooed her outside, as though she was a small child again, to surprise her father.

Well, he didn’t look surprised—at least not in the way that made a heart glad.

One look at the taut expression on his face and her heart sank.

She should’ve stayed put in New York where she belonged. Her mama had wanted her to spread her wings in the big city, where culture and opportunity hung like big ornate doorways into another world, and Ivy had promised she would do just that. There were so many reasons why she should’ve stayed.

But her father …

“Ivy?” He yanked his black hat from his head as she neared. Six years of life had scattered shards of silvery gray through his dark hair.

“Hello, Father,” she breathed, trailing her fingertips down the cat’s broad back, thankful to be holding something warm and soft and receptive to her love. Struggling to drag a tenuous smile to her face, she met her father’s unreadable gaze.

Haunting dark patches shadowed his brown eyes. “You’re home….”

“I was about to tell you, sir,” Zach put in as he stepped out from the shadows. Her father had always appeared larger than life, but seeing Zach standing beside him now, she realized that this new foreman was even brawnier than her father.

For a brief moment, she found herself suffering with an unexplainable yearning to have Zach wrap her in his strong arms. She gave a small sigh, shoving that stray thought away as though it threatened her very existence. Setting her focus on her father, she struggled to steady herself.

“I didn’t realize you had plans to visit.” He wore indifference like some stage mask.

“It was a last-minute decision,” she responded, carefully choosing her words as Violet had instructed.

The housekeeper had cautioned her to skirt the real reason for her visit. She’d said it would anger her father to no end if he were to find out Ivy had come all the way here because of his health.

“Everything’s all right, isn’t it?” He turned his hat in his big, work-worn and slightly trembling hands. Hands that had comforted her when she’d been sick. Steadied her when she’d learned to ride her pony. Smoothed the hair from her face as she’d buried her nose in a compelling book. Pushed her away in those last days, darkened by blame and grief.

The idea that she’d lost his trust and his love had cut her to the very core. And as much as she had tried to ignore the wounding effects of his blame, she couldn’t deny her longing to have his love once again.

She scrambled away from the memories as though they threatened to eat her alive. “Everything is fine.”

“You have enough money, don’t you?” Reaching to the side, he grasped the top rung of a stall door, his knuckles blanching white. He dragged in a long slow breath.

“Of course. You’ve been very generous.” She was saddened at the way he was trying to maintain his strong, virile image. And saddened, too, that he would think her only reason for returning would be due to a lack of funds.

Besides, she’d done well for herself, and had not so much as touched the account for over two years now.

Clearing his throat, he peered just over her shoulder. “The job is going well?”

“Yes,” she answered as Shakespeare pressed his big paws against her chest in an effort to get down. “In fact, when I return they are going to be promoting me to the assistant editor position at The Sentinel.”

He coughed, his focus falling to the hard-packed dirt floor. “Your mother would be proud.”

Ivy nearly choked on emotion. Her mama would’ve been thrilled to know how well she’d done in New York.

But her father … was he proud?

He withdrew a handkerchief from his back pocket, then wiped at the perspiration beading his upper lip. The evident way his hand trembled tugged a tear to Ivy’s eye, but she quickly blinked it away, determined to stay strong.

Setting Shakespeare down, she watched for a moment as her cat darted off after something he’d spied in that familiar, playful way of his.

Some things never changed. Like her room, where nothing—not one thing—had been moved from where she’d left it six years ago.

Violet had said that sometimes, right before she’d retire to her quarters at the backside of the house, she’d find Ivy’s father standing inside the door to Ivy’s bedroom. Seemingly unaware of Violet’s presence, he’d stay there for the longest time, his arms folded at his chest, his head bent low, and the barest whisper of a prayer wafting to her hearing.

That small bit of knowledge had nearly uncapped the well of tears and pain Ivy had hidden away.

But crying wouldn’t change a thing. It hadn’t six years ago, and it wouldn’t now. She had only to keep her head about her as she tiptoed into the depths of her past.

And somehow, she’d have to find it within herself to smooth over the rough edges with her father because the idea of returning to New York without some kind of closure was more than she could bear. He was sick. That was more than apparent. And, by the obvious way he was struggling to appear strong, Ivy would have her hands full trying to offer him comfort and care.

He grabbed for the railing. “What brings you back then?”

Her faltering courage was bolstered a little by the warm look of encouragement Zach aimed her direction. “I decided that a visit was long overdue.” Swallowing hard, she barred her heart from getting hurt as she peered at her father. “And I thought that maybe you and I could—”

“It’s a busy time of year, Ivy. I don’t know that you’ll be seeing much of me.” His jaw tensed. He shoved away from the stall and started toward her, and just when Ivy half wondered, half hoped that he’d open his arms to embrace her, he strode right past her. “Besides, I’m sure you’re going to be itching to get back east before long,” he said, his voice echoing in the barn and clear down into the jagged recesses of her soul. “Back to where you belong.”