Debra Holland - [Montana Sky 02] (8 page)

“Oh, my,” Samantha said.

As always, the sight of his ranch settled satisfaction deep in his belly. So different from the hovel where he’d spent his youth…He never took the view for granted. His gaze swept around, making sure all was well. The big white house gleamed golden in the final rays of the setting sun. The lilac bushes planted by Alicia in the corner of the picketed yard were budding. In a month any slight breeze would waft the sweet scent this way. He inhaled in anticipation, smiling when he noticed Samantha straightening in her seat, interest in her blue eyes.

Except for some horses in one of the corrals, the yards around the two red barns looked quiet, the porch of the white bunkhouse on the far side of the house empty of lounging men. The ranch hands hadn’t come in from moving the cattle to the north pasture. But it was near suppertime, and they’d be riding in soon. Best get this strange assortment of guests settled in first.

But he stilled the reins for a moment, and Bill paused. For the last ten years, step by step, he’d been planning his life. Acquiring Ezra’s ranch had been his next move. Then he planned to court Edith Grayson. Having a wealthy banker as a brother-in-law had its appeal. Although now he wasn’t so sure. The solid ground he’d been striding over could turn to quicksand. If a man wasn’t careful, he could be pulled in over his head.

Wyatt led them to the nearest barn. Samantha slackened the reins of the buggy, relieved to allow her aching arms some rest.

A young man of about fifteen strode out of the barn. Tall and whipcord thin, with a shock of orange hair and splatters of freckles covering his face, he walked with a clumsy gait, as if he’d not grown into his legs. His plaid work shirt was too short, displaying bony wrists and hands. Catching sight of the Falabellas, he stopped with a tripping motion, his hazel eyes widening. Behind the faded blue bandana he’d tied around his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

He reminded Samantha of a scarecrow who’d suddenly learned to walk, and she hid a smile of amusement. Boys his age were very concerned about their dignity; she didn’t want to embarrass him.

Wyatt motioned him over. “Harry, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Rodriguez, her son Daniel, Manuel and Maria, and I believe you know the Cassidy boys. Harry is our stable hand.”

Harry barely glanced at them, his eyes flicking back to the horses. “What, what?” he stammered.

Wyatt threw Samantha an amused look. “Falabellas.” He rolled his eyes. “I can see I’m going to be repeating that a lot in the next few days. I’ll get them settled in and get myself away from the barns before the hands come in. If we’re lucky, they won’t notice them.” He nodded at Harry. “Unless someone recovers his powers of speech and tattles.”

Samantha laughed. She was glad to see he’d developed a sense of humor about her miniature horses.

“Christine,” he said to his daughter. “Take the ladies in to meet Mrs. Toffels.” He turned to Samantha. “Our housekeeper.”

“But, the boys.”

“I’ll keep an eye on them.”

Samantha relinquished her responsibilities into his capable hands. How good it felt to be taken care of. Of course, it was only temporary. By tomorrow, she’d be rested enough to resume charge of her household and menagerie.

She handed the reins over to Harry. He looked bemused, as if uncertain what to do with them.

Wyatt dismounted and strode to her side. He extended his hand. She placed her fingers in his palm, feeling the strength in his hand, and stepped down from the buggy.

Christine ran to her side. “Mrs. Toffels makes the best cinnamon cookies.”

Samantha smiled at her. “I can hardly wait to try them.”

Christine pushed open the picket gate, reaching out to grasp Samantha’s hand. Together, they walked up the brick pathway, Maria trailing behind.

In long beds parallel to the porch, red tulips bloomed, as beautiful as any she’d seen in Europe.

Christine noticed her appreciation. “Pa orders those every year from Holland. I help him plant them. Before she died, my mama planted them. Pa says the flowers help us remember her.”

Touched by Wyatt’s gesture toward his deceased wife, Samantha blinked back the sudden moisture in her eyes. She’d tried to find her own rituals to help Daniel remember Juan Carlos. How much more difficult to give a child memories of a mother she never knew. She wondered if Wyatt was still in love with his wife. Was that why he’d never remarried? She pushed away a sudden feeling of disappointment by blaming it on tiredness. Her new neighbor’s life was none of her business.

