A Hopeful Heart (8 page)

Mrs. Wyatt punched the air with her fist. Isabella released a meow of protest and leaped from the woman’s lap into Tressa’s. Tressa ran her fingers through the animal’s soft fur, finding comfort in the warm, purring body.

“Somethin’ you gotta learn, girl, is people will push you only as far as you let ’em. They’ll keep makin’ you the pecked hen unless you ruffle your feathers and show ’em you aren’t gonna stand for their peck-peck-peck.” She pulled the pipe from her lips and jabbed the air with the pipe’s stem to punctuate her words. “Look ’em in the eye ’stead o’ hangin’ your head. Speak up ’stead o’ standin’ quiet. Jump into the middle ’stead o’ holdin’ off by yourself.
Make
those girls see the fine, hardworkin’, capable person I know you to be. You’ll feel a whole lot better about yourself.”

Tressa licked her lips. “You . . . you think I’m capable of learning all there is to know?”

Mrs. Wyatt leaned toward Tressa, her expression serious. “I
know
you are. But what’s more important, Tressa, is for
you
to know you are.”

Swallowing, Tressa offered one slow nod. Mrs. Wyatt had given her much to consider. She started to scoop Isabella from her lap so she could return to her room, but Mrs. Wyatt clamped her hand over her wrist, holding her in place.

“Tressa, can I ask you a question?”

“I . . . I suppose.”

“Where you lived before, did anybody teach you to believe in God?”

Memories rolled through Tressa’s mind. When Mama and Papa were alive, they had attended a lovely stone chapel together as a family. The messages delivered from the pulpit about a loving God had given the child Tressa a sense of security and peace. But after her aunt and uncle took her in, church attendance had been limited to special holidays, and Tressa had nearly forgotten the lessons of her childhood.

Her years with Aunt Gretchen and Uncle Leo cast a shadow over her years with Papa and Mama. Tressa formed an answer. “No, ma’am.”

A deep sigh heaved from Mrs. Wyatt. “Well, then, darlin’, here’s lesson number one.” She pointed skyward. “There’s a Father in Heaven who cares about you. Loves you. Loves you dearly. An’ He’s got –willin’ ears to listen when His children speak to Him. So anytime you’re feelin’ sad or lonely or upset, you can tell it to Him an’ He’ll give you the help you need.”

Shreds of memories from long ago, when Papa held her on his knee and read to her from a big black book, whispered through her mind. But reality chased the wispy memories away. Her father resided in Heaven, and he was too far away to offer any help to her now.

“Yes, missy, you can always depend on God.”

Tressa tipped her head. Had Mrs. Wyatt meant to intimate that God was her father?

Slapping her thighs, Mrs. Wyatt rose. “Lots more I could say, but it’s late an’ we both need our rest.” She walked to the edge of the porch, turned the pipe upside-down, and tapped it on the railing. Coals scattered across the ground. They flickered briefly and then died, reminding Tressa of stars disappearing from view as sunshine captured the sky.

Mrs. Wyatt slipped the pipe into her apron pocket and plucked Isabella from Tressa’s lap. “Bed now.” She smiled, reaching out to briefly cup Tressa’s cheek with her warm palm. “Things’ll look brighter in the mornin’. Wait an’ see.”

8

“Boss! Boss!”

Abel jerked upright. The pan of corn bread he was removing from the oven fell from his hand. The pan bounced from the open oven door to the wide-planked floor, sending chunks of steaming yellow bread in every direction. Clamping his lips against a mild oath, he turned toward the kitchen door, where Cole stood, wide-eyed and panting.

“What is it?” Abel didn’t bother to hide his aggravation as he bent to pick up the mess. The hot corn bread burned his fingers, and he tossed the pieces back into the pan as quickly as possible.

“Don’t know how it happened, but four of our calves . . .” Cole took a deep breath, shaking his head. “They’re gone. Just disappeared from the pen overnight.”

Abel jolted to his feet. “Gone? From the pen?” The large holding pen where Abel had decided to corral the newest calves until the scars from branding were completely healed stood between the barn and the bunkhouse. A thief would have had to come well onto the property, in plain sight of the bunkhouse as well as the main house, in order to remove any calves. “Didn’t you hear nothin’ last night?”

“Not a thing,” Cole claimed. “Think it could be coyotes?”

“A pack of coyotes might take down a calf an’ scare off the others, but there’d be plenty of noise an’ a mess left behind. You see any blood or clumps of hide out there?”

“No, sir. Just a jumble of prints headin’ right out the gate.”

“Then it’s gotta be men.” Abel kicked at a clump of corn bread with the toe of his boot. The chunk crumbled into bits. The broken corn bread painted an ugly picture of his ranch—everything was falling apart, and he was helpless against it.

Cole crushed his hat in his hands. “Want I should ride in for the sheriff? Make a report?”

