A Grand Teton Sleigh Ride: Four Generations of Wyoming Ranchers Celebrate Love at Christmas (3 page)

The clatter of shoes on the cabin floor announced the entry of Christopher Smythe, a towheaded, much younger version of his father. “Supper ready yet?”

“Nearly,” Mary said. She glanced at him, her eyes narrowing. “Did you wash your hands?”

“Yes ma’am.” Christopher slid onto the nearest empty chair. “Howdy, Mr. Covington. How are ya?”

“I’m doing well; looking forward to your momma’s cooking.” At his words, he glanced up to see two young women entering the kitchen area. Miss Murray, and the Smythes’ only daughter, whose name he couldn’t recall. He studied her face, trying to remember. At his glance, her skin flushed red, as if she’d been outside in the snow on a sunny day.

“Good evening, Mr. Covington,” Belle said. “Mr. and Mrs. Smythe, thank you for letting me stay for supper.”

“We’re glad to have you.” Mary carried the pan of chicken to the table. “I couldn’t bear the idea of you going home to an empty house, all alone.”

“It’s—it’s not so bad. Quiet, but not so bad.”

“You be careful out there. Old Gus Tolliver been helping you?” Jake asked.

“Yes, he has, thank you. I’m going to stay in Jackson, I’ve decided, once and for all. I can’t let the claim go. Melanie and Ham put almost all their years in. If I stay through the winter and make it until spring, it’ll be our family’s land forever.” She stuck out her chin, just a little.

If Zeb thought she’d been determined and stubborn the other evening after the funeral, well, tonight she was downright resolute, her heels dug in. He had to admire that.

“Nothing like being able to say your land is your land,” Zeb said aloud. He’d earned his claim fair and square, had grown his herd, built his first home this year in celebration after receiving his patent from the government.

“But our land isn’t really our land, is it, Father? As you said, we’re to be caretakers of this land God created.” At last, the Smythes’ daughter spoke. Her skin had resumed its normal creamy tone. However, at his glance, she colored again to the tips of her ears. Someone had twisted her braid around her head as if it were a golden crown.

“Miss Smythe, we don’t really own the land. But I like to know that legally, in this country, no man can take from me what I’ve earned.”

“You’re quite right, Zeb.” Jake nodded then looked toward the stove, where both Belle and Mary picked up bowls heaped with roasted potatoes and squash for the meal. The aroma of freshly baked bread wafted in their direction.

“Bread?” Belle said as she took the seat beside the Smythes’ daughter, who nodded then cut a slice from the loaf. She kept her focus on the bread, but Belle kept her focus on him.

“Let’s bow and pray before we eat.” Jake reached for his wife’s hand.

As they bowed, Zeb couldn’t help himself. Still holding Belle’s gaze, he winked.

B
elle’s neck burned with a hot flush throughout the meal. She didn’t need a looking glass to know it existed, and the reason her neck felt hotter than summertime was Zebulon Covington. Thankfully, no one, especially Rosemary, seemed to notice what Zebulon had done. Nervy, bold, brash—none of the qualities in a suitable man that neither Rosemary—nor she—should find appealing.

But part of her did, and she almost wanted to simper as Rosemary had whenever Zebulon looked in her direction.

Belle reminded herself of tonight’s purpose for staying for supper, besides a delicious meal she didn’t have to cook. Rosemary definitely needed schooling and training. The poor girl’s heart would fall prey to the first eligible man who smiled at her the right way. Better it be someone like Zebulon Covington, and not any of the far less savory bachelors in the area.

Tonight was turning out to be nothing short of a disaster, as it soon became apparent that Zebulon didn’t even know Rosemary’s first name. If Rosemary were to have any chance of making a match with Zebulon, the young woman needed to step forward just a bit more.

In spite of the rowdy wink from the man across the table, Belle knew Zebulon was a good man. She could see it from Rosemary’s description and knew it from the way Ham had spoken of him during her months of living in Jackson.

The sunlight in the one window had faded by the time Mary poured another cup of strong coffee. Belle’s home lay but a few minutes’ ride away, but she ought to leave before the light dwindled altogether.

