Chapter 2

 

The combination of early morning light streaming through the small window and the rustling of the straw mattress she lay on woke Maggie. The faded patchwork quilt that had blanketed her in the night had been kicked into a lumpy pile at the end of the bed.

She stretched the soreness in her shoulders and back from days of traveling, listening for Roy’s movements around the house. Nothing. He must have risen earlier to start work on the homestead.

Her body, she discerned, was weak and adjusted to city life. That would have to be remedied, and quickly.

She found fresh water in the basin, washed her face and tried to tame her unruly auburn locks with pins. Leaving the hats with their feathers and satin rosettes nestled in her suitcase, she picked the plainest dress of the five she’d brought, a sturdy gray serge, and dressed. She would look more the part of a frontier woman, and hopefully have more suitable gowns when Garret Shaw made an appearance in the next couple of days to drive Roy’s cattle.

Her pulse fluttered. As an insensible afterthought, she dabbed some rose salve on her full lips. Ridiculous little hope. She wiped the salve off with the back of her hand. A brute of a man like him would never appreciate any extra effort on her part.

A trip to the stove brought the discovery of cold biscuits Roy left for her when he’d taken breakfast long before. She took her fare onto the front porch and ate overlooking the view she loved so dearly. The breeze lifted her hair and the air smelled like wheat and cattle. A far cry from the cluttered smells of the city.

Sweating, cussing a string of obscenities, Roy worked the front acreage with a two mule team and the plow he had put so much effort into keeping viable. “Son of a motherless goat on a crutch, you godamned stubborn cockchafer! Haw!” wafted to her on the wind. She smiled. Roy always had a colorful way of swearing, and though her mother had been horrified by it, Maggie couldn’t help but be secretly impressed with his creativity.

“Cockchafer,” she mouthed. Absolutely the worst word she had ever heard, and delightfully naughty to say out loud.

She wiped the crumbs off her dress. Slowly Roy made his way behind the plow, his shirt sticking to his back. She’d learn how to help him out around the house. She hurried to the pump for a bucket of water, strode out to the field and handed him a sloshing ladle.

He drank deeply. “Thank you kindly, Magpie. You bored yet?”

“A little,” she admitted with a smile. “I suppose I need to learn the ropes around here.”

Roy laughed and wiped the back of his arm across his drenched brow. “You remember Buck?”

“Of course! He was the best horse a girl could have. Please tell me you still have him,” she said, grinning like a child on holiday.

“He’s in the barn. Just take him around the corral, though. I reckon it’s been a long time since you rode a horse and I want you safe about it. After you get your horse legs back you can take him farther out.”

She raced off toward the small stable, water sloshing from the bucket in her hand.

“Do you remember how to put a saddle on him?” Roy shouted after her.

“I’m sure it’ll come back to me,” she called behind her.

“Be gentle with him. He’s an older horse now,” he yelled.

The barn was modest in size and smelled of horses, hay, and leather. The air was slightly cooler inside than out and dust motes swirled lazily through the dusty light. Buck must have smelled her because he stuck his head over a stall door and whickered a greeting.

“You’ve grown fat, old friend,” she cooed as she brushed burrs out of Buck’s mane. “You’ve grown fat, and I’ve grown weak. Whatever shall we do to remedy this dreadful situation, huh? I think we can help each other out, don’t you?” She put the brush down and hoisted the blanket and saddle over the horse’s back.

Mounted, she made exactly one turn around the fenced area near the barn. The saddle slipped, almost pitching her off. Buck’s naughty trick of sucking air into his lungs when she tightened up the cinch of his saddle had worked again. How could she have forgotten? She slid dangerously to the side and hobbled off inelegantly to tighten it up. “Snarky little horse. You couldn’t give me a break on my first day back?” she asked the old buckskin horse, smiling. 

Remounted, she walked him around the corral, feeling the pull of long unused muscles. By the time she managed to kick Buck into a trot, the excitement of riding him again had her laughing.

Roy had given Buck to her when she turned seven, and she had always loved riding him. He was a gentle-natured young gelding when Roy presented him to her thirteen years before. Now, he was downright comatose. Getting him into a trot required a surprising amount of effort, but long in the tooth or not, Buck was still her horse and she loved him.

