Mail Order Cowboy (Love Inspired Historical) (14 page)

B
obby returned with the men riding in the back of the wagon, all smiling broadly. Once it had pulled to a stop between the barn and the house, they clambered out, the other three waiting while Elijah approached, hat in hand, to where she still sat on the porch with Nick. Sarah came out to join them, wiping her hands on her apron, and behind her hobbled Josh.

“Miss Milly, Bobby told us 'bout you offerin' us jobs as hands, and I want to say for all of us, we're right grateful. We're gonna show you how grateful by workin' hard for you, ma'am. You just have to tell us what you want, and me 'n' my brothers, we'll do the best we kin for you and your sister. We ain't never ezactly been cowboys, but we've tended livestock. We'll learn quick, I promise you.”

Milly smiled at Elijah and his brothers beyond him. “Welcome to our ranch. This is my sister, Sarah,” she said, nodding at her. “And our foreman, Josh. You already know Nick Brookfield. It's we who should be grateful that you were willing to come back. I—I'm sorry I sent you away the other night. I—”

But Elijah held up a hand. “'Scuse me for interruptin', Miss Milly, but you don't have t'apologize. We understand givin' a job to folks like us ain't somethin' you do lightly, an' bless you for givin' us a chance.” His eyes were understanding and kind.

“Thank you,” she murmured, feeling she'd just experienced a profound moment of grace. “Josh and Nick will be giving you your orders, showing you the ropes and providing you with tools. You'll sleep in the bunkhouse,” she said, pointing to it. “You'll eat…” Milly stopped to consider. The kitchen table was a little small to accommodate four more men. “I think we'll need to move the table onto the side porch, and combine it with the one in the bunkhouse. That'll work until the weather gets cold, at least.”

Elijah looked a little uncomfortable at this. “Miss Milly, you don't need to do that,” he said. “Me an' my brothers, we could pick up a pot o' beans or whatever in the kitchen and take it out to the bunkhouse. It ain't fittin' for us to eat at the same table as our boss.”

There was a muted chorus of agreement from his brothers.

“Nonsense,” she said. “Our other hands don't eat in the bunkhouse, so neither will you. Perhaps someday this ranch will be a bigger operation and the hands will have to eat in the bunkhouse, but right now that's hardly the case.”

“But ma'am…”

Sarah, behind her, spoke up. “I'm the cook, and I agree, much less work for me that way. And none of you other men object, do you?” Her gaze took in Josh, Bobby and Nick.

Bobby looked surprised to be asked, but shook his head with the other two men.

“Thank ya, ma'am. We ain't met with such kindness since…since I don' know when,” Elijah said, his eyes suspiciously wet before he looked down again.

But all the thanks Milly needed was the warm glow of approval in Nick's blue gaze.

“Then that settles it. Why don't you get settled in the bunkhouse. Josh, would you be able to show them where the sheets and blankets are? Bobby, please help me move the tables onto the side porch.”

“And what am I to do, Milly?” Nick said, rising.

“Your job is to sit right there and rest,” she told him. “Tomorrow will be time enough for you to start earning your keep again,” she added with a wink.

Over dinner, they learned more of the four brothers. Once again Elijah, as eldest brother, served as the spokesperson. They ranged in age from twenty-five to nineteen. All of them had been slaves on a large cotton plantation in eastern Texas, but none had been aware that they'd been set free by Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation until General Gordon Granger brought the news to Texas in June. None of the men were married. Elijah had had a wife, but she had died in childbirth. Isaiah had been sweet on a girl, but she'd been sold away from the plantation and after that the two younger brothers, Caleb and Micah, had been reluctant to set their affections on any of the female slaves on the plantation.

“I told 'em there'd be time enough for that later, once we're settled down, with jobs and a place to live and
such,” Elijah said, with an air of wisdom far beyond his years.

They were curious about the history of the Matthews ranch, too. Josh was clearly in his element while telling the story of the Comanche attack that had nearly cost him his life—which led naturally enough into Nick telling them about his plan for building a stone fort up on the hill.

“Sure, we'll help you build that,” Elijah said. “Sounds like a good idea, case them Injuns come raidin' again.” He ran a hand over his head full of tight black curls. “I don't fancy
my
scalp decoratin' no Comanche spear.”

“We'll work on that only when we have time to spare from our other chores,” Nick told them. “One of the local families is donating their stock to the ranch, and they're bringing them tomorrow, so we'll need to get them settled in.”

