Chapter 3   

The full moon sent eerie shadows across the yard when they drove into the homestead.

“What took you so long?” Her father lounged in a rocker on the porch, feet up on the railing. “The train late again?”

His expression was as innocent as a baby lamb, and that irked her. Tara marched up to her father and handed him the letter. “How about an explanation, Pa? You tryin’ to marry me off against my will?”

“Now why would I do somethin’ like that, Mouse?” He stood and handed the letter back without reading it. “I invited Tim to come on out and manage the ranch. If’n things work out between you, he could marry you and the dowry would be my half of the ranch to give him a partnership.”

“That’s Timothy, sir.”

They both ignored him.

“If’n things work out?” She folded her arms. “Things are not goin’ to work out. I will choose if and when I want a husband. I got a ranch to run and no time for courtin’ and all that nonsense.” She pointed at Timothy and back at her father. “Do you two hear me?”

Both men looked at her, looked at one another, and nodded.

“Now we understand one another.” She held her gaze steady. “Let’s get unloaded so we can get some supper and a good start in the morning on that downed fence.” She stomped to the wagon. “I can’t believe we lost a day of work on shenanigans.” She shot a squinty-eyed glower and a growl at the men from the back of the wagon.

Mr. Johnston offered a hand. “Welcome, Tim. Robert Johnston.”

“Timothy, sir.” He shook hands with him. “Thank you for, uh, your—”

“Aw, let it go, son. We ain’t all that hospitable the way she’s fumin’. She’s just like her mama. Makes for a good wife, it does.”

“It does?”

“You just gotta know when to ease up. Strong women have minds of their own and goals of their own. That’s what we need out here, or we can’t survive. People who can see what they want and go after it. Think for themselves. Your job, Tim, is to be man enough to be her equal so she’ll give you a chance.” He spread his hands wide and looked out at a stretch of endless grassland illuminated by the moon’s light beyond the farm buildings and corrals, the mountains dark and craggy in the distance on either side of the massive valley. “I need grandsons to pass all this on to. Otherwise, what’s it all for?”

Timothy whistled through his teeth. “She’s pretty well decided, I think.”

“She’ll calm down and be rarin’ to go at first light.” He clapped Timothy on the shoulder. “Cookie’s got some corn bread and steak inside once we get all this put away and the horses up for the night. You just keep showin’ your best side, and you’ll win her over in no time. You hear me, boy?”

“Yes, thank you, sir. That’s good advice.” Did he want to win her over? Tara Johnston had a sharp tongue to go along with her sharp intellect and work ethic. Not to mention horrendous social skills. But then, who was he to talk? High society didn’t care for him either. Though not for lack of dignified manners. He couldn’t carry a conversation about fluff, and preferred animals over people. He slid a quick glance at Miss Johnston. Much preferred animals. Animals made sense to him.

If they had to work together, he’d put on his best manners, as advised, so they’d at least get along in one another’s company. After all, it wasn’t her idea to place an advertisement for a husband. Her father certainly had the right to find her a match. But he might have to hog-tie her to accept some poor sop. Tara Johnston was as unlikely a choice for him as the socialite he’d rejected.

Maybe there’d be a way to earn a partnership without marriage—for both their sakes. A sharp-tongued wife would be as uncomfortable to live with as a dull wife. Either extreme would make a marriage unbearable. He’d learn about running a ranch and buy his own land eventually. The future lay wide open with opportunity out here on the frontier. Maybe he’d advertise for a mail-order bride one day. Though he’d not ever met a woman willing to work the way Miss Johnston did.

The men carried the trunks into the bunkhouse. Mr. Johnston lit a lantern. As the newly hired foreman, Timothy was assigned quarters in a dusty room with a single lumpy bed. A washstand and pitcher stood under a shaving mirror. Two shelves and a few wooden dowels poked into the nearby wall as clothing pegs. Once all the trunks lined the room, there was little space left. “Is there a wardrobe, or should I procure one?”

“We keep things simple here. Pare down a bit, or you’re goin’ to feel like a corncob in a pigsty once we get a few more bodies in the bunkhouse.”

Timothy stood in the square yard remaining, grateful for the privacy from the communal bunk space. “I only brought necessities, thinking to send for the rest later.”

Mr. Johnston screwed up his face. “Might want to rethink that plan, son. Let’s get that supper. I imagine you’re a tad hungry.”