She opened the gate and rode out to drink in her surroundings. Freedom that had never existed for her in Boston filled all the open space, and though she was slow to regain rhythm on her horse, a piece of her opened up. Something that had been closed for a long time; something deep inside her. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she could breathe.

A short yell came from the other side of the house, and she turned Buck around. The mules raced out of the front pasture. The blade had come out of the earth and the plow flailed behind the frightened team on its side. Her breath caught in her throat and she kicked Buck hard to get him going. He lurched, almost dislodging her from the saddle as he took off. She held onto the saddle horn for dear life and pointed him toward the front of the house.

Roy lay about two hundred yards away on a bed of tilled earth, and he barely moved, which confused her. He held a shaking hand in the air as if he hailed her. As she reached him, she reined in the horse and jumped off. Her ankle wrenched, shooting pain into her leg as she landed near her fallen father.

“What’s happened?” she said through a fog of panic, held his head up and put it in her lap.

“The plow— I was trying to fix it underneath and the team spooked. Snake—”

“Shhh,” she murmured. The flesh of his stomach was open and bled freely. Dear God! “Why didn’t you unhitch the horses, you ridiculous man?”

Roy tried to smile. “Don’t boss me around.” He’d gurgled when he’d spoken.

“I don’t know what to do. What do I do?” she whispered. “I’m going to go get help, Roy.” She ripped off a length of her petticoats and put it onto his stomach, placed his hand firmly over it. “Hold that tightly on.”

“It’s too late, Magpie.”

“No! Don’t you say that. This isn’t all I get with you. You’re going to be around for a long time. Hold that tight. Tighter! I’ll bring help.”

If he replied, she didn’t hear it. She scrambled up on Buck and kicked him until she could barely hold on and rode hell for high water. Tree branches whipped at her skin and reached for her like clawed hands as they flew toward the main road. Her breath stayed caught and stifled the lump of fear that filled her throat. Every thundering hoofbeat brought her closer to help, but what if Garret was out with the cattle or in town on an errand? What if she couldn’t find anyone while Roy lay there hurt and alone?

Wilderness blurred by in a messy canvas of greens and browns, and Buck’s labored breathing picked up as the old horse slowed down.

“Come on, Buck. Can’t slow down now,” she chanted, and he held steady, possibly at the sound of her panicked voice. Whatever the reason, she was grateful.

She pulled him through the woods to avoid the corner at the road and raced for the dusty trail that led to Garret’s house. She’d ridden this road a hundred times in her youth, but none of them held such terror as it did now. Every minute was an hour as she pounded toward the house. As it came into view, a great shuddering relief took her. Now, if only she could remember how to stop the horse.

By the time she reached the house, Buck was beyond her control. The old horse had reacted to her fear, and she couldn’t seem to slow him down, now he’d gotten going. Garret loaded supplies with two other men into a flatbed wagon, but it was Cookie who reached her first. He waved his hands and brought the frenzied horse skidding to a stop to avoid him.

“Whoa! Easy there, fella. Easy,” he crooned as he grabbed the reins of the rearing horse.

It was enough to dump her on her rear, extracting a loud yelp as her tailbone felt like it crashed through her throat. The wind was knocked cleanly out of her.

Cookie led the still panicked horse out of the way, and Garret barreled down on her, grabbed her shoulder and lifted her into a sitting position. “Have you gone mad, woman? You could have killed someone comin’ in like that.” His narrowed eyes widened and his jaw clenched. “What has happened?

She tried to drag a breath into drowning lungs, but couldn’t. Then fear for Roy spurred the winded words out. “Roy…hurt bad.”

“Burke, ride for the doc,” Garret said. “Cookie, you’re with me.” He didn’t wait for the men or make sure his orders were followed. “Stay here,” he barked at her, jumped on Buck and tore off for Roy’s homestead, whipping her horse on both flanks with the reins.

He was going to kill her horse, was her last thought before everything went black.

* * * *

“Dadburned woman!” Garrett growled as he kicked the buckskin gelding again, to no improved speed. Maggie Flemming had brought in a nearly spent horse for him to get back to Roy’s place on. He’d tried to convince Roy to sell the blasted nag years ago, but the old man had refused. “Keepin’ him for sentimental reasons,” Roy had said. Damn fool. In this country, riding nags was a deathwish.

