Читать книгу A Rancher Of Convenience - Regina Scott - Страница 12

Chapter Four

Nancy’s mind was still reeling as she returned to the porch, where Mr. Cramore stood waiting. The portly banker looked as nervous as she felt, shifting back and forth on his dusty patent leather shoes.

“Well, Mrs. Bennett?” he asked. “What would you have me make of all this? Do you intend to marry this cowboy?”

Nancy glanced at Hank, who had followed her up the steps. His gaze was hooded, his face still pale, as if he expected her to denounce him in front of the banker despite her appreciation for his kindness.

“I will do the same as any other rancher given a proposal,” she told the banker. “I will give the matter due consideration before answering.”

Cramore blinked, looking a bit like an owl she’d surprised near the spring once. “But surely you see he is merely attempting to profit at your expense.”

Hank widened his stance. “That’s a mighty judgmental thing to say about a fellow you met a quarter hour ago.”

Mr. Cramore’s pudgy nose lifted, as if he’d smelled something unpleasant. “I know your kind, sir.”

“And I’ve known a few bankers in my time who were a little too quick to get their hands on a spread in trouble,” Hank countered. “But I didn’t assume you were one the moment we met.”

Neither had Nancy, but perhaps she should have. Oh, was this more proof of her inability to see the truth about people? Could Mr. Cramore be unscrupulous? Was greed rather than caution the reason he’d come to see how the ranch was faring?

And what of Hank? Was he hoping to take over ownership of the ranch, shut her up in the house as Lucas had?

As if he could see the thoughts churning feverishly in her mind, the banker looked from Hank to Nancy. “You must realize the bank’s position,” he insisted. “We have invested good money, and it is our duty to see it returned.”

“I understand the bank’s position,” Nancy told him. “Please understand mine. I hope to keep this ranch, with or without Mr. Snowden’s help. Nothing I’ve seen says you have any right to appoint managers or otherwise interfere with our operations.”

He puffed out his chest, swelling the paisleypatterned waistcoat until the silver buttons winked. “Now, see here, madam. The word of the Empire Bank is sacrosanct.”

“So you say,” Nancy replied. “And I’m willing to believe we owe you the money based on the information you’ve provided. But you will have to believe that I will pay that money back according to the agreement.”

“And if you’re not willing to believe,” Hank put in, “you better bring the law with you the next time you come.”

“Fine.” Mr. Cramore reached for his hat and patted it onto his balding pate, then snatched up the papers from the table and stuffed them back into his satchel. “I will expect to hear your decision on this ridiculous proposal, Mrs. Bennett, within the month. Or I will speak to your sheriff about foreclosing on the ranch.”

A shiver went through her as the banker clumped down the steps and headed for his buggy.

“He’s bluffing,” Hank said, watching the man untie his horses.

Nancy wasn’t so sure. Had she been in his position, she too might have questioned whether someone with less than one year’s experience living on a ranch would know how to manage it properly. And he was right that she had no ties on Hank to keep him here. The Windy Diamond was surely a risk to the bank.

But in the end, none of that mattered. She had no intention of losing the ranch.

Or her heart.

She confessed as much to Lula May when they attended their quilting bee the next day. The ladies of Little Horn had taken to meeting weekly at the Carson Rolling Hills Ranch to complete important sewing projects and encourage one another. Nancy hadn’t been able to attend for some weeks, first because of a rocky beginning to her pregnancy that had kept her housebound, and then because of her shame over Lucas’s thefts.

But she badly needed her friend’s advice now, so she’d gathered her sewing box and taken the wagon west to her nearest neighbors.

Sixteen-year-old Daisy Carson, the oldest sibling still in the Carson home, led her to the room off the kitchen that her mother Helen had set aside for their meetings. Like her mother and older sister, she was a pretty blonde with a winning smile. She and the other members of the quilting bee had been stitching quilts to sell and raise money for the new church, but the frame stretched out in the middle of the warm, wood-paneled room seemed a little small to Nancy as she moved toward the chair between Lula May and her soon-to-be-sister-in-law Betsy McKay. Betsy smiled in welcome before bending to check on her toddler, who was napping under the quilt frame.

