Chapter 9
“Are you sure?” Andrew leaned over the plat map spread out before him.
The county recorder nodded and pointed to a series of crosshatch marks running northwest to southeast on the map. “This line marks the route of the Forth Worth and Denver City Railway Company. And this”—he traced an intersecting line with his finger—“is where the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe proposes to put in a new line connecting with their main route up in Kansas.”
Andrew followed the line leading to the edge of the county—straight through the Diamond S. “And you say all these ranches along the new route have been sold?”
“That’s right. And all within the last few months.” The other man gave Andrew a curious look. “Only a handful of people knew about the new plan.”
“And all those properties were purchased by the same buyer?”
The recorder nodded. He leaned toward Andrew and lowered his voice. “Between you and me, he got them all at rock-bottom prices, and he stands to make a killing if the proposed line does go through.” Straightening, he added in a normal tone, “Does that answer your questions?”
Andrew set his mouth in a grim line. “Yes, I believe it does.”
Back outside, he mounted his horse and started off in the direction of the Diamond S. Getting the information had been the easy part. Now he had to figure out how to break the news to Aunt Martha.
The horse shied when the wind sent a string of tumbleweeds spinning crazily across the trail. Andrew tugged his Stetson down on his forehead. After all Aunt Martha had done for him while he was growing up, how could he have assumed her mind was off balance? Remorse ate at him. And the idea that she needed a keeper . . . A harsh laugh tore from his throat, to be carried away on a gust of wind.
On the other hand, if he hadn’t been concerned enough to write that letter to his friend in Dry Gulch, Lucy never would have entered his life. The way it all came about remained a puzzle. A query to his friend brought a mystified response, with the friend claiming he had nothing to do with recommending Lucy for the job. He hadn’t gone any farther than mentioning Andrew’s dilemma to a couple of friends and the local schoolteacher. It seemed the story of how God put it all together might remain a mystery. One thing Andrew did know for certain—he was mighty glad it happened.
He wondered what Lucy’s reaction would be when he told the women what he’d learned. With proof that his aunt hadn’t been imagining things, would Lucy feel duty bound to find employment elsewhere? He knew she didn’t want to accept charity. He also knew he couldn’t stand the thought of her leaving.
But he knew one way to keep that from happening—if only Lucy would agree.
A steady breeze teased at Lucy’s hair as she picked another handful of horehound leaves and dropped them into the basket she was carrying over her arm. She’d used up most of their supply making tea for Martha during her illness, but foraging for the herb had only been an excuse to get away from the house. Her real purpose in coming out was to see if she could find any signs pointing toward the devious person who’d set up that prank at the windmill. If she could find horse tracks leading away from the windmill, she might be able to follow them to the perpetrator’s lair.
That task proved easier planned than done. She’d been searching for over an hour and had covered a good bit of territory, wandering back and forth and scanning the dimpled earth for a sign. She’d seen cattle tracks aplenty, and some belonging to smaller creatures, but no sign of a mysterious horseman.
It was time to head home so Martha wouldn’t worry. She’d already stretched her time away from the house longer than any excursion for plants would account for. She turned back to retrace her steps and caught her breath when she spotted a pillar of smoke obscuring one corner of the barn.
Lifting her skirt clear of the ground, Lucy set off toward the barn at a run. The dry framework of the barn would go up like a tinderbox, and with the direction of the wind, the house would be next. Tendrils of panic twined up her spine. She let the basket fall from her arm and redoubled her speed.
The wind swirled, sending the smoke into a spiral. As she neared the barn, she saw forks of flame shooting up from the dry prairie grass, still some distance away. Thank heaven! The fire hadn’t reached the structure yet. If she could circle around in front, get to the leading edge, maybe she could do something to keep the flames from spreading to the buildings.
She raced pell-mell, her lungs straining for air. Just short of her goal, the wind shifted again, enveloping her in an acrid cloud of smoke. She whipped her apron off and used it to wave away the billowing mass. Through the haze, she spotted a figure on the other side of the fire. Had Martha come out to help? No, this person wore a large hat—a Stetson. Squinting, Lucy recognized Curly and went limp with relief. Help was at hand.
As she opened her mouth to call out, the smoke cleared for a moment and Lucy squinted, unable to believe her eyes. Instead of coming to her aid, Curly was heading off at a good pace in the opposite direction—away from the fire—astride . . . a cow? She blinked her eyes, but nothing changed. The animal Curly rode was indeed a cow . . . with a white splotch across her shoulders.
