Chapter 2   

Jack Callen listened to the lawyer with dismay. It had already been more than two months since the boss died. Mr. McClure had let go several of the ranch hands, but he’d kept on Jack, who was Mr. Hill’s foreman, and three cowpunchers. The men were uneasy, wondering if they should look for jobs on other ranches or stay put. Right now the work wasn’t too hard. They had plenty to eat and no one but Jack looking over their shoulders.

But a woman for a boss?

“She says she’s leaving Boston on June twenty-eighth,” Mr. McClure said. The wind ruffled his graying hair as they stood in the yard before the bunkhouse. “That gives you time to redd up the house and make sure things are in order. I expect she’ll arrive here around the Fourth of July.”

Two weeks. Jack and the men had two weeks to get things ready for the owner. Not just any owner—a woman who knew nothing about ranching.

“So we should go in the house and clean it up?”

“If it needs it. We checked the kitchen and pantry after Mr. Hill died, you recall. I expect all that’s needed is a little dusting and making up the bed fresh. Leave his things as they are. Make sure she’s got fresh eggs and milk the day she arrives. Can you handle that?”

“I guess.” Jack didn’t exactly feel comfortable about making a lady’s bed up with clean linens, but he supposed it had to be done. A thought struck him. “Could I maybe hire the neighbor’s wife to come over and do that?”

McClure considered for a moment then reached into his pocket. “I guess so. Here’s two dollars. Give her that if she spends a day here working.”

Jack accepted the money with a nod. Kate Stanno would likely be glad to make a couple of dollars. Her husband’s ranch was scraping along.

“Just my opinion,” he said, watching the lawyer’s face closely, “but this is no place for a lady. We’ve got that bull coming that Mr. Hill sent for right before he died, and we need to hold the roundup in August.”

McClure’s eyebrows drew together. “Be that as it may, Callen, we have to follow the particulars of the will. Miss Paxton is coming, whether you like it or not. I sent her money for her train ticket this morning. Now maybe it would be wise for the estate to sell off that bull. What do you think?”

“No, sir.” The boss had been adamant about his plans for the ranch, and Jack would honor them so long as he had the chance. “That animal was what Mr. Hill saw as the future of his herd. He sank a lot of money into that bull, and he figured next spring we’d have a fine crop of beef calves kicking around here. If you sell the bull now, what will happen to his dreams? You might as well sell off the whole herd and auction off the ranch.”

McClure sighed and looked out over the pasture. “It may come to that if Miss Paxton won’t stay. She may want to sell the place outright. But maybe she’d sell it with the stock, as a working ranch. Then you and the other hands might keep your jobs.”

“But she has to live here for a month before she can sell it, right?”

“That’s correct. If she doesn’t come, or if she won’t stay a full thirty days, she inherits nothing but a train ticket back to Boston.”

“Then what would happen to the Hill ranch?”

McClure’s mouth twitched. “I would be forced to sell it. Half the proceeds would go to Mr. Hill’s aunt in St. Louis, who doesn’t really need it, the other half to a cousin believed to be living somewhere in California.”

“You don’t even know where he is?” Jack asked.

“Not for certain. My letter to his last known address came back unopened.”

Jack shook his head. He wasn’t sure which he hoped would happen—the sale of the property and probably having to find a new job, or a new lady boss who would flounder through the trials of learning to run a ranch. He wished he had enough money to buy the ranch, but that was a pipe dream. Over the last seven years, he’d only been able to put aside a hundred and fifty dollars, nowhere near the price the ranch would bring.

“Didn’t you say she’s some kind of seamstress?” he asked.

“That is my understanding—a dressmaker.”

Terrific. Just what they needed. Jack couldn’t imagine she would stay.

McClure cracked a smile. “Cheer up, Callen. It’s possible she might pocket the money I sent and never leave Boston.”

