Linda Lael Miller Bundle (42 page)

Rue sat down on the edge of the bed again. She loved Farley, and she hadn’t agreed to marry him in 1892 because she’d known she didn’t want to stay in that dark and distant century. This proposal, however, was quite another matter.

“It might be difficult getting a marriage license,” she said awkwardly after a long time. “Considering that you have no legal identity.”

While Farley was still puzzling that one out, the food arrived. Rue wrapped herself in one of the big shirts they’d bought the day before to let the room-service waiter in and sign the check.

Once they were alone again, she sat at the round table, feet propped on the edge of the chair, and alternately sipped coffee and nibbled at a banana.

“What do you mean, I don’t have a legal identity?” Farley wanted to know. He added two packets of sugar to his coffee and stirred it with a clatter of spoon and china. “Is there a gravestone with my name on it somewhere back there in the long ago?”

A chill made Rue shiver and reach to refill her coffee cup. “I can show you where Elisabeth and Jonathan are buried,” she said, not looking at him. “But that’s different, because they stayed in the past. You came here.”

“So if we find my marker, say around Pine River someplace, that’ll mean I’m going back. It would have to.”

Rue’s head was spinning, but she understood Farley’s meaning only too well. Elisabeth had a grave in the present because she’d returned to the past and lived out her life. Coming across Farley’s burial place would mean he wasn’t going to stay with her, in the here and now, that he was destined to return.

“You’re right,” she blurted, “we should get married.”

A slow smile spread across Farley’s rugged face. “What are we going to do about my identity?”

Rue bit her lip, thinking. “We’ll have to invent one for you. I know a guy who used to work with the Witness Protection Program—those people can come up with an entire history.”

After giving the inevitable explanations, Rue finished her breakfast and took a shower. Farley brought her things from the room next door, so she was able to dress and apply light makeup right away.

They were checked out of the motel and on the road to Montana while the morning was still new.

As they passed out of eastern Washington into Idaho and then Montana, the scenery became steadily more majestic. There were snow-capped mountains, their slopes thick with pine and fir trees, and the sheer expanse of the sky was awe inspiring.

“They call Montana the ‘Big Sky Country,’” Rue said, touched by Farley’s obvious relief to be back in the kind of unspoiled territory he knew and understood. She’d have to tell him about pollution and the greenhouse effect sooner or later, but this wasn’t the time for it.

“Are we almost there? At your ranch, I mean?”

Rue shook her head. “Ribbon Creek is still a few hours away.”

They stopped for an early lunch at one of those mom-and-pop hamburger places, and Farley said very little during the meal. He was clearly preoccupied.

“We should have stopped at the cemetery in Pine River” was the first thing he said, much later, when they were rolling down the highway again.

Just thinking of standing in some graveyard reading Farley’s name on a tombstone made Rue’s eyes burn. “I’ll call the church office and ask if you’re listed in the registry for the cemetery,” she said. Even as Rue spoke the words, she knew—she who had never been a procrastinator—that this was a task she would put off as long as possible.

In the late afternoon, when the sun was about to plunge beneath the western horizon in a grand and glorious splash of crimson and gold, Rue’s spirits began to lift.

Roughly forty-five minutes later, the Land Rover was speeding down the long, washboard driveway that led to the ranch house.

Farley had opened the door and gotten out almost before the vehicle came to a stop. Rue knew he was tired of being confined, and he was probably yearning for the sight of something familiar, too.

Soldier, a black-and-white sheepdog, met them in the dooryard, yipping delightedly at Rue’s heels and giving Farley the occasional suspicious growl. There were lights gleaming in the kitchen of the big but unpretentious house, and Rue had a sweet, familiar sensation of being drawn into an embrace.

The screen door at the side of the house squeaked, and so did the old voice that called, “Who’s that?”

“Wilbur, it’s me,” Rue answered happily, opening the gate and hurrying along the little flagstone walk that wound around to the big screen porch off the kitchen. “Rue.”