“Mr. Nick, mind if I ask you where you come from, sir?” It was Isaiah, speaking up for the first time. “I ain't never heard nobody speak like you do. Are you from some furrin' country?”

Nick's brow furrowed for a moment in confusion, and Milly was about to explain that Isaiah meant
foreign,
but he must have figured it out then, for he explained he was from Britain, by way of India, a country on the other side of the globe. The man's eyes grew wide. “I bet you got some stories to tell, Mr. Nick.”

Nick laughed. “Indeed, I do. I imagine we'll find time to swap yarns, as Josh puts it.”

“Then how'd you end up here, Mr. Nick?” Caleb asked.

“You two stop bein' so nosy,” Elijah said. “I 'pologize
for my brothers, Mr. Nick. I reckon we've been so busy findin' our way in the world, I ain't properly taken the time to teach 'em manners, like mindin' their own business. Please forgive 'em for askin'.”

“I don't mind,” Nick assured him. “But it's rather a long story,” he said, glancing at Milly. “Perhaps we'd better tell it another time.”

 

It had been a good day, Nick mused at sunset the next day as he washed up at the pump before supper. He'd gone to bed right after supper the night before, still weak from the effects of the fevers, but today he felt much stronger and he'd been able to properly pull his weight.

The Prestons had come as planned, bringing the cattle, pigs and chickens, and now six new pigs contentedly wallowed in the pen Bobby had built for them while Nick was ill. There had been a few minor skirmishes between the old hens and the new, but the pecking order had been rearranged, and Milly and Sarah were already discussing how many eggs to leave the hens to set upon, and how many to use for cooking or selling.

The twenty head of cattle were rangy longhorns, like the ones already at the ranch, but in addition there was a vigorous young bull, which would more than replace the old one the Indians had slaughtered.

Even over the sloshing of the water, Nick could hear the cattle lowing as they explored their new enclosure. He thought of the stockier breeds of cattle back in England, and wondered what kind of cattle they might produce if they were bred with the hardy Texas cattle.
Perhaps Edward could be persuaded to ship him some from England, he thought. Ah, but he was getting ahead of himself, wasn't he?

“Mr. Matthews must be pleased as punch to see this,” Josh said, staring out at the corral and the pasture beyond as he joined Nick at the pump. “Why, this is like the glory days before the war.”

“You believe those in heaven can see what's going on on earth?” Nick asked, smiling. “So do I.” He hoped that Milly and Sarah's father was happy he had come into their lives.

“'Course I do,” Josh said. “I don't think we stop carin' 'bout the ones we loved when we go through them pearly gates.” He rubbed his bristly chin. “You know, with a little luck, it won't be but a couple of years before we can send Matthews cattle along with some trail drive to Kansas, mebbe even head up the drive ourselves.” He looked wistful at the thought.

“Sounds like you'd like to be a part of that,” Nick observed.

Josh whistled. “Trail drives are hard on a young man, and I sure ain't young no more,” he mused, rubbing his lower back. “Between the river crossin's, the Injuns, the rustlers and the stampedes, not to mention snakes, it's a dangerous trip, and that's a fact. But Bobby would be jest the right age by then.”

Both men watched as the lowering sun illuminated the figure of one of their new hands as he threw out flakes of hay for the horses in the corral.

“That was a good thing you done, persuadin' Miss Milly to give them men a chance,” Josh said. “Didn't want to pressure Miss Milly to set her mind a certain
way because a' what
I
believed. But I reckon now that those men are free, they need work same as a stove-up ol' cowboy like me does. Mind you, not ever'body in Simpson Creek's gonna think so.”

His words confirmed Nick's suspicions. “You think there will be trouble from men like Waters?”

Josh rubbed his chin again. “Oh, Sheriff Poteet will probably discourage any
real
mischief from those fellas in that ‘Circle'—” his face wrinkled with contempt as he said the name “—but there might be some unpleasantness. Some folks jes' ain't happy 'less they kin hold someone else down. And it's likely the Circle knows about it already.”

Nick was surprised. “But how?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Preston seen 'em when they was here, and they probably mentioned it t'somebody, innocently enough, and that person told somebody, who told somebody…” His hand made circles to indicate the speed at which gossip traveled. “And the Waters hands might see the Browns out mending fence and tendin' cattle…”

“I…I see.”

“I'm just tellin' you so you kin keep your eyes open, that's all.”