“Yes, sir, it’s been a long time since breakfast.” The dried meat and bread they’d had on the road helped, but he needed a good meal. The Johnstons didn’t seem to know about normal courtesies of offering a traveler a day or two of rest. But by the looks of their situation, they couldn’t afford the wait. He stifled a yawn. “I’ll get changed.”

“Those clothes will do.”

“You don’t dress for dinner?”

“Yep, got a sense of humor, don’t you? This is a workin’ ranch.” A smile crinkled the sun-weathered skin around Robert Johnston’s eyes. “We don’t have time for all that pomp here.”

When he walked into the main house for the late-night supper, the smell of sizzling steak and sweet corn bread set Timothy’s stomach to growling. Though not as large as the Higgenbottom eighteen-bedroom country house in Kentucky, and nowhere close to the massive thirty-two-bedroom castle called Cumberland Manor his family owned in England, the Johnstons’ place had an attractive, homey atmosphere. Comfortable furniture appeared well made, and possibly home fashioned. A harp rested in its stand near a cushioned stool. Did she play?

“Come on in, son. Cookie, this here is our new foreman, Tim—” Before getting corrected again, Mr. Johnston added, “—othy.”

“Hungry?” The cook, who looked more like an old mountain man, speared a juicy, monstrous steak out of the cast-iron frying pan and held it up, dripping juices onto a wooden cutting board. Then he eyed Timothy’s silk vest, cravat, and expensive shoes, all a little worse for wear. He clamped his mouth shut and went to work carving the slab of meat into quarters.

Timothy had never felt judged by a household servant before. “Quite. Thank you.” But then his servants rarely looked anything like the old bearded man in denim and frayed suspenders.

The cook plunked a piece of meat onto each pewter plate. A bowl of mashed potatoes with gravy, corn bread cake, a crock of butter, and a pie covered the table. As Tara came to the kitchen, still dressed in her simple homemade skirt and blouse, Timothy stood and held a chair for her.

Astonishment lit up her freshly washed face while her father shared a conspiratorial wink with him.

“Thank you.” Tara said. “You ain’t got to be such a gent all the time. It’s goin’ to get near impossible when we’re out runnin’ fence and roundin’ up herds. Appreciate the thought.”

Her sweetness, after the day they’d had, caught him off guard. “My pleasure, Miss Johnston.” He took his seat, stealing a casual glance at her. No ten-gallon hat, her hair pulled back in a ribbon, cheeks scrubbed clean and pink, and reasonable table manners had him rethinking his first impression.

“Dig in.” Cookie slid out a chair and sat down. As soon as grace ended, he scooped potatoes onto his plate and passed the bowl to his left. “Well, you gonna eat, boy?”

Servants ate with them? “Yes, thank you.” That would take some getting used to for Timothy. Not one would dare overstep at the Higgenbottom household or in any other society home. Then again, the family rarely stepped foot in the kitchen. Now he was an employee. The only difference between Cookie and himself had to be that his own future held potential partnership. Cookie, at his advanced years, would always be a servant. As uncomfortable as he felt, was there truly anything wrong with people eating together? No one had told him Cookie’s relationship to the Johnstons. For all he knew, Cookie could be family. Holding his tongue and observing would be prudent.

“Got some less fancified duds?” Cookie asked him.

Miss Johnston giggled. “Could be a challenge.”

“I’ll find something.” Timothy focused on loading his plate.

Cookie grunted his disbelief while chewing. He flicked his knife in Timothy’s direction. “He know how to ride?”

“Says he can.” Miss Johnston buttered her corn bread. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Mr. Johnston rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Did you bring any tack with you?”

“Yes, sir. My saddle and tack are in one of my trunks.”

“Good. We’ll pick out a horse for you right after supper. We got a good bit of mendin’ fence to knock out in the next few days.”

“I’ll be ready, sir.”

“I give ’im a week,” Cookie grumbled. “Look at them hands. Ain’t used to hard work.”

Miss Johnston piped in, “I don’t know. He did all right loading and unloading.” She tapped her fork against her lips, contemplating. “I give him the benefit of good intentions. Maybe two weeks.”

He could be invisible, except they kept assessing him as they wagered opinions like a horse at auction. Would they check his teeth next? “I assure you, Miss Johnston, I’m up to the task.” He could see the doubt in the eyes around the table. “Your ad requested a hardworking, God-fearing man with a willing heart and a sense of humor. I’m a man of honor, and I will stand by my word.”