Wilbur, who had worked for Rue’s grandfather ever since both were young men, gave a cackle of delight. Now that he was elderly, he had the honorary title of caretaker, but he wasn’t expected to do any real work. “I’ll be ding danged,” he said, limping Walter Brennan-style along the walk to stand facing Rue in the glow of the porch light. His rheumy blue eyes found Farley and climbed suspiciously to a face hidden by the shadow of the marshal’s hat brim.

“Who might this be?” Wilbur wanted to know and, to his credit, he didn’t sound in the least bit intimidated by Farley’s size or the aura of strength that seemed to radiate from the core of his being.

“Farley Haynes,” the marshal answered, taking off the hat respectfully and offering one hand.

Wilbur studied Farley’s face for a long moment, then the still-extended hand. Finally, he put his own palm out for a shake. “Since it ain’t none of my business,” the old man said, “I won’t ask who you are or what your errand is. If Miss Rue here says you’re welcome at Ribbon Creek, then you are.”

“Thank you,” Farley said with that old-fashioned note of courtliness Rue found nearly irresistible. Then he turned and went back to the Land Rover for their things, having learned to open and close the tailgate when they left the motel that morning.

“He gonna be foreman now that Steenbock done quit?” Wilbur inquired in a confidential whisper that probably carried clear to the chicken coop.

Rue looked back at Farley, wishing they could have arrived before sunset. When he got a good look at the ranch, the marshal would think he’d been carried off by angels. “Mr. Haynes is going to be my husband,” she said with quiet, incredulous joy. “That means he’ll be part owner of the place.”

The inside of the house smelled stale and musty, but it was still the same beautiful, homey place Rue remembered. On the ground floor were two parlors—they’d been her grandmother’s pride—along with a study, a big, formal dining room, two bathrooms and an enormous kitchen boasting both a wood stove and the modern electric one. Upstairs, above the wide curving staircase, there were five bedrooms, one of which was huge, each with its own bath.

“This looks more like a palace than a ranch house,” Farley said a little grimly when they’d made the tour and returned to the kitchen.

Rue took two steaks from the freezer in the big utility room and set them in the microwave to thaw. “This is a working ranch, complete with cattle and horses and the whole bit,” she said. “Tomorrow, I’ll show you what I mean.”

Farley shoved a hand through already-rumpled hair. “What about you? What are you going to do way out here?”

“What I do best,” Rue said, taking two big potatoes from a bin and carrying them to the sink. “Write for magazines and newspapers. Of course, I’ll have to travel sometimes, but you’ll be so busy straightening this place out that you won’t even notice I’m gone.”

When she looked back over one shoulder and saw Farley’s face, Rue regretted speaking flippantly. It was plain that the idea of a traveling wife was not sitting well with the marshal.

She busied herself arranging the thick steaks under the broiler. After that, she stabbed the potatoes with a fork so they wouldn’t explode and set them in the microwave.

“Farley, you must have already guessed that I have plenty of money,” she said reasonably, bringing plates to the table. “I’m not going to be rushing out of here on assignment before the ink’s dry on our marriage license. But I have a career, and eventually I’ll want to return to it.”

Farley pushed back his chair, found the silverware by a lucky guess and put a place setting by each of the plates. He was a Victorian male in the truest sense of the word, but he didn’t seem to be above tasks usually regarded as women’s work. Rue had high hopes for him.

“Farley?” She stood behind one of her grandmother’s pressed-oak chairs, waiting for his response. Quietly demanding it.

His wonderful turquoise eyes linked with hers, looking weary and baffled. “What if we have a baby?” he asked hoarsely. “A little one needs a mother.”

Rue smiled because he’d spoken gently and because the picture filled her with such joy. “I quite agree, Mr. Haynes,” she said, yearning to throw her arms around Farley’s neck and kiss him soundly. “When we have a child, we’ll take care of him or her together,” she assured him.

