Promises Kept (4 page)

Victoria was still thinking about Mr. Barlow’s letter as she rolled out the dough for biscuits.
It’s a plumb crazy notion to travel clear to Wyoming to marry a complete stranger. What if he is nothing at all like his letter? What if he is the kind of man who beats women?
He said he was a church-going man, but as she had learned from her past, there were no guarantees where men were concerned. She’d seen her share of supposed Christian men who beat women, particularly when whiskey was involved.
What happens if I take the boys to Wyoming and he’s mean to them? What if . . . what if . . . what if . . .
Her mind was reeling from the unanswered questions when Mrs. Wellington breezed into the kitchen a few minutes later.

“Good morning, Victoria. It’s going to be hotter than blue blazes out there today.”

“Yes, it is hot.” Victoria tried her best to sound like her mind wasn’t miles away in Wyoming. Before her mind caught up with her tongue, she blurted out, “I wanted to tell you that I’m going to Wyoming to see . . . an ill cousin. I will leave next Monday. That will give me time to find someone to help you out while I’m gone.” Her own words surprised her. She had planned on taking the day to think things through. Too late for that, she told herself. Her course was set and she would not back out.

Mrs. Wellington crossed the room and put her arm around Victoria’s waist. “Oh dear, I hope no one is seriously ill. Are you taking the boys?”

More lies. She couldn’t think about that, she had to keep her focus on the future for the boys. “Yes, I will,” she replied.

“That is a long trip for two young boys. Why don’t you leave them here? I can look after them,” Mrs. Wellington offered.

If the boys didn’t go with her she would have a chance to see what Mr. Barlow was like before she introduced them. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind at all. They are such good boys.” Mrs. Wellington eyed Victoria. She had a feeling Victoria wasn’t telling her everything, but perhaps the news from her family had been upsetting. The young woman had never taken as much as one day off, so she could not in good conscience deny her request.

“I will tell them to help you with chores while I’m gone,” Victoria promised.

“They are always very helpful, dear, don’t you worry about that. It’s too bad you couldn’t leave this morning. I daresay that Mr. McBride would have made a perfect companion for the trip. You would certainly have been safe. Can you afford the fare? If not I can give you an advance on your pay.”

Ignoring the comment about Mr. McBride, Victoria said, “Mr. Bar—My family sent me the money, but thank you. I haven’t mentioned this to the boys yet.”

“I’ll not say a word to them. Why don’t you just tell them you are going for a short visit, so they don’t worry?” Those boys were mightily attached to Victoria, and Mrs. Wellington wasn’t sure how they were going to accept being away from her even for a short time. As far as she knew, they had never been apart.

Victoria tried to think of an excuse to give the boys for her sudden decision. She was hesitant to tell them the real reason she was going to Wyoming, not wanting to risk getting their hopes up when the arrangement might not work out with Mr. Barlow. There was also the possibility they would forget and reveal the true nature of her trip to Mrs. Wellington. “Yes, that’s what I will say. Thank you so much, Mrs. Wellington. I don’t know what we would do without you.”

“Nonsense. You and the boys have done so much for me. Ann Merriweather will probably have the time to help me while you are gone. Folks won’t be as happy with her cooking, but we’ll manage.”

Mrs. Wellington was so kind about her leaving that Victoria was momentarily tempted to tell the truth. She quickly abandoned that notion, knowing the woman would try to talk her out of going by reiterating all the fears that she’d already considered. This might be the one opportunity to make a home for the boys, and no one was going to change her mind, however well-intentioned. “I’m beholding to you.” Victoria turned back to her task with tears in her eyes, her guilt piling on.

Chapter Three

Wyoming Territory

“Barlow, I’ve made you an offer that is more than fair.” Euan Wallace, flanked by four of his men, surprised Chet Barlow as he worked on a broken wheel in front of his barn.

Chet had been so lost in his thoughts about Miss Victoria Eastman that he hadn’t been paying attention to what was going on around him. He hadn’t even heard the riders until they were on top of him, and his rifle was on the seat of the buckboard some fifteen feet away. His woolgathering could prove fatal, he thought. He tried to appear unconcerned, and continued working on the wheel when he responded, “You’re wasting your time and mine. I’ve told you before, my farm is not for sale.”

