The following Monday, the sun yawned, stretched over the horizon, and whispered, “Good morning.” Emma clucked to Sugar, then glanced around to take in the scenery. To one side, as far as she could see, was Stratton land. Behind her, neat farms dotted the landscape, all except her own farm. A few men had offered to do some work for them, knowing Pa wasn’t able this year, but they had to tend their own land first.
But that was all right. With this job, she’d bring in as much money as Ma had, and with her school savings, they’d be just fine...for a few months, anyway. After that, well. She’d worry about that when the time came.
For now, there was no need for concern. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself. But there must be a nest of hornets trapped in her stomach, the way it buzzed and burned. Ma, I don’t want to work for these people. How did you do it all these years?
A breeze rustled the nearby oak leaves. She pulled her shawl tighter and slapped Sugar’s reins with a weak, “Hyah!” Sugar seemed to understand, and plodded forward with more effort than seemed to match her slow pace. A verse from Ma’s funeral drifted into her thoughts...from Deuteronomy? Something about God never leaving her, never forsaking her, never failing her. Fear not, neither be dismayed, the preacher had said.
Well, she didn’t want to argue with a man of the cloth. And she certainly didn’t want to argue with the Almighty. But it seemed to her that He’d indeed left her, forsaken her, and yes, even failed her. And considering the circumstances, she had every right to feel dismayed.
Sugar turned into the path leading to the Stratton home. She whickered, as if telling Emma, “It’s not too late. I can turn around right now, if you’ll just say the word.”
But, no. Emma was made of stiffer stuff than that. She would go in there and cook and clean and take care of those children, and she would try her best to stay out of sight and not give anybody a reason to notice her.
All too soon, she pulled into the carriage house, hoping for one last moment of solitude before she had to face the music, or the fire, or the devil himself for that matter. But it wasn’t to be.
Riley Stratton rose from a stool in the corner, and another man stood beside him. “There you are. I want to introduce you to Joe Barnes, our ranch foreman. I’ve asked him to be on hand each morning to assist you with your horse.”
“How kind of you.” Emma slid down from the wagon seat and handed Joe the reins. “I assure you, however, it’s quite unnecessary. I can manage on my own.”
Riley’s heart did somersaults when Emma pulled her buggy into the carriage house. But a closer inspection of her face subdued his excitement. The fear in her expression made him want to hold her in his arms and hush her like he would a newborn, bawling calf.
Come to think of it, though, she probably wouldn’t appreciate the bovine comparison.
The moment she saw him, though, a shutter slammed on her vulnerability, and her usual ironclad resolve took its place. As much as he hated to be the cause of her discomfort, he was glad he’d caught that glimpse. It told him more about her than he could have learned in a two-hour conversation. And then with her quip about handling things herself... Sugar may not be a wild stallion, but her owner was a different story.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Monroe.” Joe tipped his hat, and Riley sensed, more than saw, the other man’s appreciation of Emma’s finer feminine qualities. Perhaps this was a mistake, asking Joe to see to her. Why hadn’t he asked Clem or Bob or even Skeeter?
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Barnes.” She reached in her pocket and withdrew several sugar cubes. “Sugar can be cantankerous with strangers. Give her these and she’ll warm up to you in no time.” She handed Joe the treats, nodded, and turned to leave.
“I’ll walk you in,” Riley said, wanting to smooth the way, to welcome her back the best way he could, but he had to run to catch up with her. If he was there when she arrived, maybe he could quell Allison’s behavior somewhat.
“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Stratton, but I know the way.”
“I know. But I thought, it being your first day back and all...”
She stopped at the back door, and he opened it for her. But once she stepped inside, she reached to shut the door behind her, barring his entrance in the process. “My domain, remember?”
“Uh...yes. Of course. Good day, Miss Monroe.” Riley tipped his hat and stepped away. “Please let me know if you need any—”
Click. Riley stood there a moment, looking at the closed door. He turned just in time to see Joe leaning against the carriage house wall, having a good laugh at his expense.
“Don’t you have work to do?”
“Yes, sir.” Joe straightened and disappeared back into the carriage house. Riley picked up what was left of his dignity and headed around the house. It would have been closer to get to his office if he used the back entrance, but apparently, that wasn’t going to work any more.
Emma leaned against the doorframe and inhaled deeply. That she’d just shut the door on Riley Stratton, of all people—son of her employer—was rude. But after Allison’s comment on Monday about her swooning over him all day, she was afraid to even show common courtesy for fear of being misunderstood.
She was still five minutes early, which meant she could be busy working before Allison made an appearance. If Emma was even ten seconds late, Allison would probably dock her pay.
She looked around the kitchen, and her chest sank to her knees. There was no sign of her work from the previous Monday—the place was disastrous again. If the roof and windows hadn’t been intact, Emma would have sworn a tornado hit the place.
Where to begin? She spied the wash bucket, empty and turned on its side as if it had been kicked out of the way. After rolling up her sleeves, she picked up the bucket and headed outside to the pump.
“Here, Miss Monroe. Let me get that for you.” Joe took the bucket and fell in easy step with her.