As Samantha followed Christine into the kitchen, the sweet aroma of fresh-baked apple pie greeted her. She inhaled an appreciative breath, immediately taken back to the memories of the apple strudel she had loved as a child.

She used to help the cook roll out the dough. Together, they’d stretch it by running their knuckles underneath until it was almost paper thin. Then they’d scatter the apple slices and spices over the dough and, starting with one edge, fold it into a roll. She’d made apple strudel for Juan Carlos and Daniel on several occasions. But at the estancia
,
Don Ricardo wouldn’t allow his daughters-in-law near the kitchen. She’d missed being able to bake.

The Thompson kitchen looked like a perfect place to spend an afternoon baking. The immaculate room looked as different from Ezra’s dirty, dilapidated kitchen as could be. The ample
workspace held similar furnishings: stove, table, china cabinet, but instead of a bed and worn leather chair, this kitchen had a pie safe and a rocking chair, with a black-and-tan dog curled up on a small braided rag rug next to it.

The dog thumped its tail on the floor in greeting, but didn’t rise to meet them. A shelf under the window held clay pots of green sprouts, probably herbs. A red-and-white checked cloth covering the table matched the crisp curtains at the window.

At a six-hole cast-iron stove, a woman dressed in blue gingham looked up from the pot she’d been stirring. With an exclamation of surprise, she set the wooden spoon across the top of the pot and smoothed her white apron.

Samantha’s first impression of Mrs. Toffels was of cozy plumpness. She was short and stout, with her bosom overflowing her apron. Her round face crinkled into little smile wrinkles at the sight of them. Tucking a straying strand of gray hair back into her bun, she bustled forward.

“No, don’t tell me. You must be our new neighbor, Mrs. Rodriguez.” She pulled out the rocking chair. “You just sit right down here and rest. You must be exhausted, poor dear.”

Samantha touched Maria on the shoulder before moving to the rocker. “This is Maria Sanchez. She’s been with me since my son, Daniel, was born.”

Mrs. Toffels scooted a wooden chair away from the table, motioning Maria to take a seat.

Maria smiled shyly and ducked her head before sitting down.

A woof drew Samantha’s attention to the dog, its muzzle grizzled gray. Christine skipped over and crouched down by the dog, patting it on the head. The dog thumped its tail.

Mrs. Toffels waved to the dog. “Don’t you mind Matilda here. She’s an old, old lady and doesn’t stir herself too much anymore.”

“Thank you.” Samantha sank into the rocking chair and rested her hands on the arms to support her aching muscles. “It will feel good to rest a moment.” She felt relieved that on first acquaintance, the cook didn’t appear to have the bigoted opinions held by Mrs. Cobb. She could relax.

The housekeeper reached over and pressed Christine to her ample bosom. “Hello, darlin’.”

Christine, eager to communicate her news, danced out of the embrace. “You should see their little horses, Mrs. Toffels.” She bounced up and down. “Small like foals, except they’re full grown. They’re called Falabellas.”

“Well now, that sounds mighty interesting, and I want to hear all about them. But first I’m sure Mrs. Rodriguez and Maria will need a pick-me-up. They’ve come a long way. Why don’t you get the cookie jar? I’ll put on a kettle for tea.” She looked at Samantha. “Or would you prefer coffee?”

Samantha smiled at the housekeeper. “Tea would be welcome. Christine’s been describing your wonderful cinnamon cookies.”

Mrs. Toffels beamed. “They sure are her favorite.”

Standing on tiptoe, Christine lifted a blue salt-glazed jar off one of the shelves. She pulled off the top and brought it to Samantha. “Here, Mrs. Rodriguez, try one.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

Christine offered the jar to Maria, who took one with a shy duck of her head.

Mrs. Toffels handed a plate to Samantha. “I sure was hopeful when Wyatt told me a widow was taking over Ezra’s ranch.”

“Hopeful?”