“Should I—should we—discuss it with Miss Milly, do you think?”

“Naw, I wouldn't go worryin' her,” Josh said. “Just be watchin'. And while I'm handin' out free advice, young man,” he added with a grin, “it's my opinion you oughta git busy courtin' Miss Milly in earnest.”

Nick was startled at the older man's frankness. “What makes you say so?”

“I've been knowin' that young lady since she was
knee-high to a horned toad and I saw the way she fretted over you when you were sick. Any fool kin see she loves you, Nick, so I'd get crackin' if I were you.”

Without another word, Josh walked into the house. Nick stared after him. Clearly, the old cowboy approved of him or he'd never have urged Nick to step up his courtship. What Josh had just said had sounded more warm and fatherly than any of Nick's real father's infrequent attempts at conversations. The fourth Viscount Greyshaw had been distant as the clouds, decreeing that his third son should go into the army simply because he already had an heir and a second son in the Church. The army had suited Nick very well until recently, but he had often wondered how his father would have reacted if Nick had had other ideas. He already knew that if his father had been alive when Nick had been stripped of his colors and drummed out of the army, he would have disowned him.

His brother Edward hadn't done so, of course, but Nick suspected he was relieved, nonetheless, that his disgraced younger brother had decided to put an ocean between them rather than return to England. One shouldn't have to be embarrassed by a family connection to Mad Nick Brookfield. It was bad enough that his mother, after giving her husband three sons and a daughter, had become legendary for her indiscretions.

Nick shook his head as if to clear it. What was done was done. Mad Nick had been left behind in Bombay. He was Nicholas Brookfield, and he was going to take Josh's advice about stepping up his courtship of Milly.

“G
ood morning,” Milly said to the postmaster sorting mail behind the counter. “Is Caroline around?”

Amos Wallace looked up, but the normally friendly man didn't smile at her as he usually did and return her greeting. “She's in the back office. Caroline!” he called over his shoulder. Then he went back to his sorting, almost as if Milly was a stranger.

Caroline emerged from the office before Milly could think much about his demeanor. “Come on back, Milly,” she said, beckoning and opening the swinging half door. “I was hoping you'd come in today.”

Milly followed her into the small office and sat in the chair next to the roll-top desk. “Why? Are there any new letters from prospective suitors?”

“Yes, three!” Caroline grinned, pulling them out of a pigeonhole. “And they all sound like good candidates. Shall we convene a meeting of the Society?”

“Wonderful! Let's see, today's Friday…how about Monday for our meeting?”

“That's when the Ladies Aid Society meets,” Caroline reminded her.

Milly felt a guilty twinge as she realized she hadn't even thought about the Ladies Aid Society since the Indian attack, but quickly dismissed it. She'd had quite a lot to contend with since Josh was laid up.

“All right, Tuesday, then. Help me pass the word.”

“As president, you should take these and give them a preliminary look,” Caroline said, handing the letters to Milly.

Milly put them in her reticule, intending to study them later.

“How are things going with Mr. Collier?” Milly asked, and was delighted to see her friend blush.

“Pete's coming for supper tonight!” Caroline's voice fairly squeaked with excitement. “Ma and Pa met him at the barn raising, of course, but this will be the first time he's had supper at our house. I'm going to cook chicken and dumplings and black-eyed peas and peach pie, all my specialties. Ma's going to help me a little,” she admitted. “I have trouble getting it all done at the same time.”

“That's the way, show him what a good cook you are,” Milly approved. “I've always heard that's the way to a man's heart.”

“And how's that handsome Englishman of yours?” Caroline countered with a grin.

“Better now, but we had quite a scare,” Milly said, and told her about Nick's attack of malaria.

“How frightening,” Caroline commented. “And this could happen again?”

Milly nodded. “I'll know what to do next time, though. Apparently taking quinine shortens the attack. This time it caught him unaware, though, and he was
delirious and couldn't tell us what he needed.” Then she remembered the delicious news that she'd come to share with Caroline before going on her other errands.

“You look like the proverbial cat that swallowed the canary,” Caroline said, studying her. “I take it it has nothing to do with the subject of nursing a man with a fever.”

“Nick asked me to dinner at the hotel this Saturday night,” she said. “He made a reservation—or as he said it, ‘I've bespoken dinner at seven, if that's agreeable to you, Miss Milly,'” she said, imitating his accent as best she could. She couldn't stifle a giggle. “I couldn't bear to tell him no one's probably ever needed a reservation for supper in the entire history of the hotel.”