Hoofbeats thundered behind him. Cookie, catching up quickly on a fresh horse. A newfangled wave of annoyance with the woman rushed through him. At the helm of his frustration was the sheer amount of times he had thought about her since meeting her the day before. Her fair skin, bright green eyes, dark hair, and freckles had served quite the contrast when she stood next to Roy with his dark, leathery skin. She would have been a right pretty woman if it weren’t for the ridiculous full skirts and the snooty little hat she was wearing. That, and she stood like she had a fence post for a spine. She looked like she was going to a damned ball in the middle of the Texas desert.

That woman was responsible for whatever had happened. Roy knew better than to have a high falutin’ lady out in the wilderness, and now he was paying for it. Well-bred women didn’t belong out on a struggling cattle ranch in the middle of nowhere.

Was she a mail order bride?

He shook his head against the thought. Roy wasn’t the type. If the old man had lost his mind and gotten hitched, some stupid mistake by that city slickin’ lady would surely bring him around again.

By the time the house came into view in the distance, his worry had convinced him that Roy had probably only cut his finger or some other such injury common in the daily life they led. The small amount of blood had probably sent the skittish woman into a tither. Roy was likely sitting up in his house with a bandage on his pinkie drinking moonshine, and they’d laugh together about the dramatic tendencies of city folk.

Then he came upon Roy, lying in the dirt of his front acreage, barely moving and soaking the earth beneath him with his blood. Garrett cursed and jumped off the horse before the panting creature had even stopped moving. Cookie was right behind him, pulling quickly gathered medical supplies from the saddle bags of his own horse. By the amount of blood and the paleness of Roy’s skin, the bandages would be of no use.

“Roy. Roy, you still with me?” he asked the old man. The man who had acted as a father for him when his had failed.

“Garrett,” Roy breathed with a pained smile. “I thought you wouldn’t get here in time. I’ve been holding on.”

“C’mon, old man. Save your strength.” He leaned closer to block Roy’s view of his stomach.

“I’ve already seen it.”

Garrett took Roy’s trembling hand. “It’s not so bad,” he said as he shook his head slowly in denial of a fate that, by the grim look on his face, Roy had already accepted.

“Listen to me. Listen!” Roy demanded hoarsely. “The woman you met. Maggie.”

“I don’t care about that woman—”

“Please, Garrett. The woman is Margaret.”

“Your daughter, Margaret?”

Roy nodded. “I want you to marry her.”

Maybe he’d heard him wrong, or maybe they were both in shock. His shaking hand was slick with warm blood from the man who’d taken care of him during the darkest parts of his childhood. The man who’d written him every week he was away at school. And now Roy wanted to tether him to the girl who’d hurt him the most? His old friend wouldn’t ask if he was in his right mind. “No. You ain’t thinking straight. You don’t know what you are asking.”

“I do. It’s gotta be you, Shaw. I don’t trust no one else to take care of my girl but you.”

“Look, Cookie’s here. Stop talkin’ and he’ll get to work on you and you’ll be okay.”

“Stop,” Roy said as he put a hand up in Cookie’s direction. “Cookie, tell the boy I won’t live past what I got to say.”

Cookie shook his head at Garrett.

“I don’t have time,” Roy said weakly. “Marry her. It’s my last request. Say it.”

“Roy—”

“Say it!” Roy commanded, gripping Garrett’s hand with what little strength remained.

Resignation dragged him under the waves of anguish that threatened to drown him. “I swear it. I’ll marry your girl and see her taken care of.”

“Boy, if you let her, she’ll be good for you,” Roy whispered. His last breath was just a soft sigh as he passed. His dark eyes remained open and focused on him, like he was beseeching him, even after death.

He sat back in the dirt as Cookie covered Roy’s eyes with his hand and whispered the lyrics to a prayer or song that didn’t quite reach him. There, in the dusty rays of sunlight, lay the shell of the best man he’d ever known.