Melanie had told her of long winters and short days; the cold felt deeper here than back East, too.

“Winter’s not here yet,” Jake Smythe told her when she remarked about the chill before leaving. She tried not to shiver at his words.

“But Christmas is coming,” Mary said. “Don’t forget, we’re going to have a program on Christmas Eve at the church, for anyone who’d like to come. We’d like you to join us when we practice a few Christmas songs, and perhaps have a bit of a choir.”

“I’d like that, very much.” She would make the time to meet with the group of ladies and the few men that Jake Smythe had managed to recruit.

“You sure you won’t join in, Zeb?” Jake asked while Zebulon was putting on his hat and coat, and Belle was doing the same.

“No, I’m successful at making a joyful noise, but nothing anyone would want to hear.”

“Maybe you can say a few words, then. It’s not likely that the traveling parson will make it through, and it would be nice to have someone give a message. I believe you’re the most qualified out of the lot of us.”

“Why’s that?” Belle heard herself ask.

“Zebulon here went to seminary, could have ended up a traveling parson himself,” Jake replied.

Seminary? She stared at him as she tied her wool bonnet.

He glanced at her as if he’d heard her unspoken one-word question, and shrugged.

Belle said nothing more about Zebulon’s singing skills or lack thereof, or the seminary, but bade the Smythes good night, promising to see them on Sunday if the weather was good. She politely refused Jake’s offer to send someone to help her saddle Patch; she was used to seeing to her horse herself.

She entered the snug barn, where Patch stood tied not far from Jake’s own mount, a dark bay mare.

“Ready, Patch? It’s going to be dark soon.” She found his saddle and set to putting it on, tying the girth.

A shadow blotted out most of the remaining light coming through the doorway.

Zebulon, of course.

“You ought to carry a weapon with you, Miss Murray. Either that, or confine your outings to daytime hours only,” he said as he passed by her to get to his horse.

“It’s still daytime.” She glanced toward the barn door. Well, it wasn’t exactly twilight yet.

“It’s unsafe for a woman to travel this time of day, unarmed, alone. I’ll see you to your claim.”

She didn’t want to argue with him again and held her tongue. Never mind he’d made her feel like a child, as if she always needed escorting somewhere.

“You’re irritated,” he said.

“Not really,” she replied, giving Patch a pat on the neck. Truthfully, she was out of her element here. Not for the first time did her nerves make her insides tremble.

“But, do you carry a weapon of any kind with you, Miss Murray?”

“Ah, no, I don’t.”

He shook his head. “You ought to. What kind of weapon did Ham have?”

“A shotgun and a pistol. I’ve touched neither of them.”

“You need to learn, get comfortable with them. Carry one of them with you at all times. Don’t be frightened. Better safe than sorry.”

Yes, she’d had a lot of sorry lately, with losing Melanie and Ham.

“Miss Murray, my offer still stands.”

“Offer?”

“I’ll take you myself across the pass, to the nearest train station. A few more weeks, a month at the most, and you’ll likely be stuck here until spring, unless there’s an unexpected change in the weather. Which could happen. But, you never know.”

“No. I’m staying. Ham and Melanie worked hard for their claim. I’m going to fulfill it then file the patent myself as owner. It’s the least I can do, for their legacy.”

“And then what? Stay? Do you have any idea on how to run a ranch?”

“I know enough. I’ve watched Ham, and helped Melanie.”

He gave a long sigh. “But you can’t do it all yourself.”

She paused. “I can try. Zebulon, I can’t leave. I have nowhere, no one to go back to.” Her voice quavered for a moment, and she swallowed hard. Nobody saw these moments, because she wouldn’t allow it. Somehow, in the growing dark, it felt safe to let Zebulon know.

“Then, Miss Murray, I advise you prepare yourself for the hardest winter of your life.”

“I’ll be ready, Mr. Covington.”

“I like it better when you say Zebulon.”

