A Hopeful Heart (14 page)

“Oh, ye branded him, for sure.” Sallie’s eyes twinkled. “But I wish you could’ve seen yourself—eyes squinched shut an’ arms out as straight as the iron itself, keepin’ as much distance as ye could from the poor dumb creature.” Sallie acted out her words as she spoke.

“ ’Tis a wonder ye didn’t brand one of the hired hands instead of the little cow!”

Laughter spilled from Sallie’s lips, and a grin grew on Tressa’s face with no effort. Not since their first days on the ranch had the girls shared such a moment of mirth, and Tressa discovered she didn’t want the feeling of companionship to end. Clasping her hands together, she said, “Would you like me to fetch the liniment bottle from the pantry and rub some on your bruises? It might take some of the ache away.”

“Oooh, I’d be thankin’ ye for it, Tressa.”

Tressa scurried toward the door.

“But, Tressa?”

She turned back.

“Ye might want to be changin’ into somethin’ more presentable before going down to the kitchen.”

Tressa glanced at her bare legs sticking out from beneath the tail of the shirt. She clapped her hands to her cheeks and stared at Sallie in horror. Sallie broke into gales of laughter. And despite her tiredness and her continued worry about Luella and Gage, for that moment Tressa cast off her concerns and let her own laughter ring.

14

Tressa placed the liniment bottle back in the box of medicinal cures and slid the box onto the pantry shelf. A smile still hovered on her heart. The time of ministering to Sallie, of shared laughter, had taken a load from her shoulders. She whispered good-night to Isabella, who curled on her rug in the corner of the pantry, then closed the door and headed toward the stairs. But the creak of footsteps from the dining room brought her to a stumbling halt. Was Luella planning to meet Gage Hammond again?

She held her breath, watching the doorway, and her breath whooshed out with relief when Mrs. Wyatt bustled into the kitchen. “Mrs. Wyatt . . . it’s you.”

“Who were you expectin’, a burglar?” The older woman balled her fists on her hips. “An’ when’re you goin’ to give up callin’ me ‘Mrs. Wyatt’? Does the name ‘Aunt Hattie’ stick in your craw?”

The teasing grin that accompanied the rebuke made Tressa laugh. “No, ma’am.” How could she explain to this woman that the title “aunt” carried an unpleasant connotation? It seemed unfair to apply that title to someone so vastly different from Aunt Gretchen.

“Well, it’d do my heart good to hear ‘Aunt Hattie’ out o’ you instead o’ that formal ‘Mrs. Wyatt.’ ” She puckered her lips into a sour expression. “Makes me feel like some doddering old woman.” Shaking her finger at Tressa, she added, “An’ don’t let this gray hair fool you! I might look old on the outside, but my insides are still plenty spry!”

Tressa nodded in agreement. She’d never met a more lively woman—young or old—than Mrs. Wyatt.

Suddenly the woman heaved a sigh. “Where does the time go?” Her introspective tone left Tressa feeling like an eavesdropper. “Seems just yesterday Jed an’ me were buildin’ this ranch, dreamin’ of the future, and now . . . Jed’s gone, I’m comin’ up on my sixty-second year, an’ . . .” She stopped abruptly, giving herself a little shake. “An’ here I am, keepin’ you from goin’ up to bed.”

Tressa took a forward step, lifting her hand toward Mrs. Wyatt. “Oh no, ma’am! You aren’t keeping me. I . . . I enjoy talking with you.”

“An’ I enjoy you, too, Tressa-darlin’.” Mrs. Wyatt’s eyes crinkled with her smile. “The good Lord planted a tender heart in your chest, an’ it’s a pleasure to see you openin’ up, like a rosebud bloomin’.” Her grin turned teasing. “You did good today on the brandin’, hittin’ your target even with your eyes closed.”

Tressa grimaced. How foolish she must have appeared!

Mrs. Wyatt laughed, shaking her head. “Do you know how proud it made me to see you climb into that pen an’ fling that lasso? Why, when you first come, you seemed scared o’ your own shadow. But now you jump in an’ do what’s needed, even when it scares you. Yep, Tressa, you are blossomin’ for sure.”

The compliment washed Tressa with delight, the reaction almost dizzying. She gulped, seeking words of gratitude, but before any formed, Mrs. Wyatt went on.

“I’m grateful God brought you to Barnett—I just know He’s got somethin’ special planned for you here.”

Tressa’s pulse sped, and an argument spilled from her lips. “
God
didn’t bring me to Barnett. My aunt and uncle sent me because—” She clamped a hand over her mouth, aghast at her defiant tone.