Rachel’s nerves kicked up as the train approached Fort Worth. Mr. McClure had sent her a telegram about the financial arrangements and said he would meet her at the depot and escort her to the Hill ranch. When she’d gone to her bank to withdraw the money he’d wired, she was shocked at the amount. It was well over the amount she needed to buy her ticket. For incidental expenses, he’d said. She had immediately given Rhoda enough to pay her share of the room for another month and paid for the shop’s rental a month in advance. Then she’d bought new shoes and stockings.

The rest she had squirreled away. Who knew what she would need on the journey? Food, of course, perhaps a hotel room for a night or two if her connections were complicated. And she supposed she might need some new clothing once she reached the ranch. A riding habit, perhaps, though the idea of riding mustangs appalled her. Still, one never knew what lay ahead. She left Boston with twenty dollars in her purse and nearly two hundred sewn into her hems. She wrote to her brother the day before she left, explaining about her change in fortune but leaving him no time to protest about her upcoming journey. Rhoda had waved her off, and Rachel immediately felt nauseated. What was she doing?

Now she had nearly reached her destination, hurtling across the plains in a train laden with grain, building materials, and cattle. When they paused at depots along the way, she could hear the cows lowing in the boxcars behind the two passenger cars.

She’d gotten off the train a few times, but the last stop had frightened her. It seemed a rough town, with the depot a quarter mile from the businesses and houses. A man had brought sandwiches to the platform for travelers to buy if they didn’t want to venture into town, and she’d bought one and scurried back onto the train. It sat there for nearly an hour while the workers took on coal and water and the other passengers walked to a small restaurant for lunch. And the cattle bawled and thudded about.

Now she was nearing Fort Worth. As the train slowed, she looked out the window. Paddocks everywhere, teeming with cattle. She shuddered. Would she have to walk among the stockyards?

To her relief, although the train paused at the stockyards for half an hour, with odorous, dusty air sifting into the cars, the conductor informed Rachel that she should wait. Soon the train would move on to another depot nearer the business district, where most passengers usually disembarked.

Such a relief. She hoped Mr. McClure knew at which depot she would arrive. By the time she stepped down onto the platform, her heart was pounding with anxiety. She brushed back an errant strand of hair and looked about the seething, noisy, dusty platform. For a few seconds, she feared Mr. McClure wouldn’t find her and she would be left on her own to find lodgings and try to contact him.

“Miss Paxton?”

She turned toward the sweetest sound she’d ever heard. A stately middle-aged man in a black suit was hurrying toward her. He might have been a senator.

“Miss Rachel Paxton?” he asked.

“Yes.” She extended her hand, and he took it.

“Donald McClure. Welcome to Fort Worth.”

“Th–thank you.”

“You must be tired. Would you like to join me for a late luncheon? There’s a respectable hotel just around the corner.”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

A young man came up beside him, tall and rugged, with a tanned face and unruly dark hair. His brown eyes appraised her quickly, and he nodded, tugging at the wide brim of his hat.

Mr. McClure glanced at him. “Miss Paxton, may I introduce Mr. Jack Callen? He was Mr. Hill’s foreman and is still filling that position for the estate.”

“How do you do,” Rachel said.

“Ma’am.”

“I will drive you out to the ranch after we eat,” Mr. McClure said. “I wanted you to meet Callen first, but he and two of the other ranch hands will be collecting a bull that Mr. Hill ordered shortly before his death. They will take it from the stockyards to the ranch for us. For you, I should say.”

Rachel’s face flamed at his mention of a bull. Back in Boston, nice people didn’t speak of such things in polite company. However, she realized this wasn’t Boston. Instead of dwelling on the embarrassment, she seized on McClure’s last sentence.

“But the ranch is not mine, Mr. McClure.”

“No, not yet. Forgive my slip. I spoke as if you were the new owner. As you will be at the end of thirty days, I trust.”

She swallowed hard. “We shall see.”

“If you’ll excuse me, miss,” Callen said, “I’ll get on over to the stockyards.”

“Of course,” she said. “Thank you for coming.”

He lifted his hat briefly and strode off. Rachel wondered about him. He was the man she’d have to deal with from day to day. She’d noted his keen assessment of her.