“Maybelle?” Lucy whispered. She shook the confusing image from her mind. There was no time to wonder about that. She couldn’t count on help from Curly—she had to get Martha. Spinning around, she sprinted in the direction of the house, but the toe of her boot caught on a clump of grass, and she stumbled and fell headlong.
Andrew tried to settle his nerves as he trotted his horse up the last hill before reaching the ranch house. Could he follow his heart and lay his hopes for the future at Lucy’s feet, or was there someone whose permission he needed to ask first? Lucy had no family, so he didn’t know who that could be. Maybe his best option would be to consult Aunt Martha.
He reached the top of the rise, and his throat constricted when he saw a plume of black smoke coiling up from the valley floor. Breathing a prayer, he bent low along the horse’s neck and spurred his mount for all it was worth.
Aunt Martha stumbled from the barn when he slid to a halt in the ranch yard, a stack of empty grain sacks in her arms. “Help me soak these in the horse trough,” she panted. “We’ve got to get that fire out before it reaches the barn.”
Andrew glanced toward the barn. “Where’s Lucy?”
Aunt Martha pressed her hand to her chest and gasped for breath. “She went out a while ago to gather some herbs for me. She headed off that way.” Worry creased her forehead as she pointed in the direction of the smoke.
Her statement hit him like a fist in the gut. Leaping from his horse, he grabbed an armload of the burlap sacks and dunked them in the trough. Gathering up the water-soaked bags, he raced off toward the fire, calling back over his shoulder, “Bring more sacks if you’ve got them, and a shovel, too.”
As he ran, he searched the terrain, straining for a glimpse of Lucy. He doubted she would have gone out of sight of the buildings. In that case, she had to have noticed the smoke and would be on her way to help. But he couldn’t see any sign of her. Where was she?
Sprinting up to the edge of the fire, he dumped the sodden pile of sacks on the ground, snatched up the top one, and started to beat out the flames.
Lucy shook her head and fingered the lump on her forehead. She sat up but then realized it was easier to breathe closer to the ground. She lay still for a moment to catch her breath, then remembered the urgency of her situation. She had to get out of the shroud of smoke, had to make it to the house and get help.
Wadding up her apron, she pressed the crumpled fabric over her mouth and pushed herself to her knees, ready to press on. But which way? In the moments she’d lain stunned upon the ground, the smoke had thickened. If she chose the wrong direction, she chanced running straight into the fire.
Scrambling to her feet, she blinked back stinging tears and fought down the panic that rose up in her. She had to think! The wrong choice could prove fatal.
Heat pressed against her, and the sound of crackling flames smote her ears. She had to get out while there was still time—before there was no longer a chance of escape. A few feet away, a clump of sagebrush burst into flame. Lucy leaped back and a ragged scream tore from her throat.
Andrew tossed the smoldering sack aside and grabbed a wet one from the pile. Aunt Martha raced up beside him with more sacks in one arm and a shovel in the other. Without a word, she took the sack from his hands and handed him the shovel.
Gripping the handle, he threw a scoopful of dirt on the flames, then froze. Had that been a cry? He glanced at his aunt. “That sounded like Lucy.”
Aunt Martha nodded, her face pale. Trading her wet sack for the shovel, she said, “Go find her. I’ll keep working here.”
Andrew circled around the edge of the smoke-filled area, shouting Lucy’s name again and again. Fear clamped his heart at the thought of her being trapped in the flames. Hearing a racking cough, he turned toward the direction it had come from, took a deep breath, and plunged into the black cloud. He’d taken only a few steps when he nearly stumbled over her, down on all fours with her head hanging low. Covering her head with the wet burlap, he scooped her up and ran back the way he came.
Emerging into the clearer air, he carried Lucy out of harm’s way before he set her on the ground and mopped at her face with his bandanna. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
Lucy gasped for air, then took a deeper breath. “Thank God you’re here! I didn’t know which way to go. I thought I was trapped . . . until you came along.”
They clung together. Andrew cradled her against his chest, his cheek resting on her head.
“I was so scared,” she whispered. “I thought I was going to die.” She shifted so she could look into his face. “I’ve never felt so alone in my life. I kept hoping someone would come, but all I saw was Curly riding Maybelle.”
Andrew brushed his fingers across the lump on her forehead. “How hard did you hit your head?”
Lucy pulled his hand away. “Not that hard. It seemed strange to me, too, but I know what I saw—even if it sounds a little crazy.”
His lips twisted into a grim smile. “No crazier than the other things that have been going on around here lately.” He looked back toward the smoke, where Aunt Martha flailed away, struggling to make headway against the fire. “I have to go help her,” he said. “Will you be all right here?”
She nodded and waved him on. “Go ahead. I’ll come as soon as I catch my breath.”