Chapter 3   

Jack stood in the barn doorway, watching Miss Paxton wave off the lawyer. To his relief she had said nothing about a chaperone or society, though he supposed she might have given McClure an earful. She looked fragile somehow. Uncertain. Lost even. What had ailed Randolph Hill, leaving his ranch to a woman like her? She wasn’t capable of bossing this outfit.

As he was about to go into the barn and check their gear for the next day’s work, she raised a hand and stepped in his direction.

Jack clenched his jaw and walked toward her. They met in the middle of the yard.

“Can I help you with something, ma’am?”

“Yes, I hope so. Mr. McClure said I should ask you about the daily operations of the ranch and the finances. He said you’ve kept the books since Mr. Hill died.”

“Yes, ma’am. Since before he died, actually. He put me in charge of it about three years ago, once he learned I had some talent in arithmetic.”

Her eyebrows shot up as if she hadn’t expected that. “I see. Well, whenever is convenient for you.”

“I could give you a few minutes now.”

“Fine. In—in the kitchen?” She looked confused, as though she wasn’t sure it was proper to invite a man inside her house.

“I’ll fetch the books.” He turned toward the bunkhouse.

Inside, he took a glance in the small mirror that hung above their washbasin. He was glad none of the others were there to see that. What did it matter if his hair was combed? But it did, somehow. Miss Paxton may not be rich, but she was certainly a lady. Anyone could tell that just by looking at her. She wasn’t stunningly beautiful, but there was something fine about her. And those blue eyes. They could look right inside you.

Those thoughts weren’t helping him think about the ledger. He snatched it from the shelf over his bunk and hurried outside. When he got to the house, he knocked, and sure enough, he heard her call, “Come in.”

She was bent over the cookstove, peering into the firebox. In this heat, she wanted a fire?

He set the ledger on the table. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

She lowered the lid onto the stovetop and turned toward him. “Sorry. I was thinking perhaps I could offer you coffee, but I guess it would take too long to get the stove going and heat it.”

“We’ve got coffee in the bunkhouse, ma’am. We leave the pot on the stove all day. I could bring some over for you.”

“Oh, not for me, no. But thank you.”

Jack nodded. “Well, I’m fine without.”

“Good. Let’s get to work, shall we?” She pulled out a chair and sat down.

Jack took a seat opposite her. “If you want a fire later to cook your supper, one of us can start it for you.”

“I can light a fire myself,” she said. “It’s so warm, maybe I’ll just …”

“Well, Rusty started a stew simmering in the bunkhouse,” Jack said. “If you’d like, we can bring you a bowl of that, and you can eat some of the biscuits we left in your pantry with it.”

“You left biscuits for me?” Her eyes widened in surprise. They were right pretty.

“Yes, ma’am. Abe had a baking spree yesterday, and we all thought it might be good to leave you a little something cooked, so we put half a dozen biscuits and a piece of cake in your breadbox.”

“How kind.”

She sounded sincere. Jack nodded and nudged the ledger. “What do you want to know first, ma’am?”

“Is the ranch on a sound footing financially?”

“Oh yes, ma’am. Mr. Hill made a profit the last two years.”

“Good to hear. And how many cattle are there?”

“About five hundred. Most of the cows and calves are up in the far pasture. It’s been awfully dry this summer, and we’ve spread ’em out since the grass is poor. It seems a little better in the hills, so we turned most of them up there on what we call the range—but it’s all fenced. You can be sure of that. We ride the fences pretty much all the time to make sure they stay in good shape.”

She nodded almost mechanically. “Well, I assume that you and the hands take care of the livestock, and I won’t have to do much there.”

“We do, mostly,” he said. “Mr. Hill liked to keep his hand in. He’d ride out with us most days. Put in a day’s work on things like fencing and branding too.”

“Oh.” A hint of dismay clouded the vibrant blue eyes. “And when do you brand the cows?”

“When we round them up in August, before we sell off the yearlings, we’ll make sure all this year’s calves are branded. Mostly it’s the young stock that needs it.” She wouldn’t be here for the next roundup if all she wanted to do was claim the land and sell it. “You don’t need to worry about that, at least not right now.”