“He’s a good man,” Mr. McClure said. “If you choose to keep him on, he will be of immeasurable help to you. He knows every aspect of managing a ranch.”

Would he resent answering to a new owner? A female owner? Rachel could see that she would have a lot to think about, and she might need to nurture some diplomatic skills in the next month.

Mr. McClure smiled. “Let’s secure your luggage and get something to eat, shall we?”

“Yes, thank you.”

A good lunch of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, and featherlight biscuits went a long way toward calming Rachel. She only wished for some green vegetables and hoped the ranch had a kitchen garden. Mr. McClure talked about the Hill ranch, and her head whirled. He gave her a list of places in town where Mr. Hill had established accounts—a bank, a mercantile, a feed store, and a haberdashery.

“You can charge any purchases you make for the ranch or for your use during your stay to the ranch’s accounts at these stores.”

Rachel gulped and tucked the list into her purse. She’d never imagined that Mr. Hill had such resources. When she dared ask the value of the property she might inherit, his reply staggered her.

On the way to the ranch, which was several miles out of town and took an hour’s travel in Mr. McClure’s buggy, he talked at length about Mr. Hill’s vision for the ranch.

“This new bull will be the foundation of his breeding program. That is, of course, unless you decide to go a different direction once you take possession. But he’s got some fine breeding cows ready and was quite enthusiastic about what he had planned.”

Rachel felt as if her face was on fire. How could he talk so casually about those things? She had never heard men talk about their livestock in such intimate terms. She supposed they had to, but farmers probably excused themselves from mixed company when doing so. Ought she be offended? Surely Mr. McClure was a gentleman. Or was he trying to get a reaction from her?

“I suppose I’ll have to settle in at the ranch and see what the life is like before I make my final decision,” she said without looking at him.

“Of course.” He turned the conversation to the sights and conveniences of Fort Worth. Rachel tucked away a few things he mentioned, but she couldn’t help wondering if she had made a huge mistake.

After he’d talked nonstop for ten minutes, she said, “Excuse me, but may I ask you how Mr. Hill died? Was it an accident?”

“Oh no, not at all,” he said. “It was very sad. A lingering illness. He knew for several months what was coming.”

Rachel frowned. “Some kind of wasting disease?”

“Yes, I believe his doctor said it was a cancer.” Mr. McClure shook his head. “So tragic in a man so young.”

She thought back to the letters they had exchanged.

“He never mentioned it to me in our correspondence,” she said. “How long ago did he know?”

“It was about two months before he died, I believe. At least that’s when he came to me and asked me to draw up his will.”

Relief washed over her. He hadn’t known at the time she had sent her refusal. His illness had struck last winter, after their correspondence ended.

“Did he say why he chose me to inherit his property? We hadn’t had any contact since September, I believe.”

“No, not specifically. He did tell me that you were a woman he admired and wanted to do something nice for, that’s all.”

She thought about that as he drove along. Something nice. That was an understatement, considering Mr. Hill’s assets. Her feelings of guilt resurfaced. That poor, thoughtful man! She’d turned him down, and then he’d learned he was dying. How awful.

When they at last turned off the main road onto a dirt lane, Mr. McClure looked at her with a smile. “This is your land now, on both sides of the road. Your home, if you decide to move permanently to Texas.”

She looked around with a sense of wonder. The hills spread out around them, fenced in with barbed wire, and in the distance she saw several clusters of cattle. And they were hers, or they would be in thirty days.

“How many acres?” she squeaked out.

“A thousand, more or less.”

Her chest squeezed. In Boston people owned house lots if they were lucky, or suburban houses on plots of a few acres if they were wealthier. Of course this land wasn’t prime real estate. The grass looked brownish for the first week of July, and for the most part no improvements had been made.

They rode into a hovering dust cloud, and she coughed. It was so hot that she’d almost shed her shawl, but perhaps it would keep some of the grime off her dress.

“I imagine this dust was stirred up when the men brought the bull in,” Mr. McClure said.

There it was again. She had the feeling she wouldn’t be able to dodge the topic forever.

