Chapter 6  

Lucy set a recently laid egg in the basket she held over her arm and reached back into the nest, probing for more. While she checked the other nests, her thoughts went back to her conversation with Andrew the week before. There had been no further instances of mysterious goings-on in the night. Maybe they’d been right in their conclusion that Martha was lonely and needed a bit of company to set her mind at ease.

She put one last egg in her basket and looked down at the chickens, pecking away at the cracked corn she’d spread out for them. A swell of pride swept through her. Two weeks ago, who would have guessed that she, Lucy Benson, could feed chickens or gather eggs? On top of that, Martha had shown her how to bake a pie, pluck a chicken, and clean the ranch house. She was feeling more domestic by the day.

Andrew rode into the ranch yard just before noon. Lucy went out to meet him, marveling that the already sunny morning seemed to have brightened even more.

She grinned at him as he swung down from the saddle. “You’re early. Dinner won’t be ready for another hour or so.”

“Good. I was hoping for a chance to talk to you.” The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and Lucy caught her breath. “Have you gotten to see anything of the ranch yet, besides the house and outbuildings?”

“Not really. I’ve been so focused on learning things in the kitchen, I haven’t had a chance to go exploring. Why?”

Andrew pointed toward the top of the nearest hill. “You can see one of my favorite views from right over there. Care to take a look?”

Lucy calculated for a moment. Dinner was in the oven, and she didn’t really need to do a thing for the next half hour. She looked up at him and smiled. “Why not?”

A light breeze fanned her face as they walked up the hill side, matching strides. At the top of the rise, Andrew turned toward the northeast and swept out his arm. “Look at that. Those plains just seem to go on forever . . . rolling along like a vast ocean.”

Lucy’s lips parted as she stared at the majestic sight.

“Over there,” he continued, pointing off to their left. “Do you see that rock wall sparkling in the sunlight? Just below that is a ravine with a creek running through it. The dark line of trees beyond it shows where the creek meanders out across the prairie.”

Lucy heard the warmth in his voice and caught the emotion behind it.

“There are miles of country like this in west Texas,” he went on. “Imagine what it could be like with water enough to support more grazing. With enough windmills out here, we could triple—maybe quadruple—the number of cattle the ranches could sustain.”

His excitement was contagious, and Lucy’s heart quickened. “I can see why you love it. And why your aunt has enjoyed living here so long. Speaking of your aunt . . . there have been no further incidents, and we’ve been getting along splendidly. I’ve already learned a lot from her. In fact, the meal you’ll be eating today is one I cooked myself.” She slanted a teasing look at him. “Assuming you’ll still want to stay and eat after hearing that.”

A grin tugged at Andrew’s lips. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

This time it wasn’t talk of windmills that made Lucy’s heart beat faster. When he turned to look out over the vast expanse again, she took advantage of the opportunity to study his strong profile.

“You couldn’t learn cooking from a better—” The words died on his lips when he swung back around and caught her staring. He held her gaze, his eyes darkening.

Lucy couldn’t move. Her heart tripled its pace, and she felt her throat go dry.

Andrew raised his hand and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The touch of his fingers sent a shiver of excitement through her, and her knees threatened to buckle.

With an effort, she looked away and cleared her throat. “We’d better get back down to the house. I need to check on dinner.”

A week later, Lucy settled into her rocking chair with a grateful sigh and poured cups of chamomile tea for herself and Martha. It felt good to get off her feet after such a busy day. But it had been a rewarding one, as well. She smiled to herself at the memory of the way Andrew had praised her pot roast after he’d “just happened” to stop by for dinner . . . again. After he left she’d put the kitchen to rights while Martha went upstairs for a brief nap, then the rest of the afternoon had been spent with Martha giving Lucy a lesson in bread making.

By the time the loaves came out of the oven, it was time for evening chores, followed by a cup of tea on the porch as the stars came out.

“You’re a quick learner,” Martha said. “I have to admit when I first saw you standing on the porch in that prissy dress, I didn’t think there was any way you’d be such a help around here.”

“Neither did I.” Lucy took a sip of fragrant chamomile and leaned back in her rocking chair, wrapped in a sense of utter contentment. She chuckled. “And my father would be shocked. He objected to my learning anything he considered manual labor. His goal was for me to marry into a station he felt would be suitable for me.”

“One that wouldn’t involve cleaning the hen house or baking your own bread?”

The chuckle became a full-throated laugh. “Definitely not cleaning the hen house.”

Nothing disturbed the silence for a long moment but the creak of the rockers. Then Martha spoke again.

“From what you’ve told me, I’d guess this isn’t anything you would have imagined doing at this point in your life.”

“No, I’m sure my father expected me to be planning a wedding by now. But things didn’t work out quite the way he thought they would.”

Martha grunted. “You mean once your daddy’s money was gone, nobody was interested in marrying you?”

“That isn’t entirely true. I did have a suitor after my father passed away . . . a rather persistent one.”

Martha arched one eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Walter Harris. His father owns a lot of property around Dry Gulch. I’m sure my father would have considered Walter an excellent prospect . . . from a financial standpoint, at least.”

“Something tells me you didn’t.”

“To be perfectly honest, the man makes my skin crawl. When the opportunity arose to come here instead, it was a welcome reprieve.”

Martha drained her teacup and set it back on the tray. “I can’t see you spending the rest of your days dancing attendance on the likes of me. You have your whole life ahead of you. What do you want from it?”

Lucy looked out at the low hills silhouetted against the darkening sky. Inky spots along the hillsides showed cattle getting ready to bed down for the night. Off in the distance, an owl gave a plaintive hoot. Nearer at hand, she spotted Maybelle ambling along near the barn.