Helen Carson sat at the head of the frame, with her friend Beatrice Rampart at the foot. Daisy and Mercy Green, owner of the café in town, sat across from Nancy, but another woman was in the chair usually reserved for Molly Thorn, Helen’s oldest daughter. Nancy recognized the sturdy blonde as Stella Donovan Fuller, the mail-order bride who had recently married the sheriff. She nodded a greeting as Nancy took her seat.

“Molly wasn’t feeling well,” Helen announced as she threaded her needle. “But you all might have seen that we’ve framed a new quilt.” She glanced around the room with a smile to each lady. “That’s because our Nancy is going to have a baby.”

It was for her? Nancy stared at the delicate blue-and-pink flowers on the material until tears blurred her vision as congratulations echoed around her. She managed a smile. “Thank you so much. I don’t know what to say.”

“No need to say anything,” Stella Fuller declared. “Just stitch.”

The others laughed and set to work.

Betsy paused to put a hand to her back. “I hope your pregnancy is better than this one,” she told Nancy. “I’ve never had a baby move around so much.”

“I remember those days,” Helen put in. “I thought Donny was going to kick his own way out.”

“My ma said boys are like that,” Stella commiserated.

“Not in my family,” Lula May insisted. “Pauline was just as vigorous in the womb, and she’s not much quieter outside it!”

Nancy smiled as the women laughed. As Beatrice asked Mercy for the recipe of the apple bread she’d brought to the last Sunday social at church, Nancy leaned closer to Lula May.

“We had a problem at the ranch,” she confided, voice low. “Lucas took out a loan from the Empire Bank in Burnet, and the bank has such little faith in me that they sent a man to see how I was running the Windy Diamond.”

Lula May bit off a thread as if she would have liked to sink her teeth into a few recalcitrant bankers. “Let me guess. They want a man to run the ranch.”

Nancy nodded. “And Mr. Cramore, the banker who came out to quiz me, says Hank doesn’t count as he will only leave me.”

Lula May tsked as she pulled out another color of floss and threaded it through her needle. “Sounds like he never met Hank. That man is devoted, Nancy.”

“Apparently so.” Nancy swallowed. “He asked me to marry him.”

Lula May’s brows, a shade darker than her strawberry blonde hair, shot up. “Well, well,” she mused, starting to stitch on the baby’s quilt. “And what did you say?”

“I told him I’d consider the matter. I see the benefits, Lula May, I surely do. But...”

Lula May regarded her out of the corners of her eyes. “But you’re not ready.”

Nancy blew out a breath. “I’m not sure I ever was. I came out here with this wide-eyed notion that two strangers could make a good marriage. Now I understand I never even knew my husband. How much do I know about Hank?”

Lula May lay down her needle and looked Nancy in the eyes. “You know he’s loyal—he stayed at the ranch when he could have moved on.”

Her words were loud enough that Nancy could see other gazes turning their way.

“My husband, Josiah, says he’s a hard worker,” Betsy put in as if she’d heard every word of their hushed conversation. “I know he’s seen him on several roundups now. He says Hank Snowden is a man you can rely on to keep his word.”

“Always nice to us when I see him in town,” Stella Fuller added. “Tips his hat like a gentleman. And he’s kind on the eyes.”

Nancy’s cheeks were heating.

“Everyone in the Lone Star Cowboy League thinks the world of him,” Lula May told her.

Nancy nodded. “We all thought the world of Lucas too, and he proved us fools.”

The others quickly returned to their sewing, but Lula May’s mouth tightened.

“Hank Snowden is no Lucas Bennett,” she insisted. “I’d stake my ranch on that.”

And that, Nancy realized, was exactly what Hank had asked her to do—trust her future and the baby’s future to him. How could she when she couldn’t even trust her own judgment?

She barely saw the dusty road as she drove the wagon home through the clumps of oak and cottonwood. She had to figure out what to do about Hank’s proposal. If only she felt comfortable trusting her own reasoning.

All her life she’d tried to make the best of circumstances. When her father had died, leaving her and her mother without support, she’d helped her mother develop a trade as a midwife. When her mother had left too soon and the townsfolk didn’t want Nancy to continue that trade, she’d answered Lucas Bennett’s ad for a mail-order bride. When Lucas’s initial interest in her had faded into disdain, she’d still tried to be the best wife she could.