“You don’t have to. I’m sure you have your own duties to attend to.”
“I was headed toward the pump, anyway, to wash my hands. It’s no trouble at all.” Joe looked to be in his late twenties. His casual, friendly tone brought such a warm relief in this forlorn place, she couldn’t help but smile.
“I don’t recall seeing you around town. Have you worked for the Strattons a long time?”
“About five years, ma’am. Before that, I lived in Oklahoma.”
“Is that your home?”
Joe scratched the back of his neck, as if considering the question carefully. “I don’t suppose any place is really home to me. Not like you’d think. I don’t have any family left, so home is just...me, I suppose. Wherever I am.”
How hard that must be. Yes, she’d lost her mother. But she still had Pa and Lyndel. She still had her home and a family. “I think that’s a splendid attitude, Mr. Barnes. Home is where you hang your hat, I suppose.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He pumped the water with ease, then walked her back to the kitchen. “Good day.” He tipped his hat once again and strode away on his long cowboy legs.
A new friend, whose last name was, thankfully, not Stratton. She hadn’t expected that this morning. She opened the door, set the wash bucket on the counter, and began loading it with kitchen carnage. And though she didn’t look forward to one minute of this dreadful day working for these dreadful people, at least she wasn’t totally alone on these vast acres. For just a moment, her heart felt just a little bit lighter.
Days passed in a haze of activity. Thankfully, for the most part, the Strattons left her to her work. By the time Thursday rolled around, she had the main floor dusted, mopped, and set to rights, and had started on the upper floor. Twice, she’d watched little Davis while Allison went to town, and the child warmed up to her in no time. He was a smart little thing, crawling everywhere, getting into everything. Her time with him provided a welcome respite from cooking and scrubbing. She’d still not seen hide nor hair of Donnigan or his child, though.
It was just after two in the afternoon, and the grandfather clock chimed the time from its place in the parlor. Allison and Davis had gone to visit a friend, Riley was in town on business, and she had the place to herself. She had just finished the last of the dishes from the noon meal and poured herself a cup of tea, when the back door banged open and a man walked—no, stumbled into the kitchen. He had long hair, was dressed in buckskin, and though he looked strangely familiar, he didn’t look like anyone she’d seen before.
“Oh, hellllloooo, darlin’. They told me there was a new housssse...keeper. But I didn’t know you were such a purdy thang, or I’d’ve come callin’ sooner.”
That the man was inebriated, there was no doubt. Though Allison had never witnessed a drunk person before, she’d heard enough to recognize the slurred speech and glazed eyes. Besides, the man reeked of alcohol. Emma stood up, nearly knocking over her teacup in the process, and her heart sped like a hummingbird in flight.
The man looked enough like Riley to be his brother. This must be Donnigan. “Hello, Mr. Stratton. How m-may I help you?’
He appraised her head to toe, in a most inappropriate way, and said, “I can think of quite a few ways you can help me, little lady.”
Her entire being pounded with alarm. Should she scream? No one would hear. Run? Perhaps… “I...I’ve been expecting you, sir. I believe I’m supposed to be introduced to your daughter. Your father mentioned she’d be spending time here, on occasion.”
The man continued his leering, so she pressed on. “There are plenty of leftovers on the stove, if you’re hungry.” She spoke in a steady, soft tone, the way she handled Sugar when she was spooked. At the same time, she inched toward the dining room. She couldn’t very well escape through the back door, since he was blocking it. “And there’s a pitcher of sweet tea, right there on the counter.”
“That soundsss delicious, ma’am. Why don’t you come right on over here and pour me a glass.” He shuffled forward. Emma looked around for a weapon, praying she wouldn’t need one.
“I…” What could she say? Politeness might encourage him. Rudeness anger him.
For the first time in many weeks—the first time since Ma struggled for her last breath—Emma cried out to God. Help me!
The door opened behind the man, and Emma gasped. Did he have a friend with him? A young girl entered. She possessed the long, straight nose and wide, almond-shaped eyes common to the Strattons, but her skin was dark. Raven-black hair raggedly parted in the middle and hung over her shoulders in two braids. She wore a soiled, beaded buckskin dress and moccasins.
“Pa?” Her frightened eyes looked from Emma to her father, then back to Emma.
“I told you to stay outside!” Donnigan hissed. “You know better than to follow me in here.”
“But you forgot this.” She held out a lunch pail. Her voice was so soft, so timid, Emma wanted to take the child in her arms and protect her from this beast.
She had always heard coffee could sober a drunk man, but apparently, a child could do the same. The girl’s presence, her frightened voice, caught the man’s attention and transformed him somehow. The glaze seemed to pass from his expression, and a flicker of shame flashed before he blinked, then placed one hand behind his neck and hung his head.
“Thank you.” He took the pail, then looked at Emma as if seeing her for the first time. “I’m sssorry if I frightened you, ma’am. I usually stop in lllate at night, but last night I...well...I wasn’t able to get here.”
Emma wasn’t sure what to say, so she just nodded.
The girl kept her head down, as if she wanted to disappear into the wall.