She smiled then. “Good. Let’s hope that if I do ever take part in a roundup, I’ll be more prepared than I am now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Jack opened the ledger and went through the most recent expenditures—payday, feed, groceries, fencing materials, leather, blacksmith’s services.

“You seem to have done a thorough job,” Miss Paxton said.

“Thank you. If you’d like, I can go all the way back to when Mr. Hill died, or even to when he put me in charge of his books.”

“That won’t be necessary at this time,” she said. “Perhaps later.”

He nodded. “Mr. McClure had somebody go over the ledger in April to make sure things were in order for the—the estate. He said everything was as it should be.”

“I’m sure he would have told me if it was otherwise.”

“Yes’m. Now, Miss Paxton, if you’d like to talk about Mr. Hill’s plans for the breeding program—”

She sat bolt upright, her cheeks flaming. “No. I would not.”

“Oh.” Jack frowned. “It was dear to his heart, ma’am. A very important part of his plans for the ranch.”

“I’m sure it was.” She sounded as if she had something stuck in her throat. “But I’m not prepared to discuss the—the gentleman cow he purchased, or any other aspect—”

Jack couldn’t help laughing, and she stared at him. If possible, her face got even redder.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Jack choked out. “It’s not an ox, it’s a bull, and there’s nothing gentlemanly about him.”

“I only—” She gulped and closed her lips firmly, not meeting his eyes.

“Sorry.” Jack managed to hold in his laughter. “I didn’t mean to make fun of you. It’s just that bulls can be mean and ornery. Sometimes they’re downright dangerous. If you’re going to run this ranch, you need to learn how to behave around stock and how to keep yourself safe when you’re working with them. Part of that is using the correct terms for things so we’re clear on what we’re talking about.”

Her hand clenched and unclenched at her neckline. “Forgive me, Mr.—Jack. I mean no disrespect, but this is not the kind of discussion I would—” She stopped and cleared her throat. “I do want to learn about ranching, but it may take me some time to become accustomed …”

She shoved back her chair. “Perhaps we can continue this discussion tomorrow.”

“Sure.” He stood and picked up his hat. “Would you like to tour the ranch in the morning?”

“Well … yes, I suppose that would be nice.”

“I’ll have our horses saddled at seven thirty.”

“So early?”

“Before it gets too hot.”

“Oh.” She hesitated.

Surely, Jack thought, she isn’t balking at getting up at a decent hour.

“There’s one other thing that perhaps you should know.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve never ridden a horse before.”

Of course she hadn’t. Jack gritted his teeth and gave a curt nod.

“Riding lesson at seven then. Don’t worry, I’ll give you a gentle horse.”

He strode for the door before she could call it off.

Rachel nearly panicked, but she reminded herself to take three deep breaths and pray. Lord, what do I do? I don’t have any riding clothes.

When a knock came at the door, she had all five of the dresses she’d brought spread out on Mr. Hill’s bed—her bed. She wouldn’t think about how it had been her suitor’s bed and how she might be Mrs. Hill right now if she’d accepted his marriage proposal. Then she would have a right to be here. And no doubt she’d know how to ride a horse by now.

She went to the door and opened it. A cowboy stood there holding a tin tray. He was older than either Jack or Rusty, his hair and beard nearly white.

“Howdy, ma’am. I’m Abe.”

“Oh, you’re the baker.”

He beamed. “Yes’m. Brought you some vittles.”

“That’s very kind of you.” She stepped back to let him in. “I confess I ate one of the biscuits that was left in my pantry earlier, and they’re very good.”

“Thank you kindly.” He moved past her and lowered his tray to the kitchen table. On it were a steaming bowl and something wrapped in a limp cotton napkin. “Beef stew and gingerbread.” He straightened and smiled at her.

Rachel found herself liking Abe. He reminded her a little of her uncle Tobias, God rest his soul. “Why, thank you. You didn’t need to make gingerbread. You already left me a piece of chocolate cake.”

