Mary found out about the invitation to the quilting bee approximately two hours before she was to arrive. Lou showed up on her doorstep as she and Josie slid the final batch of cookies into the oven. Damp tendrils stuck to her neck from the hair she’d pinned this morning but that had escaped in strands during baking.
She wiped her hands on a towel as Josie ran to the front door.
“Mister Lou,” she shouted, her voice’s pitch making Mary wince.
To his credit, Lou didn’t back away but managed to give the girl an awkward pat on the head. Then he turned his startling blue gaze on her. Since the other day when they’d argued over when to take Josie to Portland, he hadn’t brought up the subject with her again. In fact, she’d barely seen him.
It was almost as if he was avoiding her. Frowning, she finished rubbing a towel over her fingers before setting it on the little table she’d inherited from Trevor.
“Do you need something?” she asked Lou.
“Nope, not on your day off.” He gave her a crooked grin, lounging against the wall near the still-open door. Sunlight from the rising sun surrounded him and a strange catch crowded her throat.
Josie scampered past Lou, stopping in a square of light. “Can I go outside, Miss Mary?”
She nodded her assent and the little girl was gone.
“Miss Alma wants you to join a ladies’ group today. I’m sorry that I forgot all about it until James reminded me. If you get ready now, we can be there early,” said Lou in a penitent voice.
“We?”
His arms crossed. “I’m going to drive you.”
“A horse would serve me fine.”
“Not for me. There are things we should...discuss.” He pinned her with an electric smile, his gaze sliding from her eyes to her mouth.
She wet her lips. “What things? I have said that which needed to be said.”
He left where he stood, his smile widening as he advanced. She backed up, though what she felt in her belly was not terror but a rather more alarming emotion.
Edged against the wall of the kitchen, she could go no farther. Lou trapped her, moving so close she smelled the mint of Wrigley’s on his breath.
“I saw you yesterday.” His fingers crept to her neck, and his touch was feather soft against her skin.
She suppressed a shiver.
“With Josie, in the flowers. And I realized that—” A pained expression crossed his face. His words cut off, and his hand left her neck, leaving her skin cold and lonely.
“Realized what?” she asked, her voice as tremulous as the state of her knees.
His gaze shuttered, growing distant as he backed up. “If you want to go, be ready within the hour.” He spun and left her against the wall, more shaken than she’d been in a long time.
Nerves aflame, she set about gathering her quilting supplies. She put them in a basket and then made a smaller basket for Josie. As she calmed, her mind turned to the event ahead.
Miss Alma had always been generous and kind, a woman of great wisdom. But she couldn’t help wondering how wise this outing might be. How would the other women react to her presence? She had no desire to be subjected to the ill-mannered treatment her mother’s people often experienced. Even though the people of Burns had been good to her in a distant way, she’d never actually interacted with the townsfolk in a companionable, talkative setting like a quilting bee.
But the trip into town would give her another chance to inquire about her mother’s whereabouts.
Lou arrived promptly at eleven. James scooted out of the passenger side of Lou’s automobile, but her employer remained inside, a scowl visible on his face.
“I’m here to watch Josie. Where’s that wild thing at?” James chomped his tobacco.
“She’s here somewhere.” She tore her gaze from Lou and turned to the house. “Josie, it’s time to go.” She stepped toward the corner of the house. Maybe Josie had scampered out back. “I’m taking her with me. You don’t have to watch her, James.”
“Figured I’d take her shooting.”
Mary whirled. “I think not.”
“But he promised.” Josie popped out from the corner of the house. “I don’t wanna go sew. That’s boring.”
Mary sighed and closed the front door. She stepped onto the grass, moving toward the little girl, whose face was set in a stubborn yet adorable pout. “Every girl should know how to use a needle, Josie. It will come in handy.”
The skill had kept her out of the brothels.
Josie’s head tilted. “Do I have to?”
Mary looked at James, who shrugged. There appeared to be a slight curl to his lip, as if he was amused. Well, that was that, then. She would not force Josie to quilt. Times were changing and women had more options these days. Even she’d taken shooting lessons from James and had bought her very own pistol.
“Very well. Please be safe.”
“Really? I can go?” Josie squealed and vaulted into Mary, her arms chained around her waist. “Thank you!”
Touched, she looked down into Josie’s eyes. “You’re welcome.”
A high-pitched blast cut through their hug. Lou on the horn.
“Okay, girlie. Let’s get on.” James patted Josie before capturing Mary’s gaze with a serious look. “Remember, these ladies invited you. They want ya there.”
“Thank you, James.” She vowed to remember that. She watched as Josie followed James across the expanse of ground between her new home and Lou’s ranch house. Their chatter hung behind them, fading from hearing as they grew more distant.