“I suppose Mr. Callen and the other workers can tend to that end of the business,” she said with hesitation.

“Well yes, for the most part.” He pulled up and turned toward her with a wide smile. “There’s the home place, up ahead.”

The larger structure, she quickly realized, was a barn. She could see hay through the open loft door above the main entrance. Around it were rail-fenced pens, and in some of them she could see a few horses. To one side was a one-story addition with several windows along the front.

Mr. McClure pointed across the driveway. “That’s the house.” On a slight rise about a hundred feet from the barn was a small dwelling. Mr. Hill had been a bachelor, so she supposed he didn’t need a big house. She swallowed hard. It looked very plain, with board siding and a chimney built of rocks. Modest, but what had she expected? And she had never lived in a fancy house. For the past several years, she had shared one room in an inexpensive boardinghouse. She would not complain about having a roof over her head and the privacy of a dwelling to herself, no matter how spartan.

She stirred and gathered her shawl and handbag. Mr. McClure climbed down from the buggy, but before he could go around to her, another man appeared at her side. Startled, she looked down into Jack Callen’s sober brown eyes. He held up a calloused hand.

“Help you, ma’am?”

“Thank you.” She hit the ground awkwardly and stumbled. Callen’s grip on her arm was like steel, and she quickly recovered.

“All right, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “We put the new bull in a reinforced corral out back of the barn. Would you like to see it?”

“Oh, the, uh, the new ox. Not now, I think. I’m rather tired from the journey, Mr. Callen.”

“Sure,” he said, “but call me Jack if you don’t mind, ma’am.”

“Oh.” She eyed him closely to be sure he was serious. “You are the foreman.”

“Yes, ma’am, but we don’t stand on ceremony here.”

“All right.” I’ll try, she added mentally. In her eastern life, she was on a first-name basis with very few men.

Mr. McClure had reached her side. “Let me show you the house, and the men can bring in your baggage. Then I’ll head back to town.” He offered her his arm.

“Thank you.” Rachel went with him into the little house, where he pointed out the large kitchen and sitting room, which were really only one room, and the bedroom, which she was glad to see was firmly partitioned off.

“There’s a pantry here.” He opened a door in the kitchen, near a small icebox. “I had Callen lay in supplies for you, but I’m sure there’ll be other things you want. You can just ask him. Make a list, and he’ll send one of the men to town for your wants, or you can ride in yourself.”

“I don’t ride horseback.” Rachel tried to keep the rising panic from her voice.

“Oh well, Mr. Hill has a wagon. Maybe two. Just get one of the boys to harness it up for you.”

“Boys?”

“The ranch hands.”

She nodded, wanting to scream, “I’ve never driven a wagon either.” But she kept quiet.

The front door opened, and a young man she hadn’t seen before came in carrying her two large satchels.

“Howdy, ma’am. I’m Rusty. You want your bags yonder?” He nodded toward the bedroom door.

“Out here is fine,” Rachel said.

“Awright then.” Rusty set down the two bags, smiled at her, and disappeared out the door.

Rachel certainly hoped the men weren’t in the habit of entering the house without knocking. She would have to check the locks on the doors.

“Now, the necessary’s out back.” Mr. McClure opened a door off the sitting room, and she stared outside, across an expanse of grass to where a rough privy stood. A clothesline was strung to one side.

“Er, thank you.”

He nodded and closed the door.

“What about laundry?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m sure there’s a washtub. Ask Callen.”

She would if necessary, but she’d take a good look around first. Rachel was used to doing her own laundry and generally looking out for herself.

“Now, you’ll want to sit down with Callen soon and go over the books for the ranch. I’ve had him keep track of expenses and income.”

“Oh.” Rachel hadn’t supposed he’d know a ledger from a branding iron. She would certainly ask him about the ranch’s finances, but she didn’t really want to discuss Mr. Hill’s breeding program with him. If the men would leave her alone and tend to the livestock without her direct supervision, she was sure she could survive here for a month. That was all she needed to do—survive.