Abe shrugged. “It’s a special day, ma’am. We’ve all been a little blue since the boss died, and with you coming—well, I thought we could all use a little celebration. So, welcome, and enjoy the gingerbread. They’s some thick cream in your icebox, if you’re partial to it.”

“That sounds lovely. Uh, Abe …” She peered up into his faded blue eyes.

“Yes’m?”

“Mr. Callen says I’ll have a riding lesson in the morning. Do you have any idea how I should prepare?”

“Just head on out to the barn after you eat breakfast, I guess.”

“Oh. Well, I … don’t suppose there’s a sidesaddle for me to learn on?”

Abe frowned. “I don’t reckon there is, ma’am.” His face brightened. “Mrs. Stanno, she doesn’t use a sidesaddle.”

“Who?” Rachel asked.

“Cleet Stanno’s wife. She wears an old pair of Cleet’s britches. Rolls up the bottoms and jumps in the saddle.”

“Oh.” That sounded a bit daunting. First of all, there was no way on earth Rachel would wear trousers, and she was certainly not going to jump onto a horse’s back. She was not an acrobat, thank you.

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” Abe said. “We boys won’t hang around to watch. We’ve got to ride fence in the mornin’.”

Taking that as small comfort, Rachel saw him out and threw the bolt on the door. Then she sat down to her supper. Rusty’s stew and Abe’s gingerbread exceeded her expectations. She looked longingly at the slice of cake but decided she’d better save that for tomorrow. She’d have a bellyache if she ate any more tonight, and she had a lot of work to do.

She spent an hour agonizing over whether to alter a dress into a riding outfit. Her oldest, plainest calico might not have enough fabric to form the loose, billowy trousers she imagined. She remembered what Abe had said. With some misgivings, she opened Mr. Hill’s wardrobe. A few shirts and two jackets hung to one side. There was plenty of room for her dresses.

She walked over to the dresser and pulled out one drawer after another. In all, she found four pairs of pants. Three looked like everyday working trousers, and the fourth was probably his Sunday best. She sighed. These clothes could surely be distributed to the ranch hands, who could get some wear out of them. She supposed Mr. McClure hadn’t removed anything, awaiting the disposition of the estate. If she inherited, she would certainly give away Mr. Hill’s clothing. Meanwhile, did she have a right to use some of it?

She whirled back to the bed and picked up the skirt of her travel ensemble.

Jack stood by the corral fence, gazing across at the house. A thin stream of smoke issued from the chimney, but other than that, he saw no signs of life.

Both the horses were saddled. He’d picked Brownie, his favorite mount, for himself, and Patch, a steady old gelding, for Miss Paxton. Should he go knock on the door to see if she was ready? Surely the smoke meant she was preparing her breakfast. He’d give her a few more minutes, but he sure wasn’t going to stand around here all morning when the men were already out riding fence and moving a few cattle.

He ducked between the rails of the larger corral, where they kept half a dozen remuda horses. Might as well do something useful. He approached each horse quietly and lifted its hooves one at a time. They all looked in good shape, their shoes tightly nailed on. He patted the last one’s flank and turned away as the door to the house closed.

There she was. He tried not to stare. She walked—or waddled—toward him, looking rounder than she had yesterday. How many layers of clothes was she wearing?

He spotted rolled up cuffs as her dark blue skirt swirled around her ankles. He strode back to the two saddled mounts, hiding his face until he could control his amusement. Must be the dungarees and the belt under her skirt that made her look plumper and walk strangely.

“Good morning, Jack.” Her direct gaze was almost a challenge.

“Morning, miss.” He felt his lips twitch and looked down. “Might be you’ll need some boots if you’re going to ride much.” Her laced walking shoes would be all right, but boots would be better.

“We’ll see.”

He nodded and lifted Patch’s reins. “This here’s Patch. He’ll go easy on you.”

Miss Paxton’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed? And what do I do first?”

“Well, ma’am, you come around to this side. Always best to mount on the horse’s left side.”

“Why?”

He blinked. “I dunno. It’s just the way they’re trained.”

“Huh.” She turned sideways to ease in beside him, between the two horses.