Abel hesitated. If he notified the sheriff, it wouldn’t be long before word spread through all of Barnett and the surrounding ranches. Everyone would be on alert, aware of strangers in the area. While that might be a good thing, Abel knew it could also lead to mayhem. When he was a boy, his pa had told him about a group of angry, suspicious ranchers lynching two men suspected of horse-thieving only to discover later that the real horse thieves were already in the Dodge City jail. Abel had taken the lesson to heart—don’t be brash.

“Not just yet.” Abel snatched his hat from the peg beside the back door. “Tell Vince an’ Ethan to eat.” He grimaced at the ruined corn bread. At least the bacon waiting hot and crisp in the frying pan would be edible. “But you take turns eating. I want somebody watchin’ the pen at all times.”

“You think somebody’d try to steal in the light of day?”

Abel wished he could laugh at Cole’s astounded expression. Unfortunately, he could believe anything after having calves snatched from beneath their very noses. “Just rather be safe than sorry. I’m headin’ to town.” If it took every penny left in his bank account, he’d buy enough barbed wire to discourage anybody from putting a foot on his property, night or day.

The clouds that had shielded the stars from view during the night still hung like a gossamer canopy when Tressa headed to the henhouse in the morning. She swung a basket on her arm, her gaze sweeping from horizon to horizon, seeking a peep of blue. But wispy gray greeted her eyes no matter where she looked. Despondence tried to seize her—the sun always made a day seem cheery—but she resisted letting the feeling take hold. Today was her emancipation day! She wouldn’t allow clouds to dampen her spirits or her resolve.

Last night, after returning to her bed, she had lain awake, considering Mrs. Wyatt’s advice. Was it possible that the others berated her because she allowed them to do so? Might she be able to bring an end to their condescension by exhibiting more confidence? She wanted to explore the notion, and she had made a decision. No more suffering in silence. If someone spoke ill of her or to her, she would calmly but firmly defend herself. She gave a little skip, discovering a sense of freedom in the contemplation of fending off the pecks of the others.

She entered the henhouse and made her way down the row of nesting boxes, reaching beneath each sleeping hen to remove the egg from the nest. The hens wriggled at the intrusion, one or two releasing a soft cluck of irritation. One tried to peck her hand, but she had learned to be quick. The poor mistreated hen with missing feathers and small scabs showing in the bare spots sat in the last box. Her nest contained only straw, no egg.

Tressa took a moment to run her hand over the hen’s back, smoothing the stiff feathers into place. Suddenly the fat hen in the closest box stretched out and gave a vicious peck on the injured hen’s neck, narrowly missing Tressa’s hand.

“You stop that!” Tressa smacked the errant hen, toppling it onto its side. It righted itself with a wild flapping of its wings and began squawking in earnest. Within seconds, every other hen in the coop took up the cry. Ignoring the hubbub, Tressa shook her finger in the offending hen’s face. “You will behave yourself or suffer the consequences!”

Ducking past the flying feathers, Tressa left the henhouse to return to the kitchen. The squawks followed, ringing in her ears. When she was halfway across the yard, the kitchen door flew open. Mabelle stood in the opening with her hands on her hips.

“What on earth did you do to those chickens? I could hear them fussing from here even with the door closed!”

Tressa glanced over her shoulder. The raucous clucking continued; a few feathers flitted from the slatted window openings. With a shrug, she looked directly into Mabelle’s face. “One of the hens tried to peck me, so I clopped her good. She’ll settle down in time.” She stepped past Mabelle and set the basket of eggs on the dry sink. With a smug smile, she added under her breath, “Let my lesson to the hen to be a lesson to you, too. No more pecking, or else!”

“There you be, Abel.” Hank Townsend rolled the last bale of barbed wire into Abel’s wagon and then swished his beefy hands together. His belly bounced with a chortle. “You got enough wire there to hem in the entire county.”

“Might not be a bad idea,” Abel muttered. “Keep out the riffraff.” He slammed the gate and dropped the locking pins into place.

“Thanks, Hank. What do I owe you?” He cringed when Hank stated the price, but he counted out the needed amount from the funds he’d withdrawn from his bank account and placed the bills on Hank’s waiting palm.

The man grinned. “Wear good sturdy gloves when you’re stringin’ that wire or you’ll be as pricked as a woman’s pincushion.”

“Will do.”

Just as Abel turned to pull himself into the high seat, Hank smacked himself on the forehead and said, “Oh! Abel, hold up a minute.” He bustled to Abel’s side. “You hafta ride right past Hattie Wyatt’s ranch when you go home, don’tcha?”

Abel nodded.

“She ordered a dozen pairs of gardenin’ gloves for her pupils. Ever’thing I had in stock was too big for their hands. The order come in yesterday an’ I hadn’t got around to lettin’ her know. Reckon she’d like to have’em. They’re all paid for. Would’ja take ’em out to her— save her the trip in?”