She turned to the car. The baskets she clutched suddenly felt heavy and cumbersome. Though the sky burned a bright, sizzling blue, promising a warm day, tension knotted her stomach.
Lou reached across the front seat and opened the passenger door. “Let’s go or you’ll be late.”
Once they were on their way, bouncing across uneven terrain to the road that led to Burns, Mary finally felt as if she could take a breath. Lou had said nothing to her. Perhaps he would skip this “talk” he’d spoken of.
She had no wish to discuss her private life with him. Or with anyone, for that matter.
“You’re going to have fun, you know,” he said, breaking into her thoughts.
She pulled her basket closer. Josie’s sat on the floorboard, unneeded now. “I go only for Miss Alma.” And to find her mother.
He cast her a look loaded with curiosity. “You’ve lived on the ranch how many years? Ten?”
“Twelve,” she said stiffly.
He let out a low whistle. “Twelve years. That’s a long time. You ever gone to a quilting bee? Never mind. Your knuckles are white on that basket.”
Surprised, she looked down. Deliberately she released the basket.
“Now, you bring neighbors things all the time. There’s nothing to be nervous about. Just be yourself and they’ll love you.” Lou gave her one of his half grins. “Charm these ladies and then we’ll head up to Portland at the beginning of the week.”
“You’re not well enough yet.”
“I’m fine. We’ll take the train. My wound’s closed up, there’s no infection, minimal pain.”
“Josie doesn’t want to go.”
“She’s a little girl. She doesn’t have a choice.”
“Everyone should get a choice,” she choked out. Her hands were back on the basket, and she didn’t care. The basket’s handle dug into her ribs.
Lou sighed heavily. She glanced over. The rugged lawman had slowly been returning to his carefree, light ways, yet the subject of Josie always seemed to sober him.
“I know you didn’t get choices when you were young. And when you were older, Trevor brought you to the ranch and we asked you to stay awhile. To be safe. But time passed and you never left. Why not?”
Mary stiffened. “This is not about me. Josie is afraid of that man. We do not know that he is her guardian. She shouldn’t be left in his care.”
“Even though we’re leaving her with the mother, I’m still going to make sure she’s safe.”
“My mother found her and risked much to shelter and care for her. Where was this mother when Josie was left for dead in the desert? I do not trust this type of mother.” Too late she realized that her outburst condemned more than Josie’s mom. Her face burned.
There was an awkward silence in the car. She looked out the window, fastening her attention to her beloved rocky horizon. How she adored this place. Dry and vast, teeming with wildlife and plants carrying all sorts of value.
They were almost to Burns when Lou spoke. “I’ll pick you up in the afternoon. Save me some of those cookies I know you have hiding in that basket.”
She managed a small smile. “I left many on my counter. You may help yourself when we get home.”
“Thanks, sweet Mary. You’re the best cook I know.” His smile broadened.
The action sent her pulse scurrying. To cover, she let out a gentle snort. “I’m the only cook you have.”
“I know.” Sporting an annoying grin, he pulled up next to Miss Alma’s home.
She lived in a cozy, small house surrounded by blooming flowers. Behind the home, land sloped up in jagged crests to the horizon. Mary paused with opening her door.
“Do you see that grassland plateau?” she asked Lou.
“Over there, behind the house?”
She nodded. “My mother took me there to forage when I was young. Her mother took her, and her mother before took my grandmother. During this season it is ripe with food. Bitterroot. Biscuit root. The food of my mother’s people.”
“I see women out there in the mornings sometimes. Didn’t know they were finding food.”
“It is only in these warm months that it can be found, but enough can be gathered to last a winter.”
“You’re making a point.”
“Yes.” She held his gaze, wanting him to understand. “My mother taught me of the past. She cared for me—”
“If this is another plea for your mom to live with you, stop now.” His expression hardened. “That woman dropped you off with Trevor’s mom and didn’t look back. At a brothel. I won’t ever understand what you see in her.”
“I am not asking your permission, nor pleading for anything,” she told him sternly, though her stomach twisted like well-wrung laundry. “What she did was ill-advised.”
“No. It was wrong.”
Oh, he made her angry. Setting her jaw, she jerked the car door open. She bolted out and shoved the door shut, its well-aimed slam puncturing the air and giving her a deep satisfaction. Mule-headed man. Why couldn’t he see that forgiveness meant more than harboring ills? What had happened to make him so unforgiving? It wasn’t as though Rose had wronged him. She’d left her child with a friend, little knowing the “friend” would end up selling Mary, years down the road.
And yet even that horrific experience had brought her to this place. Harney County, Oregon. To a ranch inhabited by three independent men. To a town that was home to a woman named Miss Alma, who taught Mary the way of the cross.
She stepped to Miss Alma’s door. Shoulders straight, basket up. She could face this on her own.