The man cleared his throat. “I’m Donnigan Stratton, and thhhis is my daughter, Skye.”
His thick speech told Emma the man wasn’t completely sober yet, but at least he seemed a little less...dangerous. She focused on the girl.
“What a lovely name that is, Skye. And you’re a lovely young lady.”
The girl studied her moccasins and mumbled, “Thank you.”
“Is everything okay in here?” Riley’s voice behind her was one of the most beautiful sounds she’d ever heard, and she wanted to jump into his arms. Despite her feelings about his family, she knew no harm would come to her in Riley’s presence.
Donnigan said some things under his breath that both embarrassed and angered Emma—more for the child’s sake than for her own. Then he looked at Riley. “Everything’s just fine. We were just leavin’. Come on, Skye.”
He turned to go, but all Emma could think about was the little girl with the enormous, frightened eyes, who was probably very hungry.
“No, wait. Please. Let me send some of these leftovers home with you. They’ll go bad if they don’t get eaten.” Emma spoke in her practice teacher voice, in a way that was more command than request, and grabbed a chipped platter off the countertop. She had meant to ask Allison what she wished to do with it, but now, it sat there begging to be used. She filled the plate with leftover ham and green beans and sweet potatoes, then covered it with a cloth and placed it beside the lunch pail, which she filled with fluffy dinner rolls, a crock of butter, and a pile of test cookies she’d made that morning, with a new recipe.
Skye watched her with wide eyes and a round mouth, but she didn’t say a word. Both Riley and Donnigan stared as well, but she pretended not to notice either of them. Instead, she handed the girl one of the cookies. “I’m not sure about this recipe. You’ll have to tell me what you think.”
The child looked at the cookie, then at Emma, then at her Pa as if begging permission to take the treat. He nodded, and she reached a tentative hand. Instead of eating it, she slipped the cookie into her pocket and went back to looking at her feet.
“Much obliged, ma’am.” Donnigan followed Skye out the back door. On the steps outside, he turned back to her. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”
Emma didn’t answer. What could she say? The man’s behavior had been deplorable. It was almost as if she’d witnessed, in that short span of time, two men living in the same body. She’d heard alcohol could do such things to people, but now she had seen it with her own eyes.
When the door was shut, Riley closed the distance between them. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Thank you.” It was all she could do to keep her voice steady.
“Emma, I’m so sorry. I should have warned you about Donnigan. Should have told you to keep the back door locked, especially when no one else is here.”
“Duly noted.” She struggled to keep her composure. Part of her wanted to sit down and bawl her eyes out. The other part wanted to scream in outrage over that little girl’s plight. Instead, she took a deep breath and asked, “When can I start caring for Skye?”
Riley sat down at the table and gestured for her to do the same. She did, and took a long, calming sip of her now lukewarm tea before offering Riley some.
“No thank you.” He leaned forward, rested his arms on the table, and breathed deeply. “Donnigan and Skye showed up here a couple of months ago, and Donnigan’s been drinking ever since. He mourns his wife, and he’s not handling it well. Problem is, Dad wants nothing to do with either of them. Well...that’s not exactly true. He wants Donnigan to get cleaned up and make something of himself, but he refuses to acknowledge Skye as his granddaughter. Says she brings shame on the family name.
“But Donnigan is family, and family is important to my father. He would rather Donnigan be here than hauled in for public intoxication. Reputation and community standing is also important to my father, and he doesn’t want some do-gooder gossips getting involved. You know how people are when it comes to Indians. Like it or not, it’s the way things are.”
John Stratton’s concern wasn’t for the child, it was for his reputation. Emma knew she had no right to hate anyone, but for the life of her, she didn’t know how she was supposed to like that man, even a little. Everything about him made her stomach turn. But this...this rejection of an innocent child. It made her want to kick him. Spit in his food. It made her want to act like the wild savage he made his granddaughter out to be. He deserved it.
Then again, he wasn’t wrong about public perception. They were little more than a generation removed from The Webster Massacre of 1839. Sweet Anne Webster, in her 80s, lost nearly her entire family. Hatred for the natives ran deep in these parts. What would they do to little Skye?
“Why isn’t she in school?” As soon as she asked the question, she knew how ridiculous it sounded. Would Skye even be safe in school?
Riley looked at her, and she knew his thoughts mirrored her own. “I doubt she’s ever had formal schooling. Donnigan’s probably never thought of it, to be honest. And with Dad’s attitude about her, he’d be furious if she showed up in town wearing the Stratton name like a badge of honor. As I said, they’ve only been here a few months, and they pretty much keep to themselves.”
An idea came to her. “I could use an assistant.”
“What?”
“I’d like Skye to be my assistant. She could come each day and help me cook and keep house. And I could teach her some...life skills, that she’s probably not getting from her father. Since she’s not attending school, I think this is a better alternative than showing up here randomly, when her father is too...uhm...when he’s not able to care for her. Can you make that happen?”
Riley looked at her in an odd way that made her want to blush to her toes, but she held his gaze. Lifted her chin. And, she wished he’d stop staring at her like she was the last piece of pie at the buffet.