“Put your left foot in the stirrup,” he said.

She eyed the stirrup with skepticism. “Isn’t that rather a reach?”

“Well, I can run the stirrup down the leather if you want and adjust it once you’re in the saddle.”

“Is that how most people do it?”

“No, ma’am. And you’ll have to learn to do it with the leather at the right length for you. But this being your first time and all—”

“Stand back,” she said firmly.

Jack stood back.

She swung her leg, and on the third try, skirts flailing, she made contact with the iron. She paused and then worked the toe of her shoe farther into the stirrup. Her smile was triumphant.

Jack pushed his hat back and said slowly, “That’s a good effort, ma’am, but that’s your right foot.”

“My …?” She stared at the stirrup as she stood there on one leg, stretched out. He could see in her eyes the moment she made the connection and visualized herself plopping backward into the saddle. “Right.” She lowered her foot to the ground. “Left foot.”

Watching her was painful. Jack longed to pick her up and hoist her onto the horse’s back, but she had to learn. If she didn’t grow confident in something as simple as this, she’d never stay on the ranch. And if he laughed—well, she could be out of here on the next train. Then where would he and the other men be? Out of work, that’s where.

Finally, she managed to get the correct foot into the stirrup.

“Now what?” she asked, panting a little.

“Gather yourself and jump,” he said. “Put your weight on the stirrup and shove yourself right up there. Swing your right leg over the horse’s rump and sit down. Then we’ll see if we need to adjust the leathers.”

“Hmm.”

“Just don’t jump so hard you go over the far side.” He’d seen it happen once, when a tenderfoot mounted a fidgety colt.

Her jaw set in determination. She paused. She tensed. She leaped. And landed with a soft thud in the saddle, her skirt settling gently around her and the denim legs of Mr. Hill’s old dungarees exposed to the knee.

Miss Paxton smiled down at him.

“I did it!”

“Yes’m, you did. That’s fine. And this stirrup looks about right. How’s the other side?”

She looked down the horse’s off side and wriggled in the saddle.

“Got your foot in?” Jack asked as he walked around to the other side.

“Almost.” Her brow furrowed and she hunched down. “There.” She sat up straighter, proud as a peahen, then gasped as Patches lifted a foot to kick at a fly.

“Steady, ma’am,” Jack said. “You’re doing fine.” He checked the leather. “Let me put this one up a notch.”

She cringed away from him as he grabbed the strap, loosened the buckle, and ran the leather up to the next hole.

“There you go.”

She quickly spread her skirt as far as she could over her pant leg. He looked up at her. Her cheeks were flaming, and a lock of her fair hair had escaped her bun and fluttered in the wind. Jack’s chest tightened. He didn’t know if he’d ever in his life seen a woman so attractive, and that was when she was wearing his boss’s old pants. He didn’t presume to think about how she’d look in a fancy dress.

“Are we ready?” She didn’t quite meet his gaze.

He picked up the reins and held them in front of her.

“Take these. No, in your left hand.”

“Why?”

“Because that leaves your right hand free for other things.”

“Like what?”

He frowned. “Anything. A lasso, a gun …”

Patches shifted, and she grabbed the saddle horn with her right hand.

“But not that.”

“What?”

“Don’t hold on to the horn.”

“Then what’s it for?” Her blue eyes looked slightly panic stricken.

“That’s for snubbing your rope.”

“I don’t have a rope.”

“That’s true. I’ll have to teach you to rope, I guess. But for now, try to ride with the reins in your left hand.”

“What do I do with this one?” She lifted her right hand and wiggled her fingers.

“Put it—put it—” He gulped. “On your leg.” He was suddenly sure that gentlemen in Boston never said anything implying that ladies had limbs beneath their skirts, denim-clad or otherwise.

Gingerly, she rested her right hand on her thigh. “Like that?”

“That’s fine, ma’am. You should only hold on to the horn in a crisis. Now, I’ll mount up and we’ll take a nice, slow ride around the pasture. Just turn Patch around, and—”

“Turn him? How do I turn him?”

Jack realized what the day ahead would be like and let out a big sigh.