Now she had a baby on the way, and the home and livelihood she had thought would sustain her and her child were being threatened. Hank’s offer could solve those problems. But would accepting his offer create other difficulties? What if he was demanding, forcing her to change things to suit his whim as Lucas had done? Could she work hard enough to satisfy him? What if his kindness turned cold? Could she make herself go through that again?

What if he was abusive? She had confided in no one the night Lucas had come home late, smelling of alcohol, and demanding dinner when she’d already banked the stove for the night. As she’d tried to explain, he’d cuffed her. Immediately he’d apologized, but he’d made sure she knew it was her fault for provoking him. How could she let someone like that back into her life, into her child’s life?

Hank Snowden is a good man.

The thought came unbidden, but firm in its conviction.

If only she could believe it.

* * *

Nancy was absent from the porch the next two nights when Hank and the others rode in. Hank might have worried she was sick, except he could see her from his post, going about her chores of washing and working in the vegetable patch. She didn’t ask him to stay behind in the mornings and teach her either.

She was hiding in the house the same way she’d done when her husband had first brought her home as a bride. He didn’t think that boded well for her acceptance of his proposal, but he wasn’t about to badger her over the matter. That surely wouldn’t make her any more amenable to the idea.

Given her retreat, he was surprised to find a note waiting for him in the barn when he, Upkins and Jenks returned from working the next day. The Windy Diamond had bunks for a small contingent of hands. More workers were generally hired during branding in the spring and roundup in the fall. The barn had a stall for a milk cow and a coop for chickens plus a wide room at the back with bunks, a long table and a cook stove, counter and storage.

Over the past year, Hank had grown accustomed to the room, which always smelled like beans, leather and saddle soap. Jenks never made his bunk, and the narrow bed was crowded with a wad of colorful blankets and bits of leather, horse hair and string the youth intended to make use of. Upkins was always complaining about how the sixteen-year-old made room for every barn cat that wanted a place to hunker down for the night.

The veteran was more fastidious—blankets tucked in at right angles and smoothed down flat, hat hung on a peg above his head and belongings stowed in a trunk that slid under the bed. Hank slept on the top bunk above him and tried to keep things neat, if only to prevent them from falling on Upkins below.

He didn’t much care about his belongings, except for the quilt. He’d won it in a raffle to raise money for the new church that was being built in Little Horn. In truth, he wasn’t even sure why he’d bought all the tickets to win the thing. It was pretty and warm and sweet. All the local ladies had stitched at it, and he knew some of the carefully placed threads had been put there by Nancy. She’d been so determined to help raise the money. What man could resist those big hazel eyes?

Still, the folded pink paper sitting on the table was at odds with the mostly masculine setting. Hank could only hope it wasn’t a note dismissing him from his post for his bold suggestion.

“What’s that you got there?” Upkins demanded as he came into the room.

“Looks like a love letter,” Jenks teased, flopping down on his bunk and setting the lariat he was braiding to sliding off the blankets.

Hank ignored them, reading the politely worded note before tucking it in his shirt pocket. “Mrs. Bennett wants to see me.”

Upkins scrunched up his lined face. “She wants a report, most like. You can tell her the herd is hale and hearty.”

Jenks nodded. “Good water, good grazing, no sign of trouble.”

Hank nodded too, though he thought trouble was likely waiting for him, at the ranch house.

He cleaned himself up before answering her summons, and if he tarried over the task neither Upkins nor Jenks berated him for it. It wasn’t often a respectable lady requested a cowboy’s company. His friends no doubt thought he was slicking down his hair, shaving off a day’s worth of stubble and changing into his best blue-and-gray plaid shirt and clean Levi’s to make himself more presentable. He knew he was just delaying the inevitable.

His steps sounded heavy without the chink of spurs as he climbed the steps to the porch. Shaking a drop of water off his hair, he rapped at the front door and heard her call for him to come in. With a swallow, he opened the door and stepped inside.

It was the second time he’d been invited into the ranch house, and he still thought it didn’t look like Nancy Bennett lived there. Oh, it was neat as a pin, the wood walls painted a prim white and the dark wood floor scrubbed clean. But the entryway had only a mirror and a brass hat hook to brighten it, and the parlor leading off it, with its dual chairs flanking a limestone fireplace, looked as if no one stayed long enough to muss it up. Surely a house that Nancy lived in would have more charm and warmth.