For long moments she and Mrs. Wyatt stared at each other across the quiet kitchen. Tressa’s heart pounded so hard she feared it might explode. But Mrs. Wyatt stood calmly, her eyes sad. Suddenly, without warning, Mrs. Wyatt stepped forward and wrapped Tressa in her arms. She guided Tressa’s head to her shoulder and gently rocked back and forth.

Tears pricked behind Tressa’s eyes. The comforting embrace, so unexpected, swept away the hurt anger of moments before. How many years had passed since she had received a hug? Papa had been affectionate, but not since his death had anyone offered her the comfort of an embrace. Closing her eyes, she relished the moment, fondness for this dear woman filling her with gratitude.

Mrs. Wyatt gave Tressa a pat on the back and then released her. Twin tears winked in the woman’s faded gray eyes. “Tressa-darlin’, you listen to me an’ you memorize these words. There’s a verse in the Bible—found in Psalm 139—that says our days were planned by God even before we were born. Your aunt an’ uncle might’ve sent you here, but they were actin’ as God’s hands.”

Gently curling her fingers around Tressa’s upper arms, Mrs. Wyatt lowered her voice to a whisper. “He brought you here for His reasons, so you quit feelin’ like you’ve been cast aside an’ consider that you’ve been
chosen
. Will you remember that, Tressa?”

She swallowed hard. The concept of God taking such an active interest in her—Tressa Neill, the orphaned, unwanted niece of Leo and Gretchen Neill—was too large to accept in one portion. She would need to digest it slowly. But she nodded, silently vowing to give Mrs. Wyatt’s astounding statement some serious reflection.

“Good girl.” Mrs. Wyatt released Tressa and scuffed toward the back door. She turned the skeleton key that always rested in the lock, then pulled it free and hung it on a nail pounded into the doorjamb.

“Why are you locking the door?” Not once since she’d arrived on the ranch had Tressa witnessed Mrs. Wyatt locking up the house. She hugged herself as an unnamed worry seized her.

Mrs. Wyatt laughed, but to Tressa’s ears the sound seemed forced. “Oh now, it’s just a precaution. I’ve not had any trouble here, but one o’ my neighbors has had a theft or two at his place.”

The worry grew into fear. “Thefts? At night?” Her heart began to pound. “
Last
night?”

Mrs. Wyatt’s brows knitted together. “That’s right. How did you know?”

Tressa’s mind raced. Luella had sneaked off to meet Gage last night. She had suspected the pair was behaving in a wanton manner, but might they also be involved in something unscrupulous?

Mrs. Wyatt took Tressa’s hand. “Why, girl, you’re pale as a ghost. Somethin’s ailin’ you. Tell me.”

Her mouth went dry, and Tressa licked her lips. “Mrs. Wyatt, I—”

The creak of a floorboard intruded. Both women jumped when Luella crept into the room. When she spotted Tressa and Mrs. Wyatt, she stopped so suddenly her feet slid on the polished wood floor. After only a second or two, her startled look transformed into a too-bright smile.

“Oh, Aunt Hattie, I thought you’d gone to bed. I . . . I came down for a glass of milk. Would you like one, too? I’ll pour one for you.” She flounced to the icebox and removed the tin pitcher of milk.

Mrs. Wyatt caught Luella’s arm, preventing her from taking glasses from the cupboard. “You always get dressed to fetch a glass of milk?”

Luella glanced down her length, appearing surprised by her own attire. She laughed, raising her shoulders in a self-conscious shrug. “This dress was at the foot of my bed. I guess I put it on without thinking about it being bedtime. After my milk, I’ll change into my nightgown.”

Mrs. Wyatt gave the girl a steady, unsmiling look. “You sure you only came down for milk?”

Luella shot a short, venomous glare in Tressa’s direction before bestowing an ingenuous look on Mrs. Wyatt. “Of course.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Mrs. Wyatt stepped back. “Well then, drink your milk an’ head on up. You’ll be doin’ laundry tomorrow, an’ after today’s activities, it’ll take some effort to get those clothes clean again.”

Luella downed a glass of milk. Humming to herself, she returned the pitcher to the icebox, placed the glass in the wash basin, and then pranced around the corner without a backward glance.

Tressa expected Mrs. Wyatt to question her again, but instead the woman marched to the door. With a grim expression, she deposited the key in her robe pocket. “Bed now, Tressa.” Her tone didn’t invite further conversation.

Abel pinched his lips around three nails and held his hammer against his thigh, standing still and tense as he watched Aunt Hattie approach. Her expression was grim, and he wondered what more could have gone wrong. She reined in next to the partially completed fence and remained astride her horse. Her husband’s prized Stetson pulled low on her head shielded the upper half of her face from the midmorning sun. Without so much as a greeting, she wrapped the reins around the saddle horn and spoke in a terse tone. “I don’t like to think of it, Abel, but I’m wonderin’ if one o’ my pupils might be tangled up in your rustlin’ problem.”