“Oh, how sweet,” Caroline gushed. “Well, it certainly seems as if he'd like to move things along—”

Just then Mr. Wallace entered the office. “Caroline, if you're going to take off the last part of the afternoon, I need you to get back to work,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically brisk. His gaze avoided Milly.

Now Milly was sure something was wrong. Usually Mr. Wallace had plenty of time to crack a joke with her, to ask her how the ranch was doing. Now he wouldn't even look at her.

Caroline jumped up. “Sure, Pa, Milly and I were just talking,” she said. “What do you need me to do?”

“Your ma needs you to run down to the mercantile and fetch some sugar,” he said.

“Sure, Pa. Milly, I guess I'll see you later…”

Milly rose, too. “Actually, I have something to buy there, too,” she said. “So I'll walk with you. Have a good
day, Mr. Wallace,” she called, but he'd already gone back to sorting the mail and offered her no reply.

“Caroline, what's wrong?” she asked, as soon as they'd crossed the street and were heading toward the mercantile. “Did I come at a bad time?” Suddenly, she guessed what her friend was going to say and she felt sick at heart.

Caroline sighed and looked down at her feet, her feet slowing. “Papa's heard about the new hands you hired for the ranch.”

“I…I see…” Milly said. Josh had been right—the news had gotten around. “Does he think I should have turned them away?” she said, guiltily aware it was exactly what she had done at first. “Caroline, the ranch needs cowhands, and there hasn't been anyone else passing through, looking for work—especially since I can't pay anything but board right now. I—I didn't realize your father felt that way.”

Caroline's eyes were startled. “It's not that—you know we never had any slaves, before the war. It's just that he knows how men like Waters feel about it…”

“Caroline, your father's not a member of the Circle, is he?”

Her friend looked confused. “Circle?”

“That group Waters and Dayton are part of, that wants to keep any of the former slaves from settling anywhere in San Saba County.”

“No, I'm sure he's not. He just doesn't want any trouble…”

“And I'm sure my new cowhands won't cause any trouble,” Milly said, a trifle stiffly. “They just want a home and honest work.”

“Please don't be angry with
me,
Milly,” Caroline said, putting a hand on her friend's shoulder. “I don't feel that way. In time, he'll see it's no problem, but don't be surprised if other folks act like he did.”

Once inside the store, Caroline immediately bought the sugar she'd been sent for and left, while Milly went to the back to where the bolts of fabric were kept. She needed to buy enough denim to make shirts for the four brothers, for she'd learned that the ragged, threadbare ones they wore were the only ones they possessed.

Mr. Patterson, when he was measuring the cloth and wrapping it up for her, acted the same way toward her Mr. Wallace had—brisk, businesslike, treating her as if she was a stranger.

“What's wrong, Mr. Patterson?” she asked, once he'd handed her her wrapped package. Was she to be treated this way by everyone in town? “Is it our account? We should be able to pay it by the end of the month.” She knew it wasn't their bill that made him so taciturn, but she wanted to hear what he would say.

“Nothing's wrong. End of the month will be fine, Miss Milly,” he said, but he wouldn't meet her gaze either.

“Do you disapprove of the new ranch hands I hired, Mr. Patterson?”

His grip tightened on the pencil he was using to figure the cost of the fabric. “None a' my business, Miss Milly.”

“But you
do
disapprove. Yet you never owned slaves either.”

His eyes met hers for the first time. “It has nothing to do with that. It's just that ex-slaves living here will
probably lead to more of them coming, and then an office of the Freedmen's Bureau here, sooner or later, and Yankee carpetbaggers to run it. They'll say they're here to make sure the former slaves are treated fairly, but these Freedmen Bureau fellows are scoundrels, Miss Milly. Opportunists. Swindlers. We don't need that in Simpson Creek.”

“All that will happen because I hired some help?” she questioned, her tone ironic.

His gaze softened, and he was once more the kind man she'd known all her life. “It could. You just be careful, Miss Milly.”

She thought at first he was warning her about her new employees, and she was about to insist she could trust them, when he went on.

“You be careful around men like your neighbor and his cronies. They aren't pleased about those men living out on your ranch.”

After the last two encounters, she wasn't looking forward to speaking to Mr. Dayton about what they owed for the barn lumber, but it couldn't be helped. She didn't like owing any money to anyone, even Mr. Patterson, but owing a large sum to a surly man like Dayton was especially onerous.