“That’s how you advertised for a foreman, or was that for a husband?” She plunged her fork into her steak and glared at her father.

Mr. Johnston ignored her. “Sure you are, son. You’re young and strong.” He reached for the potatoes. “Why don’t we see how you feel in a month? Maybe this life is for you and maybe it ain’t. In the meantime, we all go by our first names here. Gets to be close quarters for all that highfalutin business.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Robert is fine, son.” He scooped a helping of gravy over his potatoes. “You prove Tara and Cookie wrong for me, ya hear. I’m thinkin’ you got more spirit in you than they’re givin’ you credit for.”

“I don’t know, Pa. You’re goin’ off his word. Maybe he can ride. But I want to see him really work if we’re gonna turn over big responsibilities to him.”

“He’ll do that tomorrow. Fencin’ all day will show his measure right off.”

“We’ve got cattle to brand. If Timothy knows how to work with livestock, he can show us how to cut and rope a calf after we’ve closed up that gap next to O’Connell’s place.”

His steak stuck in his throat. He’d be let go right here and now. But he had to tell the truth. “Uh, Miss Johns—Tara, I’ve never rounded up cattle before.”

She didn’t look a bit disturbed. “Now why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“I know it sounds bad, but I train riders and horses for the steeplechase, hunting, and racing. The cattle are not huge herds such as you have out here. They’re kept in barns and paddocks where I’m from.” Wouldn’t his skills translate with a little training? After all, he could outride most men.

“So, you got no useful knowledge of ranchin’?” Tara groaned, pushed her plate away, and gave her father an I-told-you-so look while Cookie harrumphed through his food.

Timothy winced at her reaction. “I didn’t say that.” He set his silverware on the pewter plate. Hungry or not, he needed to prove he’d be a benefit to the JBarF. “I’m not just a trainer and instructor. Animal husbandry is crucial for racing and showing horses and for family survival. I’m educated in caring for horses, cattle, and sheep as well as crops and land management.”

Tara’s voice held a new respect. “That says somethin’. All right, Pa, thirty days it is.” She put her chin on her fist, elbow on the table. “If you can do all that, you could still be very helpful. But you gotta learn to round up and brand cattle. There’s no way around it, or no self-respectin’ cowboy will follow your orders.”

“Willing and ready, Miss—” He caught himself. Losing the societal rules he’d rebelled against could be harder than he thought. “Tara. You name the day, and I’ll be your best student. Though, could you let my backside recover from today’s wagon ride first?” He grinned and reveled in the sound of her unexpected laughter.

A mysterious twinkle in Robert’s eyes remained after the humor settled. He watched Timothy and Tara converse together as if he knew something they didn’t. “Come on, Timothy, let’s get a horse picked out for you.”

Thirty days to prove he wasn’t a greenhorn and learn the day-to-day duties of a working ranch without servants to do the menial tasks. Timothy needed to learn all he could from the enigma, Tara, as he trained with her. Her father saw her as an equal in all financial and business decisions. A very curious arrangement indeed. He’d prove himself to all of them for as long as it’d take to fit in around the JBarF.

He hauled his saddle out to the barn. By the door, he plucked a small handful of long, sweet grass. “Hello, Freckles, remember me? We met last night.” He stood close to the Morgan mare’s stall, hung his saddle on the short wall, and blew gently in small puffs near her nose. The beautiful fifteen-hand roan snuffled near his cheek as she familiarized his scent.

“Here you go, girl.” He held out the green grass. She took it with gentle lips and chewed the treat while he eased himself into her stall. Finding her curry brush on the shelf, Timothy gave her a good going-over, watching for any sore spots or burrs while she munched on hay. He swept the finishing brush over her, following with his hand. Last, he checked her legs and hooves. Satisfied with Freckles’s excellent condition, he gave her oats to fortify her. Then he worked fast, mucking out her stall and throwing clean bedding, before moving to the next horse. He had three done and three to go before anyone else arrived.

“Mornin’, son.” Robert moved into a stall nearby, preparing his horse for the day.

“Sir.” He patted the neck of Socrates, a Standardbred colt. “You have some excellent horses. They’re well tended and quite well bred.”

“That yearling came by way of the esteemed Marcus Daly himself in trade for some beef cattle. Mostly I like the Morgan for their versatility on Montana’s hills. Real sturdy, fast pace, and lots of endurance.” He brushed his fingers against Socrates’s nose. “But Daly wants to focus on his thoroughbreds and racing stock. Thinks he can breed one to win the Kentucky Derby, he does.”