She turned the steaks and wrapped the microwaved potatoes in foil. Soon, Rue and Farley were sitting at the table, like any married couple at the end of a long day, sharing a late supper. Farley ate hungrily of the potatoes and steak, but he politely ignored the canned asparagus Rue had heated on the stove. To him, the vegetable probably looked as though it had been boiled to death.

When they’d finished, they cleaned up the kitchen together.

“Sleepy?” she asked.

Farley’s wind-weathered cheeks blushed a dull red. He was going to get stubborn about the marriage thing again, she could tell.

“Look,” Rue said with a sigh, “you can have your own room until after the wedding. After that, there will be no more of this Victorian-virgin stuff, understand?”

Farley stared at her for a moment, then smiled. “Absolutely,” he agreed, his voice throaty and low.

Rue led the way upstairs. On the second floor, she paused in front of an electrical panel and switched off the downstairs lights. “This will be our room eventually,” she said, opening the door to the large master suite with its fireplace and marble hot tub, “so you might as well get used to sleeping here. I’ll be just down the hall.”

Farley’s throat worked visibly as he swallowed and nodded his agreement. Rue wanted him to sleep alone in the big bed, to imagine her sharing that wonderful room with him.

She stood on tiptoe to kiss the cleft in his stubbly chin. “Good night,” she said.

“Good night,” he replied. The words were rough, grating against each other like rusty hinges.

Rue went down the hall to her own room, whistling softly.

It was comforting to be back where she had sometimes slept as a child. When she was small, she’d spent a lot of time at the ranch, but later, her mother and grandfather had had some sort of falling out. That was why she’d ended up at Aunt Verity’s when her parents had finally been divorced.

She unpacked, took a quick bath and climbed into bed. For a long time, Rue lay in the darkness, letting her eyes adjust, remembering. Once, a long time ago, she’d dreamed of living out her whole life on this ranch, marrying, raising her children here. Now it seemed that fantasy was about to come true.

Not that Farley wasn’t going to have a hard time adjusting to the idea of having a working wife. He was fiercely proud, and he might never regard the ranch as a true home.

“Stop borrowing trouble,” Rue scolded herself in a sleepy whisper. “Farley’s always wanted a ranch. You know that.”

She tossed restlessly from one side to the other. Then she lay flat on her back and spread her hands over her stomach.
Let there be a baby,
she thought.
Oh, please, let there be a baby.

Imagining a child with turquoise eyes and unruly brown hair like Farley’s made her smile, but her pleasure faded as she remembered his terrible dream the night before. He’d been flung back to his own time without her.

Rue squeezed her eyes closed, trying to shut out the frightening possibilities that had stalked her into this quiet place. It was hopeless; she knew Farley could disappear at any time, maybe without any help from the necklace. And if that was going to happen, there was a grave somewhere, maybe unmarked, maybe lost, and he would have to lie there eventually, like a vampire hiding from the light.

A tear trickled over Rue’s cheekbone to wet the linen pillowcase. Okay, she reasoned, love was a risk.
Life
was a risk, not just for her and Farley, but for everyone. The only thing to do was ante up her heart and play the hand she’d been dealt with as much panache as possible.

R
ue was out of bed with the first crow of Wilbur’s pet rooster, but when she reached the kitchen, wearing boots, jeans and a chambray work shirt left behind on her last visit, Farley was already there. He’d built a fire in the wood cookstove and had used Gramps’s old enamel pot to brew coffee. He was reading intently from his how-things-work book.

She decided to demonstrate the automatic coffeemaker another time; Farley would have enough to think about, between grasping the ways ranching had changed since the 1890s and dealing with the cowboys. He would not be given their respect and allegiance simply because he was the foreman; he would have to earn them.

Rue kissed the marshal’s cleanly shaved cheek and glanced again at the book he was devouring with such serious concentration. He was studying the inner workings of the combustion engine, and she could almost hear his brain cataloging and sorting the new information.