How they were going to come up with the money to pay the balance, she had no idea. In time the ranch would once more be self-sufficient, making money from the sale of cattle, horses, chickens and eggs, but for now they were cash-poor.

Lord, You've promised to meet our needs. Help me to figure out a way to earn some money,
she prayed as she
trudged along the dusty street between the mercantile and the lumberyard.

Her mind not on her steps, she dropped the hem of her skirt which she'd been holding out of the dust, then nearly tripped as her booted foot caught and partially tore a flounce. Ah, well, it wouldn't be a difficult repair…

I can sew. And mend.

Suddenly she reversed her steps and nearly ran back into the mercantile and up to the counter where she found Mr. Patterson was dusting the shelves.

“Mr. Patterson, I have an idea for making some money,” she said, “if you're willing to allow me just a little more on the ranch account.”

He looked up, waiting, his expression a bit wary.

“Would you be interested in selling ready-made dresses in your store? I hear a lot of mercantiles are doing that now, not just selling the fabric to make them. I could make them up in a variety of sizes. Oh, and if you're willing, I could leave a card with my rates for alterations and mending, and a basket. Folks could leave clothing that needs mending here, and I could pick it up, mend it and bring it back for them to pick up.”

The mercantile proprietor took off his glasses and dusted them on his shirt before answering. “We could try it, I suppose, and see how it goes…. I won't charge you for the fabric now, but take the cost out of the profit when they sell. But you'd have to pay me back eventually if they didn't sell,” he added, his brow furrowing.

Even his doubt couldn't quash the flow of confidence she was feeling. “They'll sell,” she told him. “Ever since Mrs. Ferguson's eyesight failed, there's been no town
seamstress. I just wish I'd thought of this sooner! Very well, I'll take that bolt of blue-figured calico and that green gloria cloth. I'll have these ready within the week, I promise.”

Now when she walked to the lumberyard, her feet seemed to have wings. Surely selling dresses would enable her to pay off the debt for the lumber a lot sooner.

She found Hank Dayton in the lumberyard, planing the sides of a stack of planks.

“Good morning, Mr. Dayton,” she said, though it was nearer to noon. “I've come to find out what we owe you after the amount raised at the barn raising was taken out.” She was going to offer him one or two of the steers, if he was willing to take them in lieu of cash.

He wiped his sweaty brow with a rumpled, yellowed bandana, then stuffed it back into his pocket. “Nothing,” he said, then spat into the wood shavings as if the answer left a bad taste in his mouth.

She blinked. “Nothing? How can that be? I know how much was raised that night, and from the price you quoted me, we must owe you about a hundred dollars at least.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You gone deaf, Miss Milly? Must be all that sweet-talkin' that British fella's been doin' to you, when you ain't doin' things like hirin' those shiftless beggars I heard about. You don't owe me nothin'. Not one red cent.” From the scowl on his face she decided he found the fact vastly disappointing.

“But how can that be?” she demanded, ignoring his jabs about Nick and the new hands. Not for a moment
would she believe this man had just decided to wipe the debt off his books out of the goodness of his heart.

“Look, you got any questions, you talk to that foreigner about it,” he snarled. “Meanwhile, I got work t' do.”

He was as good as telling her to leave, but she stood her ground. “Are you saying Mr. Brookfield settled the balance of our debt?”

“Yep,” he said, using the plane with such savagery that it seemed he wanted to shave the wood down to paper. “Your fancy ‘cowboy' came in and paid what you owe. Said I wasn't to tell you how it was paid—only I thought you oughta know. Around here we got a word for women who let men they ain't married to pay their debts.”

She actually felt the blood drain from her face as the meaning of his ugly words sank in. And then it rushed back, filling her cheeks with heat.

“How dare you say such a thing, you sneaking side-winder?” she said, taking refuge in one of her father's old phrases. “He meant to be kind and generous, and you want to make it sound horrible! Well, you just hand me the money he gave you and I'll give it back to him, and we'll pay you with a couple of the new steers the Prestons gave us. You can sell them or butcher them, I don't care. Will that make us even?”

“Now, I cain't do that, Miss Milly,” he said with a smirk. “I got bills t'pay, too. That money's already spent, y'see.”

Her hands fisted at her sides in frustration. “I see, all right. Good afternoon, Mr. Dayton.”