Although Abel preferred to hurry home and get started stringing his new wire fence, he couldn’t refuse doing a favor for Aunt Hattie. “Sure, Hank. Toss ’em in the back an’ I’ll drop’em by.”

Moments later, Abel turned the wagon toward home. He battled a strong urge to speed the horses along the road. But even if the horses suddenly sprouted wings and flew him to the ranch, it wouldn’t bring back the missing calves.

He passed the church building and the little house where Brother Connor lived with his wife and two youngsters. His fingers tightened on the reins as the desire to stop, to enter the little clapboard chapel and spend some time in prayer, nearly overwhelmed him. His ma had taught him there wasn’t any problem too big for God. Whenever he’d felt burdened, she’d said, “Give it to your heavenly Father, son. He’s big enough to carry it for you.” Even one of the newer hymns they sang in church—the one about having a friend in Jesus—advised the singers to take their problems to the Lord in prayer.

As a boy, there’d been sweet release in handing his problems to God. But his boy-sized problems were insignificant compared to the challenges facing him as an adult. Pa had entrusted him with the ranch. Somehow, he had to keep it operating. He needed the sale of cattle—lots of cattle—to pay the ranch hands and the taxes and to purchase supplies. This latest theft had his gut twisted into knots. Would he have enough calves to sell to make ends meet?

Whoever was stealing his cattle had easy access to his ranch. He envisioned the faces of his neighbors—Aunt Hattie to the west, Brewster Hammond to the north, Jerome Garner to the east, and Glendon Shultz to the south—but he couldn’t imagine any of them stealing from him. Not even Jerome, who kept to himself and was one of the few Barnett residents to often skip church on Sundays.

Suddenly a thought struck. Brewster’s son, Gage, was an ornery sort, prone to jokes and mischief. The whole town tsk-tsked about Gage’s lack of discipline—Brewster had pretty much spoiled Gage rotten since his wife died when the boy was still knee-high to a pack mule. Might Gage be sneaking off with Abel’s cattle as a means of playing a prank? It would be easy to hide a dozen or so cattle in the midst of hundreds.

Abel decided that after he’d delivered the gloves to Aunt Hattie, he’d head to Brewster’s place and ask some questions.

He guided the team onto the lane leading to Hattie’s ranch. A woman worked in the garden patch beside the house, tapping the soil with a hoe. A poke bonnet hid her face from view, but Abel knew from her slender form it was one of Aunt Hattie’s pupils rather than the teacher herself. He drew the team to a halt and called, “You there! Good mornin’!”

The woman straightened and turned, giving him a view of her face. The back of Abel’s neck grew hot when he recognized her as the one who’d grabbed his hand in the barn during the calf birthing. He internally kicked himself for not just plopping the box on the porch and leaving.

“G-good morning, Mr. Samms.” Her hesitant voice carried across the yard, increasing the heat in his neck. She must be remembering their hand-holding, too, because she stood grasping the hoe two-handed like a weapon. “Did you need something?”

He pointed to the small crate that held the gloves. “Hank at the Feed an’ Seed asked me to make a delivery to Aunt Hattie.”

She set aside the hoe and picked her way out of the garden patch, holding her skirt just above the tops of her lace-up shoes. Abel averted his gaze until she left the garden and dropped her skirt back into place. She scurried across the ground to the wagon and peeked over the side. The wagon’s tall sides made the reach difficult for her—she didn’t have much in height—and Abel considered hopping down and offering his help. But fear of accidentally touching her hand kept him planted on the seat. She rose up on tiptoes, angled her elbows high, and reached in to take hold of the crate. But as she started to lift it out, a rip sounded. She released a yelp and dropped the box.

Abel leaped off the seat and dashed to her side. “Are you all right?”

“Something caught me.” She examined her elbow, where a tear in the blue calico fabric exposed a bleeding wound.

Abel gave himself another mental kick. He should’ve helped her. Of course all that barbed wire would get in the way. With one hand he plucked the box from the back and with the other grasped her uninjured arm. He guided her toward the back of house. “Where’s Aunt Hattie?”

“She took some of the others to the northeast pasture. They’re practicing using the plow.”

“An’ you got left behind?”

They reached the back door, and Abel opened it. She answered as she stepped into the house. “I’m on household duty this week, so I’m cooking, cleaning, and gardening. I’ll probably learn to use the plow next week.”

Abel wished Aunt Hattie were there to see to the girl’s wound so he could get on home. Then he berated himself for the selfish thought. His inconsiderate actions had caused her injury; the least he could do was wash and bandage it.

“Where does Aunt Hattie keep her doctorin’ supplies?” Every rancher worth his salt kept a box of medical necessities handy. A person never knew when an emergency might strike.