“’Morning,” he said without looking up from the diagram that spanned two pages.

Rue got a cup and went to the stove for coffee. The warmth of the wood fire seemed cozier, somehow, than the kind that flowed through the heat vents from the oil furnace. “Good morning, Mr. Ford.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Farley said.

Rue was gazing out the window over the sink, watching as big, wispy flakes of November snow began to drift down past the yard light from a gray-shrouded sky. Silently, she marveled that she’d stayed away from the land so long, loving it the way she did. She’d let things go where the ranch was concerned, having her accountants go over the books, but never examining them herself, hiring one foreman after another by long-distance telephone without meeting them, sizing them up.

Sorry, Gramps,
she said silently.

Wilbur had bacon and eggs in the refrigerator—he had spent the night in the bunkhouse with the other men now that Rue was back—so she made a high-fat, high-cholesterol and totally delicious breakfast. “We’ll have to go into town and stock up on groceries,” she said, serving the food. “Then I’ll introduce you to the men, and you can choose a horse.”

By that time, Farley had finished reading about car engine motors, but he looked sort of absentminded, as if he was still digesting facts and sorting ideas. A light went on in his eyes, though. “A horse?” he echoed.

Rue grinned, a slice of crisp bacon in one hand. “Horses are still fundamental to ranching,” she said.

“Is this a big spread?”

She told him the acreage, and he whistled in exclamation.

“You raise mostly cattle?”

Rue nodded. “Some horses, too. I’d like to pursue that further, start breeding show stock.” She got up and pulled a newspaper clipping she’d spotted earlier from the bulletin board. Wilbur had a habit of saving unusual accounts. “As you can see,” she went on, placing the picture of a miniature pony and its trainer next to Farley’s plate, “horses come in all shapes and sizes these days.”

Farley frowned, studying the photograph. “Tarnation. That little cayoose doesn’t even reach the man’s belt buckle. Can’t be more than two feet high at the withers.”

“People breed miniature ponies to show and sell,” Rue said, reaching for her coffee. She was prattling, but she didn’t care. She enjoyed talking to Farley about anything. “Horses used to be about the size of house cats back in prehistoric times. Did you know that?”

“What good is a two foot horse?” Farley asked practically, letting the history lecture pass without comment. “I don’t imagine you could housebreak them like an old lady’s pet dog.”

Rue laughed. “True enough. And just imagine what it would be like if they jumped up in your lap, the way a cat or a puppy might do.” Seeing Farley’s consternation, she spoke seriously. “I know in your time every animal had to have a distinct function. Nowadays, people raise all kinds of creatures just because they enjoy it. I know of a woman who raises llamas, for instance, and a man who keeps a little pig as a pet. It even rides in his car.”

“You know some strange people,” Farley said, and he clearly wasn’t kidding.

Rue smiled. “Yes,” she agreed. “And the strangest one of all is a United States marshal from 1892.”

Farley smiled back, but he was obviously a little tense. He probably felt nervous about meeting the ranch hands; after all, up until then, Rue had been the only twentieth-century person he’d had any real dealings with. Now he would have to integrate himself into a world he’d only begun to understand.

Rue touched his hand. “Everything will be fine,” she promised. “Hurry up and finish your breakfast, please. I’ll show you the horse barn, and then I want to get the grocery shopping out of the way.”

After giving her a humorously ironic look, Farley carried his plate to the sink. “Don’t nag me, woman,” he teased.

Widening her eyes in feigned innocence, Rue chirped, “Me? Nag? Never!”

With a lift of one eyebrow, Farley put on his hat and the canvas coat he’d been wearing when he and Rue were suddenly hurled into the latter part of the twentieth century. Rue put on a heavy jacket, gloves and a stocking cap, knowing the wind would be ferocious.

The sun had yet to rise, the snow was still coming down, and the cold was keen enough to bite, but Rue’s heart brimmed with happiness all the same. Although she hadn’t consciously realized the fact before, this ranch was home, and Farley was the man she wanted to share it with.