* * *
Mary couldn’t face another cookie.
She shook her head at the kind lady who’d just offered her another sugar cookie. Miss Alma’s house was filled to the brim with women, patterns and treats. The ladies chattered as Mary huddled in the corner chair she’d chosen. Though no one had outright snubbed her, she’d felt the surprised looks when she’d opened the door.
Though she knew one or two ladies, most were strangers. Women who lived in town and rarely traveled outside its limits. No wonder they were startled to see a new face.
Of course, Miss Alma bustled around as friendly as a pup and sweeter than the desserts currently loading her counters.
Mary looked down at the stitching on her lap. She’d traded a few of her own gingham squares for a lovely ivy pattern another lady claimed to have picked up in New York City.
“Ooh, I like that.” One of the younger ladies present, perhaps near Gracie’s age, scooted close. “Are you making the entire quilt in that color scheme?” The girl’s russet hair fell against freckled cheeks and she had an upturned nose that reminded Mary of a curious cat.
“I am considering ivy and greens,” she answered.
“Lovely.” The girl held out her hand. “I’m Amy Donovan. Gracie is a riding friend of mine.”
“Oh...” Mary stared at the hand. Did this Amy really expect her to shake hands like men? Not that she disapproved, the movement simply surprised her.
“Go on, grasp my hand. It’s quite fun and perfectly acceptable.”
She took Amy’s hand and was rewarded with a vigorous pump.
“I’m so glad you came. It gets awfully stuffy in here sometimes. Quilting has its merits, but my aunt, whom I accompany, spends all her time tittering about who said what and who’s cut their hair into a bob. I’ve been missing Gracie dreadfully.” Amy’s eyes, a pretty brown, widened. “Say, do you ride? This weather is perfect for a good gallop.”
“I miss Gracie, too” was all Mary could think to say. No wonder Amy and Gracie had found each other. Chatterboxes, the both of them. Yet she quite liked their loquaciousness.
“When will she be home?” Amy pulled out a long stretch of squares and started working.
“Perhaps in a few weeks.” With Josie and Lou both suddenly appearing at the ranch, she hadn’t even thought about Gracie and Trevor’s return.
“Well, the sooner the better. Sometimes I’m afraid all the ranchers scooting out will leave us with a ghost town.”
Mary pricked her finger, despite the thimble she wore. “What do you mean, scooting out?” She sucked the pain from her finger and then returned to her sewing.
“Well, this weather and all. With the Indian summers gone, lots of ranches are up for sale. I heard some homesteaders are just leaving their places without even trying to sell.”
“You don’t say,” Mary murmured. How sad. The high desert of Oregon was a difficult soil for agriculture, though the land grew rich with herbs and roots. One had to know where to search.
“And did you hear of Mr. Baxley?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Oh, the poor thing was beaten horribly and died from his injuries. There was this good-looking man skulking about and I’ve heard gossip that he’s the murderer.”
Mary’s gaze snapped up. “Is he still in Burns?”
“Oh, no.” Amy’s head shook vigorously. “Our lawmen wouldn’t allow that. Though there’s no proof. Only conjecture.”
“Everything going well over here?” Miss Alma appeared in front of them. She wore an absurd hat laden with all sorts of funny little things that made Mary smile. They hovered above her happy face and bobbed with her movements. “Mary, dear, those snickerdoodles were wonderful. You must give me the recipe and bring something to the picnic tomorrow. Now, may I get you ladies anything?”
“We’re doing just dandy, Miss Alma. Thank you, though.” Amy flashed a broad grin, but the elderly lady was already swishing off to the next group of women in her crowded living room.
The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully, though Mary couldn’t shake the troublesome feeling nagging at her. Could she have done more to help Mr. Baxley? And how had the violet-eyed man escaped conviction so easily? Perhaps Lou would know.
At precisely three o’clock Miss Alma’s door swung open, and a broad-shouldered Lou Riley filled the door frame. Gasps and titters resounded through the room. A few of the younger girls gaped as Mary gathered her belongings and said goodbye to Miss Alma.
She turned to the door and then paused, her heart stuttering in her chest. No wonder the girls were catching flies. Lou lounged in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, his legs crossed at the ankles, hands pocketed in his blue jeans. His leather hat hugged his head at an angle that mimicked the smirk on his lips.
He swirled a toothpick lazily with his teeth as he surveyed the room. The sun slanted in from windows behind Mary, highlighting the mischievous sparkle that winked in his blue eyes.
The man knew the effect he was having, and she didn’t know whether to be amused or outraged.
Finally, he took out the toothpick and straightened. Not a woman stirred. He slid the hat off his head, gave Mary a slow wink that filled her with hot mortification and proceeded to dazzle the women with the kind of smile that turned a woman’s heart.
“Hello, ladies,” he drawled.