* * * *

Maggie came to, and for the briefest of moments couldn’t remember her name. Above her were the exposed wooden beams of an unexpected ceiling, and as she sought pockets of coolness under the sheets with her arms, the bedding rustled in an unfamiliar way. The pillow smelled crisp and masculine. She was in Garret’s bed.

Her heartbeat tripped into a furious pace. She had never been in a man’s bed before, and the thought of those blue eyes and firm physique had her thoughts turned in a shocking direction. Were his strong arms as hard and unforgiving as they looked? Maybe they’d soften if he put them around her. Had he ever lain in that bed and thought of her those many years?

“Miss?” a man asked in a deep voice.

Heat flushed her cheeks. She wasn’t alone.

“Miss, my name is Brian Burke. People around here call me Burke. I work for Mr. Shaw. Do you need anything?”

Maggie sat up and shook her head to rid it of the last remnants of an unsettling dream she couldn’t quite remember. Burke was a thin man with light brown hair and a darker, short beard, and sat in a chair in the corner of the room, his hat hanging from his knee. His dark eyes were worried with a genuine concern for her well-being. The sympathy in his gaze, so like... Roy. “Is Roy all right? Did Mr. Shaw find him?”

“I can’t say, miss—”

“Maggie,” she finished for him.

“Maggie. They ain’t back yet. I’d say that means they found him, though.” He gave her a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “If you need anything, you let me know. I’ll be out front loading the wagon. Just holler.” Burke put his hat on, leaving her to wallow in her fears.

The room was small and the walls unadorned. A washbasin stood under a wood framed mirror and a straight razor lay waiting by a pitcher. To her left was a small writing table with an oil lantern ready to battle the dark. A simple wooden chair sat in the corner and served as a stand for a knee length duster jacket. Even the window lacked the color of curtains. The decor of the room was manly, clean and simple, though it somehow still felt like a home a woman could find herself comfortable in. Stop it, Margaret, she thought angrily, punishing herself with her given name. A vision came of Roy’s open stomach, and she balked against the memory.

She was confident in Garret. When Roy had been hurt, she hadn’t even thought about where to go for help. She’d pointed Buck in Garret’s direction because she’d known he would be cognizant of what needed to be done. She looked down at her hands. They shook badly, despite her determination not to fall to pieces. “Keep busy until I know more, then,” she said.

The reflection in the mirror extracted a shocked gasp. Her hair hung in loose curls, not a one remaining in its pins. Her face was pale and blotchy, and her dress had a mixture of dirt, what smelled and looked like a streak of horse manure across the back, and blood from where she had wiped her hands after holding the rag over Roy’s wound. Ripped tendrils of petticoat hung from the bottom hem. Clearly, the light gray dress, her most appropriate for this life, was ruined.

“Cockchafer,” she whispered, turning again to scrutinize the smelly brown streak across her posterior.

Ugh. She was horrifyingly filthy. Washing up would be her first order of business while she waited for news of Roy. She’d have to find water, though, because the washbasin was empty. She emerged from Garret’s bedroom and ambled slowly into the living area, and pulled up short. The bones of the cabin were the same, to be sure, but that was where the similarities to the house she remembered stopped. He had changed everything, and it gave her an odd sense of dizzying discomfiture to stand in a place so like and so different from her vivid memory.

Mrs. Shaw and Mother, who’d been dear and fast friends, spent a great deal of their spare time together in this cabin. While they’d visited, mostly complaining about the dust and heat and inconveniences of the wilderness, she’d been free to spend hours playing with Garrett. Hide and seek. Rustlers stealing cattle. Jumping into the piles of soft fragrant hay in the barn. Swirling around on a rope swing and climbing trees. Always, climbing trees.

The Lazy S Ranch accommodated much more acreage, and subsequently, more head of cattle than Roy’s smaller homestead. The main house was also bigger than Roy’s, though she had forgotten just how much. Garret’s cabin boasted three fair sized bedrooms, a small upstairs loft, a kitchen and living room big enough to fit a large dining table along with the seating. Most of the furniture was unfamiliar, and that which she recognized had been rearranged, giving the home an altogether new and unexpected feel. She liked it. Everything was pristine and in its place. She hadn’t expected tidiness from an unattached man such as Garret.