When they reached the horse barn, the lights were on and one of the hands was helping Wilbur feed and water the valuable geldings and mares. Soldier, the sheepdog, was overseeing the project, and he ran over to bark out a progress report when Rue and Farley appeared.

Farley grinned and affectionately ruffled the animal’s ears, one of which was white, the other black. “Good boy,” he said.

Rue proceeded along the center of the barn until she came to the stall that held her own mare, Buttermilk. It had been too long since she’d seen the small, yellow horse, and she longed to ride, but there were other things that had to be done first.

She went on to meet Wilbur, who was hobbling toward her.

“Where is that stallion you wrote me about? The one we bought six months ago?”

Wilbur ran his fingers through hair that existed only in his memory. “That would be Lobo. His stall is on the other side of the concrete wall. Had to keep him away from the mares, of course, or he’d tear the place apart.”

“Lobo,” Rue repeated, well aware of Farley towering behind her. “That’s a silly name. You’ve been watching too many cowboy movies, Wilbur.”

The old man winked, not at Rue, but past her right shoulder, at Farley. Obviously Wilbur had pegged the marshal as a kindred soul. “No such thing as too many cowboy movies,” he decreed. “Ain’t possible. Hell, when the Duke died, those Hollywood folks just stopped making good Westerns altogether.”

Rue could feel Farley’s questions and his effort to contain them until they were alone again.

“Movies,” she said as they rounded the concrete wall Wilbur had mentioned, headed for Lobo’s private suite, “are pictures, like on TV, put together to make a story.”

“Who’s this Duke Wilbur was talking about? I thought we didn’t have royalty in America.”

Rue grinned, working the heavy latch on the door to the inner stable. “There was a very popular actor called John Wayne. His nickname was the Duke.”

Inside his fancy stall, the stallion kicked up a minor fuss. Rue supposed it was some kind of macho thing, a way of letting everybody know he was king of the stables.

“Easy, Lobo,” she said automatically.

Farley let out a long, low whistle of admiration as he looked at the magnificent animal through the heavy metal slats of the stall door. “You broke to ride, fella?” he asked, stepping closer.

Rue had been around horses a lot, but she felt as nervous then as she would have if Farley had stood on the threshold of that mysterious doorway in Aunt Verity’s house with the necklace in his hand. Either way, he’d have been tempting fate.

“Sure is,” Wilbur replied from behind them, before Rue had a chance to answer.

She looked at the horse and then at Farley. “I don’t think—”

“Where can I find a saddle?” Farley broke in. The line of his jaw and the expression in his eyes told Rue he would not be dissuaded from riding the stallion.

Wilbur produced the requested tack, along with a bridle and saddle blanket, and Farley opened the stall door and stepped inside, talking quietly to Lobo. Beyond the windows, the snow continued to tumble through the first gray light of morning.

Rue bit her lip and backed up, knowing Farley would never forgive her if she protested further. He was a grown man, he’d probably ridden horses most of his life, and he didn’t need mothering.

Wilbur stood back, too, watching closely as Farley slipped the bridle over Lobo’s gleaming, ebony head, then saddled the horse with an expertise that made a lump of pride gather in Rue’s throat. Finally, he led the animal from the stall and through the outer doorway into the paddock.

Lobo was fitful, nickering and tossing his head and prancing to one side.

“You’re sure that stallion is broken to ride?” Rue asked Wilbur, watching as Farley planted one booted foot in the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle.

“Pretty much,” Wilbur answered laconically.

Lobo gave a shriek of outrage at the feel of a man’s weight on his back. He set his hind legs, and his coal black flanks quivered as he prepared to rebel. Several of the ranch hands had gathered along the paddock fence to watch.

“Damn it,” Rue ground out, “this isn’t funny!” She was about to walk up to Lobo and grab hold of his bridle when Wilbur reached out and caught hold of her arm.