“That’s a near impossible goal. But this fellow has good lines even if he’s not for the flat racetrack. You could still train him to harness race.”

“He isn’t as popular a breed out here. Been thinkin’ of sellin’ him for a fancy carriage or some such. He’ll take some trainin’ yet.” Robert gestured at the already thrown hay. “Gotta say, you show initiative to beat a man to his own barn chores.”

“I want to earn my place here, sir.” He shot a grin to Robert. “And help you win that bet.”

Robert folded his arms on the top of the stall rail and watched Timothy curry the next mare. “You sure do wear fancy duds for dirty work.” Then he spied the saddle. “Let’s get some breakfast under our belts before Tara gets an eyeful of your getup—” He waved a hand over at the saddle and Timothy’s outfit.

“What are you plannin’ to do with that thing around a herd of cattle?” Tara stood at Freckles’s stall door, pointing at Timothy’s saddle.

Too late.

“Ah son, now you done it.”

Would he see a day he didn’t set her off first thing? “I realize you have western saddles. But this is how I ride.”

“Maybe out to do the fencin’.” She gave a slow shake of her head. “But you’re gonna need a decent saddle to rope calves and such.”

“It’s more than decent, I assure you.”

Tara examined the difference in size and seat in her western and his English saddles. “How do you stay in your seat when you gotta cut a cow or jump a creek?”

“With my legs.” He walked out of the stall to stand by his saddle. “You’ll see. I can better feel a horse’s movement, especially jumping.” With all his horsemanship awards, he’d be fine in any situation. But again, he had to prove it.

“Gonna need somethin’ to tie off a rope.”

Tara and her father, and for that matter, the men who would work under him, did not know his expertise. Day by day, he’d show them and win their trust.

Her voice broke into his thoughts, incredulous. “Those your only boots?”

He followed her gaze down to his highly polished and stylish black leather riding boots, a little dusty from the morning’s work, but the quality showed. “They’ll do, won’t they?”

“They ain’t gonna look like that when we get back.” She measured out some oats and dumped them into Queenie’s manger. “I’m not sayin’ you can’t do the job in all that finery.” She sent a doubtful look to her father. “But if you were to dress more like a cowboy, people might think you were one.”

He’d brought his savings, but that didn’t amount to a reason to buy a new saddle and clothing on the whim of someone’s judgmental opinion. He’d fence and ride circles around her and change that opinion.

Robert tossed a flake of hay into the feed bin. “Mouse, he’s bitin’ off a whole new life. Let’s give the man a chance.”

She looked about to say more but turned to her horse’s care.

Mouse? Her hair was a dusky brown. But to call a young woman a mouse? There had to be a story, and Timothy wanted to know it. Miss Tara Johnston was anything but a mouse. More like a lioness.

“Tell you what, son, on Sunday we all head into Anaconda for services. After church we’ll see if we can find at least four wranglers, but maybe you’re wantin’ a crack at fillin’ out our crew yourself.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll have some thoughts about that once I know the running budget, the lay of the land, scope of work, and size of herd.” A stable boy would ease their burden by giving them back hours each day. “Possibly a lad about thirteen or fourteen could muck out the stalls, rub the horses down, and keep a feeding plan. If it fits in the funds, sir.”

“We’ve never had a stable boy.” Robert threw straw in the last stall for clean bedding. “Not against it, mind you.”

“For a few dollars a month, we’ll get more productive work when skilled men”—he saw Tara’s scowl as she looked up from brushing her horse—“uh, people, are freed up to do their jobs. We’ll end up saving money while making more money from higher productivity.”

“The books is Tara’s business. I’ll let you two chew that to bits on the ride out today.” Robert opened the stall for Tara to join them. “She’s been a real blessin’ since she graduated eighth grade.”

“Eighth grade?” Now he had doubts about her abilities. He foresaw disastrous accounting.

Tara beamed at her father’s pride. “Aw, thanks, Pa.” She slid an indiscernible glance his way before checking Timothy’s care of the rest of the animals.

“Get a list going,” Robert suggested. “You can pick up whatever you need while we’re in town.”

“I’ll keep it in mind, sir.” After the early hours spent preparing horses before breakfast, his first priority would be to train a stable hand. Then acquire a rope. Definitely a rope. He’d go to great lengths to have that on hand before Tara saw that he didn’t.