“Back here,” she called, and he followed the sound of her gentle voice down a hallway that led toward the rear door. Three closed doors lined the left wall, and, near the back of the house, a doorway opened onto a wide kitchen.

And Nancy Bennett glowed in her kingdom. He could see her reflection in the silver doors on the massive black cast-iron stove on the back wall, smell the savory results of her efforts from one of the two ovens. How she must take pride in her own hand pump so she didn’t have to go outside to fetch water, and the big pantry lined with shelves where preserves glittered in the lamplight.

But nowhere was her touch more evident than on the long oval table that stood in the center of the room. The expanse was covered with a lacy white tablecloth dotted with shiny brass trivets, a pair of rose porcelain candlesticks dripping crystal and a china vase full of daisies. The entire affair was surrounded by a dozen high, carved-back black walnut chairs. Lucas Bennett must have been expecting company or hoping for a passel of children, because he’d never invited his hands to sit at that table.

Nancy was standing at the head now, wearing a blue dress with green trim, reminding Hank of a clear summer sky and good grass.

“I thought you might join me for dinner,” she said, “so we could discuss your proposal.”

He had a feeling his nerves would make the delicious-smelling food taste like straw, but he nodded. “I’d be honored.”

She smiled, making his legs feel all the more unsteady. “Go on,” she urged, nodding to the foot of the table, where a place had been set with silver cutlery and a crystal glass of lemonade. “I’ll just set out the food.”

His mother had taught him never to sit in the presence of a lady unless the lady sat first. So he stood awkwardly while she carried a tureen of stew smelling of garlic, a basket of biscuits piping hot from the oven and a pot of apple-and-plum preserves to the table and laid them all out on the trivets. Then she gathered her skirts and sat, and Hank sank onto the chair and gazed at her through the steam.

“Shall I say the blessing or would you like to?” she asked.

He could barely swallow much less recite a prayer. “You go ahead.”

She closed her eyes and clasped her hands. “Be present at our table, Lord, be here and everywhere adored. These mercies bless and grant that we may live in fellowship with Thee. Amen.”

“Amen,” Hank managed.

She served him, filling a plate and then rising as if to bring it to him. He leaped to his feet and rushed around the table to take it from her. Her brows went up, but she didn’t speak again until he’d returned to his seat and taken a few bites.

All the while thinking it was a crying shame he couldn’t enjoy the food more, because it was good.

“I’ve been considering your proposal,” she finally said, fork mixing the stew about on her plate. “And I have one question.”

“Only one?” he asked, smile hitching up. “I must have been more persuasive than I thought. Not that I was trying to pressure you,” he hastened to add. Why was it he could never say the right thing with her?

“You have been very kind,” she assured him. “What I want to know is why.”

His mouth suddenly felt as if he’d eaten sand for the last week, and he reached for the glass of lemonade and gulped it down. He knew why his nerves were dancing. Here was his opportunity to tell her the truth. Yet if he told her, would she allow him to make amends? The need to right the wrong he’d done was like a burning mass in his gut.

“I suppose I feel guilty,” he allowed, setting down his glass. “By reporting on the business of the league, I aided Mr. Bennett with his thieving. Seems only right to help his widow and child.”

Her gaze dropped to her still-full plate. “Not everyone would think that way. Lucas always said you and Mr. Upkins and Billy would ride on when you tired of the place. You marry me, Hank, and you stay here. This would be our home.”

He realized his knee was bouncing and forced it to stop. Staying put might not be so bad. He’d been a tumbleweed for too long. He couldn’t have faced a future in Waco, not with all the bad memories of his father and Mary Ellen, but maybe Little Horn could be home.

“I can settle,” he told her.

She didn’t look as if she believed him, fork once more rearranging the food on her plate.

“I must ask one more thing of you,” she murmured, gaze following the movement of the silver. “If we marry, we would put this ranch in trust for the baby. You and I would have to agree to any changes in that trust.”

He nodded. “That’s as it should be. A man wants his children to inherit what he built.” If that man could believe in his children. His father never had.

She drew in a deep breath. “Very well, then, Hank. We can talk to the lawyer in town, set up the papers to be signed the day of our marriage.”

Hank stared at her, feeling as if the stew had multiplied in his stomach. “Our marriage?”

She nodded, laying down her fork at last. “Yes, Hank. I am agreeing to your proposal. I will marry you.”