“Let the man show what he’s made of,” he said, and Rue could have sworn those words came not from the mischievous old man beside her, but from her grandfather.

“That’s stupid,” Rue protested in a furious whisper, even though she knew Wilbur was absolutely right.

Lobo had finished deliberating. He “came unwrapped,” as Rue’s grandfather used to say, bucking as if he had a twenty pound tomcat burying its claws in his hide.

Farley looked cool and calm. He even spurred the stallion once or twice, just to let Lobo know who was running the show.

Finally, with a disgruntled nicker, the stallion settled down, and permitted Farley to ride him around the paddock once at a trot. The watching ranch hands cheered and whistled, and Rue knew Farley had taken the first step toward making a place for himself at Ribbon Creek.

Farley rode over to the fence and spoke to the men who remained there, and soon he was bending from Lobo’s back to shake hands.

Rue gave Wilbur a look fit to scorch steel, then crossed the paddock to speak to Farley. She smiled so that no one, least of all the marshal himself, would get the idea she was trying to boss him around.

“I guess we’d better be getting to town if we’re going to get our business done,” she said.

Farley nodded and rode toward the stables without protest, dismounting to lead Lobo through the doorway.

The cowboys at the fence greeted Rue pleasantly and then went on about their own tasks. When she stepped inside the stable, Farley had already unsaddled Lobo and was praising the horse in a low voice as he curried him.

“That was some fancy riding, Marshal,” she said.

Farley didn’t look away from the horse. “This is some pretty fancy stallion,” he replied.

Rue nodded and wedged her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “The men seem to like you. I guess you know they’ll play some pranks and bait you a little, to see if they can get a rise out of you.”

“I know about ranch hands, Rue,” he said with gentle amusement in his voice. “Don’t worry yourself. The boys and I will get on just fine.”

Rue sighed. “Maybe I’m like Wilbur,” she said. “Maybe I’ve seen too many Westerns on TV.”

He looked back at her over one shoulder, grinned and shook his head.

“In the movies, the new arrival on the ranch always has to prove himself by showing that he’s got the hardest fists and the quickest draw,” Rue said a little defensively.

Farley ran those saucy eyes of his over her in a searing sweep. “I haven’t seen anybody around this place I couldn’t handle,” he said. He gave the horse a last wistful look before joining Rue to walk toward the house.

She put a hand on his arm. “Don’t worry, Marshal. You’ll be back here and in the saddle before you know it.”

Since it was a two-mile stretch to the main highway, Rue let Farley drive on the first leg of the journey to town. He swerved right off the road once, and sent the Land Rover barrelling through the creek that had given the ranch its name, whooping like a Rebel soldier leading a raid.

Rue decided he was better at riding horses.

The drive into town took another half an hour. By the time they arrived, the community’s one supermarket was open for business.

Even though he’d been to the mall outside Seattle and had driven across three states with Rue, Farley was still stricken mute with amazement when he walked into the market and saw the wide aisles and the colorful, complicated displays of boxes and cans and bottles. He jumped when the sprayers came on over the produce, and his eyes widened when he saw the pyramids of red apples and plump oranges. In the meat department, he stood watching a mechanized cardboard turkey until Rue finally grabbed his sleeve and pulled him away.

When they finally returned to the parking lot to load two bulging cartfuls of food into the back of the Land Rover, the marshal was looking a little dazed. All during the ride home, he kept turning around in the passenger seat and plundering products from the bags. He read the boxes and labels letter by letter, it seemed to Rue, frowning in consternation.

“No wonder you women are getting into so much trouble with your short dresses and all,” he finally remarked when they were turning off the highway onto the ranch. “Everything can be cooked in five or ten minutes, and you’ve got all sorts of contraptions besides, like that washing machine. You’ve got too much free time.”

Rue smiled. “I’m going to let you get by with that chauvinistic observation just this once, since for all practical intents and purposes, you’re new in town.”