“That you’d be young and pretty.” Her face crinkled into a smile. “And you are. I’m always partial to red hair. Stir up some
interest in the neighborhood, that’s what I say. Some people around here need to pull their heart out of a grave.”

Samantha gulped, her relaxed feelings flying out the window.
Surely Mrs. Toffels wasn’t matchmaking between her and Wyatt.

“I understand about burying your heart with your spouse.”

The woman sent a shrewd look. “I’m sure you do. But life’s for the livin’. That’s what I say. And I should know. I’ve buried two husbands, myself.”

Christine hovered near the housekeeper, oblivious to the undercurrent of their conversation. “May I please have some cookies too?”

“Just one or you’ll spoil your supper.”

Supper. With a start, Samantha realized Mrs. Toffels needed to know there were more unexpected guests. Feeling a little embarrassed for having descended on the unsuspecting woman with her rapidly growing band of dependents, she hesitantly spoke up. “Mrs. Toffels, I should warn you that I’ve brought two other adults and three growing boys with me.”

The housekeeper looked surprised. “I thought Wyatt mentioned you had one child.”

“I do. However, I’ve just acquired two more.”

Christine piped up. “Reverend Norton brought Jack and Tim Cassidy. They’re going to live with her.”

Mrs. Toffels picked up her spoon and resumed stirring. “You’re a saint to take them on, Mrs. Rodriguez. A saint, indeed. I’ve been worried about them. Those boys need a proper home.”

A proper home. A proper home.
The words echoed in her thoughts. The image of her run-down ranch sprang to mind, seeding momentary doubts. Would she be able to provide a proper home for all of them?

Jack Cassidy watched the womenfolk head up the brick pathway to the big white house. Instead of following them, the man Thompson turned toward the bunkhouse and motioned for the boys to come with him.

Jack slowed his steps, lagging behind. He took quick sideways glances, studying the house and barn. Neat outfit. Fresh paint, no weeds, or horse droppings, or discarded rusty bits and pieces of metal scattered around. The orderliness made him uncomfortable—like he didn’t fit inside his skin. He looked down, trying to avoid the shame. But seeing his open-toed boots only made it worse.

So he studied Thompson’s broad back, not trusting him. Jack wasn’t sure where the man was taking them, and he wanted to be able to run if necessary.

Flowers.
Jack caught sight of the little green buds on the lilac bushes and flinched, trying to escape a memory. But the remembrance plumb sunk its teeth into him, worse than a dog’s bite. He couldn’t shake it off. His ma had always loved lilacs, but in a drunken rage, his pa had torn out the bushes she’d planted. She never tried again. But every spring, Jack had cut blooming branches from other people’s yards and brought them to her. Since her death, the fragrant flowers always twisted an ache inside him.

Thompson walked them around the corner of the long white bunkhouse past the porch. On the side, set away from the big
house and the barn, and facing the mountains, a high fence screened a horse trough with a pump set at one end. Jack tried to puzzle out why there was a horse trough here, when Thompson already had one in front of the barn.

Thompson waved to the pump. “You”—he pointed at Tim—“how about filling it up?”

Tim flicked a look at Jack. The man’s request seemed harmless enough, and he nodded at his brother. Tim stepped over and pumped the water. Jack watched, wishing his ma had had one of these. Hauling water from the crik had sure been a heap a trouble.

“This is where the men wash up,” Thompson said. “I’ve sent Harry in to heat up some pails of water. In the meantime, you boys strip down.”

Strip down. Bathe. No way!
He’d wait until summer and swim in the crik. That usually got him clean enough. Even Widow Murphy hadn’t been able to force the twins to take a bath. “I ain’t takin’ no bath.”

The Thompson man glanced at him, gray eyes sharp as a shard from a broken mirror. “Yes you will, my boy.”

Jack didn’t like how the man’s calm voice ran against the look in his eyes.
He’s a big ’un. Might not be a good idea to go up against him
, a small whisper said in his mind. He batted it away.
Give in now, who knows what would happen next.
“I ain’t takin’ no bath!”

Thompson ignored him, turning away. “Daniel, you go first.”

The boy nodded and fingered his tie.