Her announcement was so ludicrous, a snort of laughter grated in his throat. Bouncing the hammer handle against his leg, he squinted against the sun and spoke around the nails. “You gotta be misunderstandin’ somethin’, Aunt Hattie. Your pupils only just arrived a month or so ago. The thefts have been goin’ on for more’n two years.”

Returning to his task, he held the string of barbed wire in place with his gloved thumb and pulled a nail free from his mouth. With several deft whacks, he pounded the nail into the wood below the string of wire. When the nail was half buried in the post, he tapped the extended half into a loop over the wire to hold it in place.

He took a step back and looked down the row of empty fence posts. Still a far piece to go. He removed another nail from his mouth and gestured with it. “Besides, why would your pupils want to steal cattle? They’re all here to cozy up to some rancher an’ make a home in this area, right? Stealin’ sure wouldn’t endear them to anyone around here. Nope . . . it don’t make sense.”

“Don’t make much sense to me, either—yet.” She doubled her hands over the saddle horn and tipped closer, lowering her voice even though they were alone on the far side of the north pasture. “But I never saw a person try so hard to look innocent. That girl’s hidin’ somethin’. An’ earlier in the evenin’ another o’ my pupils said somethin’ that made me think . . .”

She looked back and forth, like she expected someone to jump out from the tangle of tumbleweeds. “I’m uneasy, Abel. Somethin’ ain’t right.”

He swallowed a grunt and pounded in another nail. Things hadn’t been right for a good long while. Pa’s death, Amanda’s rejection, the loss of a significant portion of his herd, wondering if he’d be able to hang on to his land . . .

“I’m just sayin’ that it might be best for you to demand our lazy sheriff hire a few men to keep watch around your place.”

He released one huff of laughter. “Aunt Hattie, you know Sheriff Tate only wears that badge for show. He’s never done one thing to act like a sheriff.” The man had scratched his head and mumbled something about looking into things when Abel reported the thefts, but Abel held no real confidence that anything would be done.

“Well, it’s high time he earned his keep!” Aunt Hattie aimed a stern look down at Abel. “You just remind him our taxes go for protection.”

Abel gave the post a smack with his open palm. “Me tellin’ him won’t guarantee he’ll do anything, but if it’ll make you feel better . . .” He grabbed the end of the wire and headed for the next post.

Aunt Hattie tapped her horse with her moccasin-covered heels and followed. “Abel, I got another idea, too.”

Urgency to protect his remaining herd nudged him to keep hammering—this wire wouldn’t string itself—and impatience at the delay made him twitch in place. “What?”

“You run a short-handed ranch, with just three men on your payroll, an’ it gets even shorter when you keep one of ’em on kitchen duty. I was thinkin’—my pupils’ve done a fine job of learnin’ their way around a kitchen, an’ now it’s time for ’em to try some . . .” She scratched her chin. “Well, I guess you’d call it apprenticin’.”

He stared up at Aunt Hattie. Was she suggesting . . . ? He shook his finger at her. “Oh no, Aunt Hattie, you aren’t sendin’ one of those girls to my place. I’d never get any work out of Cole or Ethan if they knew one of your pupils was at the house all day.”

“Now, give it some thought, Abel.” Her wheedling tone set his teeth on edge. He wasn’t a little boy to be cajoled into eating his turnip greens. “You need your men on the range, watchin’ the cattle. Besides that, you’d be doin’ me a favor by givin’ one o’ my girls the experience of runnin’ a kitchen all on her own.”

“Aunt Hattie, I—”

She held up her palm. “I know, I know, you carry a grudge against eastern women. But it’s time you let loose o’ that, an’ gettin’ to know one o’ my girls might just convince you that not all eastern women are bad.” Angling her head to the side, she sent him a saucy grin. “I promise not to send you the one I suspect o’ bein’ a party to the rustlin’.”

Despite himself, Abel laughed. He chewed the inside of his lip, contemplating her suggestion. Having all of his men free to ride the range, make sure the fence stayed up, and do a count of cattle every day would give him some assurance. And eating decent cooking on a daily basis appealed to him. His mouth watered, remembering the stew and biscuits Aunt Hattie had brought by. But there was one concern she hadn’t addressed.

“Most times apprentices get a little somethin’ for their efforts. What kind of payment are you expectin’ me to give?” His bank account wouldn’t hold up to much more strain.

“No payment. This is part o’ their trainin’.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You sure? That’s a heap of work for no return.”

Aunt Hattie chuckled. “Oh, there’ll be a return—experience an’ knowledge. A person can’t put a price on somethin’ as valuable as experience an’ knowledge.”