Now her cheeks blazed again as they had earlier that evening. “Zebulon, I’m ready to go home.” She could follow the trail, the snow lit by the pale moon beginning to rise. The sooner she was home again, the better.

I like it better when you say Zebulon?

Where in the great wide world did that come from? He dropped the thought as soon as it entered his mind. He needed to get home, see to the barn animals then get to bed. Morning would come early, and he had much to do, a few strays to round up, along with picking up some hay from Gates Browning, a few claims over. Then there would be work on the sleigh he’d begun crafting that summer, to use when the trails were impassable by wagon.

They headed out into what was left of the dusk, with the surrounding world glowing white, leaving the trails home darkened.

Belle sat primly on Patch, although she rode astride. The gelding moved on sure steps. “So, Zebulon. Mr. Smythe said you’ve been to seminary.”

“Yes, a long time ago. I was a little younger than you are now, fresh out of preparatory school.”

“Preparatory school?” she echoed back.

“Yes, ma’am, I’m completely educated. Six years Latin, four years mathematics, two of economics, four of English, three of French.” He let that sink in, wondering how her highfalutin airs took in the revelation.

“Where did you attend seminary?”

“In Chicago. I thought I wanted to be a minister, have a church.”

“But you stopped. Why?”

He let Buck’s reins go lax; the horse could find his way better on the trail without his own interference. “Looking back, I’m not sure. Pride. Stubbornness. Not sure I wanted to answer to anyone.”

“A man can be a minister without standing behind a pulpit.” Her gentle words gave him a nudge he hadn’t felt in years. The headmistress at the orphanage had told him so.
You don’t have to be a preacher to do God’s work
.

“I feel the same way.”

“Well, a man ought never to be ashamed of having an education.” Belle’s voice rang out with an air of confidence. “A strong brain is just as impressive as a strong physique.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Murray.” The turn of conversation almost made him squirm, but there was a kindness in her words.

“So you came here, to Wyoming. That’s a big change from Chicago.”

“Yup, sure is.” He’d come on a whim, almost a dare, really. Trapping had given him a freedom that years of academia hadn’t.

“So, you were a trapper and then staked a claim.”

“Yup. Finished my cabin addition this spring, new barn, too.” Honestly, she was cross-examining him with the skill of an attorney. He almost asked where she was headed with her line of questioning but figured he didn’t want to know. Not quite.

“I must say your prospects are excellent.”

He chuckled at her tone. “I’m glad you approve.”

“But what about your family?”

“Orphaned, as best I know. My mother never married, my father, not sure about him. But I won a scholarship to preparatory school for my grades, and the same followed for seminary.”

“How sad about your family.”

“I’m thankful for what I have. My family is here, among the locals. Soon as I saw the Teton Range, I felt like I’d come home.” Funny, how the low light could loosen his guard.

“Yes, it’s lovely here. So free, and wild.”

“That it is, Miss Murray.”

They fell silent, and as Zeb listened to the soft plunks of hooves on the trail, he shot a prayer of thanks heavenward that the questions were over. For the moment, that is.

Then Miss Murray continued.

“Mr. Covington, have you ever thought of taking a wife?”

He darted a quick glance across the trail at her. “My, my, my, Miss Murray, aren’t we being forward?”

“Oh, ah, I don’t mean me,” she sputtered. “I’m in no position to marry right now.”

“Well, who did you mean?” He tried not to laugh.

“Never mind. I’m just curious. There are a number of eligible men in Jackson’s Hole, and there comes a point when, I’m sure, a man must know he needs, or wants, a wife. If you are at that point, I’d like to help you find a suitable spouse. Because as you know, there aren’t many eligible women in Jackson. A lady will have plenty of choices, but not all would be an, ah, ideal match.”

A matchmaker. She was trying to be a matchmaker. The idea made him laugh out loud, and the sound rang against the trees.

“You find my offer humorous?”

“Yes. No. I don’t need a wife, Miss Murray. I don’t know as I ever will.” He looked ahead on the trail, to the edge of a fence with the Quinns’ mark on it, the edge of their claim. “It looks like we’re here.”