She shook her head slowly. “Maybe that’s my biggest problem—I don’t really know what I want.” Her voice trailed off, then she added, “But I do know it isn’t marrying Walter Harris.”

They fell silent. Then Martha said, “Even when you do know what you want, that doesn’t always mean you’ll get it.”

The wistfulness in her voice tugged at Lucy’s heart. “Are you thinking of the trip you and your husband planned to make?”

“Mm-hmm. It was his dream to begin with, but the more he talked about it, the more the idea took hold of me.” Martha pushed herself out of the rocker and looked out at the night sky. “Even though he’s gone, I have a hankering to do it anyway, just to see those places that meant so much to him.”

After gathering up the tea things and bidding Martha good-night, Lucy went up to her bedroom and changed into her nightclothes. An enormous yawn stretched her mouth wide.

She walked over to the window and leaned against the casement with Martha’s question still running through her mind. “What do I want?” she whispered.

She stared out at the night sky, seeking an answer that didn’t come. Martha’s words had stirred up an unexpected line of thought. In leaving Dry Gulch, she’d thought only of escaping Walter’s unwanted attentions and having a roof over her head. Thoughts of anything further in the future hadn’t entered her mind.

At the memory of her abrupt departure, she wondered for the hundredth time about the identity of the anonymous letter writer who made her getaway possible. Who could it have been?

Only a handful of people knew of her plight—Dottie Jackson and the ladies of Mrs. Whitfield’s sewing circle. Since the letter had arrived on the heels of the women’s fervent prayer for her, it seemed likely one of them had a hand in it. But which one?

She pressed her forehead against the window glass, thinking of the dear faces she’d left behind. Could it be Dottie? Doubtful, since her friend’s thoughts had been consumed with her upcoming wedding.

What about Gertie Claasen or Prudence Whitfield? Lucy gazed into the darkness, considering. She could picture either of the older women as capable of making the kind of connections that sent her to the Diamond S. But why would either hide her identity? It seemed either of them would have just told her about the job and handed the train ticket over in person instead of having Pastor Eldridge deliver the news.

Emilie? Hannah Taylor? Lucy discarded Emilie as a possibility almost at once. But Hannah . . . Though the quiet schoolteacher never called attention to herself, she was always looking out for the welfare of others. Lucy nodded slowly. Yes, Hannah seemed a likely candidate. How she wished she could know for sure!

If . . . or when . . . she ever learned the identity of her benefactor, she would find a way to let that person know of her heartfelt gratitude. The Diamond S had provided a much-needed haven.

But how long could she expect that to last? And how long did she want it to?

Martha certainly seemed hale enough. The sturdy ranch woman was likely to live a good many years longer. As much as Lucy had grown to love being on the ranch and treasured the developing camaraderie between them, the question had to be asked: Was serving as Martha’s companion all she wanted out of life? Would a home and family ever be hers?

“What I want, Lord, is whatever you have planned for me. But I don’t know what that is. Am I going to miss out on finding your will, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere?”

Pushing the window up, she leaned out to look up at the stars. Just as her head cleared the frame, she heard Martha’s voice raised in a harsh shout.

“Consarn it! What are you no-goods up to now?”

Lucy sagged against the window frame. Not again!

This time she paused long enough to put on her slippers and snatch up her wrapper. She thrust her arms into the sleeves as she made her way down the stairs, bracing herself for the sound of a shotgun blast. None came by the time she reached the ground floor, but once again, the front door was standing wide open.

Lucy crept up to the door and peered out into the darkness. “Martha?” she called in a hushed tone. “What’s going on?”

“Over here. At the south end of the porch.”

Lucy followed the sound of Martha’s voice, stifling a yelp when she barked her shin on the rocking chair Martha had vacated only a short time before. She hobbled the rest of the way to the corner of the house and stood next to Martha. “What’s wrong?”

“They’re at it again.”

Lucy rubbed her throbbing shin. “Who?”

“Those varmints who’ve been skulking around here.”

A wave of disappointment swept through Lucy. Things had been going so well since the night of her arrival, and now this. Andrew was due to visit again in the next day or two. She couldn’t bear the thought of having to break the news to him.

Martha clutched Lucy’s arm in a grip that made her wince. “Up there! Do you see it?”

Lucy glanced in the direction Martha indicated and stared openmouthed. A glowing shape moved slowly across the night sky, tracing an eerie path toward the barn.

A prickling sensation ran up the back of her scalp. She didn’t believe in ghosts, not for a minute. And yet . . .

Martha’s grip tightened even more. “You see it, don’t you?”

Lucy pulled her arm free and rubbed it gently. “Yes.” She stood beside Martha in silence and watched the apparition continue on its way. “You don’t think it’s a . . .” Her voice trailed off, unable to form the word.

“A spook?” Martha snorted. “Never believed in ’em, and I’m not about to start now.” She raised the shotgun to her shoulder as she spoke.

Lucy clamped her hands over her ears, which only partially muffled the roar of the gun. The unearthly specter picked up speed and hurried along in a jerky manner, disappearing behind the corner of the barn.

She gasped. “Do you think you hit it—whatever it was?”

“Let’s find out.” Martha hiked her skirts up and scuttled around the end of the barn.

After a moment’s hesitation, Lucy ran after her. “Where is it?”

Martha stared into the darkness, holding the shotgun at the ready. “That just doesn’t add up. It’s gone.” Lowering the shotgun, she replaced the spent shell with a fresh one and looked around. “I guess that’s all the excitement we’re going to see tonight. Let’s go inside and try to get some sleep.”