Desperate to avoid Burke’s gaze falling on her manure stained rump, she headed through the kitchen and out the door. The pump was on the side of the house, but she could just as easily get to it from the back of the house as from the front. She filled a bucket and returned with it to Garret’s bedroom and closed the door firmly behind her. After she made the bed, she removed her dress carefully and scrubbed at the stains with a rag and water. At last, the dust and stain across the back were mostly gone but the bloodied handprints were a permanent fixture, as they’d had plenty of time to dry and set.

With a growl, she set to washing herself as best she could without the convenience of an actual bathtub. She saved her long, dark hair for last and felt around it for pins to refasten it. Only two remained. The rest presumably lay somewhere in the pasture between Roy’s place and Garret’s from her wild ride.

“Fine. Down it is.” She used the two pins to fasten the front of her hair to the sides, and rechecked it in the mirror. Oh, if Mother could only see her now.

Her appearance hadn’t improved much after all of her efforts, but she didn’t care as much as a lady probably ought. Once dressed, she went into the den and waited in a large, comfortable chair by the cold hearth.

Hours later according to the relentless ticking of the clock, she was joined by Burke. He’d brought over a dinner of beef stew and hard, yet edible, cornbread he’d made in the field hands’ cabin. Though she wasn’t hungry, Maggie set to the task of eating as if it were a chore. She would need her strength if she were going to tend to Roy like he would need.

She and Burke sat quietly in the den that night. Neither said much as they listened for any noise outside that would announce Garret’s return.

Garret and the other ranch hands had not returned by the time her eyelids grew too heavy to keep open, and she drifted off in the chair. She awakened in the deep of night with what was likely a perfect wood grain imprint on her cheek from the table, and stumbled into Garret’s bedroom to take advantage of his comfortable bed. Though improper to lie in a man’s bed, she had lain there earlier in the day. Best not to muck up two beds with her dirty dress. And she was so sleepy, she couldn’t have found her way to another room if she’d tried.

* * * *

A soft breath in the quiet of the morning. The subtle creak of the floorboards under a boot. A stirring of the air that told her she wasn’t alone. She opened her eyes. Slouched and exhausted looking, Garret watched her from the chair Burke sat in the day before. His elbows rested on the arms of the chair and his hands were clasped in front of his mouth.

“You bite your nails,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice. “Not an attractive habit in a woman.”

“You bait people too early in the morning, sir,” she replied, and glanced down at herself to make sure she was decent. “Not an attractive habit in anyone.”

Eyes sparking with the barest hint of anger, he stood and stalked to the door. “I’ll be waiting in the den when you’re ready.” He glanced over his shoulder at her once and then slammed the door behind him.

There was tragedy to his unhappy demeanor. Garret truly wasn’t the kind and carefree boy she remembered.

Early gray dawn light filtered through the curtain free window and nearby, a rooster crowed. Though the bed was comfortable, she had slept fitfully after the disturbing day before. Maggie washed her face and fiddled with her hair for a few seconds, but gave up quickly in her haste to find out about Roy. Her full skirts swished and dainty leather shoes clacked across the wooden floor as she headed into the den. Lenny and Cookie sat solemnly at the table and Garret stood, leaning against the fireplace. He looked every bit the impatient predator.

“Roy passed. There was nothing we could do for him,” he said softly. Sternly. He stared at her as if daring her to show emotion. “You didn’t tell me he was your pa.”

“You didn’t ask,” she said, voice shaking. She stood frozen in grief, unable to escape his piercing eyes.

“Margaret?” he asked.

She nodded. “I go by Maggie now.”

“Roy was good people,” he slowly bit out then paused. “And you and your ma just up and left him.”

Lenny jumped up from her seat. She stabbed an accusing finger at Garret and yelled a string of unintelligible words. Cookie opened the front door with a sorrowful expression and Garret preceded him out the door.

How could Garret be so cruel? She loved Roy, and this place. Had never wanted to leave it. A sob broke from her throat before she could stop it. Lenny turned on her heel and caught her as she crumpled to the floor, and crooned comforting words. The Indian girl’s words turned to a soft, moving, and whisper-quiet string of notes that rose from her throat as she mourned Roy’s passing with her.

They didn’t have to speak the same language. They both knew heartache.