“You’re not getting any younger, Barlow. You and that old man can’t work this farm by yourselves forever.” Wallace surveyed the old house and barn. While unimpressive in size, both buildings were well tended. It was obvious Barlow put in considerable hours keeping things in good order. The buildings didn’t interest him; he wanted Barlow’s prime piece of land.

With that comment, Chet met Wallace’s eyes. “If you didn’t scare most folks around here I might be able to get me some help. As it is, I figure I get by just fine.”

When Wallace came to Promise and got his hands on the Taggart ranch, he put the word out that he would hire every available man and pay more than any other rancher. If they didn’t want to work for him, he made sure they left town. He was a wealthy man, and he didn’t often hear the word
no
. He’d come to expect the folks around town wouldn’t challenge him. “Gordon Major at Circle M is selling out to me. Mark my words, Barlow, I’m going to have this land one way or the other.”

“I don’t care if Major is going to sell to you or not. But it’s going to be mighty difficult to get your hands on my land, seeing as how it’s paid for. I don’t know how you folks do business back in England, but things are different in Wyoming. You can’t steal land that’s paid for. You can’t steal the mortgage the way you did to get your hands on the Taggart ranch,” Chet said plainly. There wasn’t a day that went by that Chet didn’t give thanks to his deceased father for long ago paying off the mortgage on their land.

One of Wallace’s hired hands nudged his horse forward, his hand automatically going to the butt of his sidearm. “You can’t talk to Mr. Wallace that way,” he warned.

Chet looked at the man doing the talking. He didn’t recognize him, but judging by his demeanor, he wasn’t a cowboy. The young man had the look of a cocksure gunslinger, but that didn’t sway Chet from speaking his mind. “Last time I checked, you were on my land uninvited. I’ll say what I want, and what I’m saying is the truth.” His gaze moved back to Wallace. “I’ve told you for the last time, I’m not selling. Now ride off my land.”

“You speak mighty tough for an unarmed man,” Wallace spit out, his eyes moving to Chet’s rifle on the seat of the buckboard. “I bought the Taggart ranch fair and square, nobody will say different.”

“I think I just did.” It was a sad day when a man couldn’t work on his farm without being harassed by hired guns, but that was the way of it since Wallace came to Promise. Tension filled the air. The gunslinger’s hand twitched over his pistol.

Chet could see in the man’s eyes that he was getting ready to draw. He thought of making a dive for his rifle but knew he wouldn’t make it. In an instant, all movement stopped at the sound of riders coming up fast behind Wallace’s men. Every head turned to see who was interrupting their conversation. Seeing it was Colt McBride with two of his men, Chet breathed a sigh of relief.

Reining in his horse behind the buckboard near Chet, Colt could feel the tension between Chet and his visitors. It felt like he’d ridden upon a nest of rattlesnakes, and judging from the scowl on Wallace’s face, he was getting ready to strike.

“Chet,” Colt said by way of greeting. He took off his Stetson and swiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve, taking time to measure the situation. His dark gaze moved to Wallace and his men, then back to Chet. “Did I interrupt something important?”

“No, they were just leaving,” Chet answered.

“What brings you here, McBride?” Wallace asked.

Resettling his Stetson down low over his eyes, Colt looked at each man before leveling his black eyes on Wallace. “Nothing that concerns anyone but me and Chet.”

“If you’ve come out here to talk Barlow into selling to you, I’ve already told him I’ll double any offer you make him,” Wallace said smugly.

Colt clamped his jaw down hard. “If that was my purpose, as I said, it would be between me and Chet.”

“I told you, Wallace, I’m not selling,” Chet reiterated.

Wallace took his reins in one hand as his horse began prancing, eager to run. “We’ll talk again when you’re more reasonable.”

Chet glared at Wallace. “Save your time and breath.”

“It’s my time and my breath.” Wallace turned his horse, giving rein to the antsy animal, leaving his men to follow. Three of them rode behind Wallace, but Hoyt Nelson, the young gun, didn’t move. He stared hard at McBride, his eyes inching down to the revolver on his hip. Some of Wallace’s men had told him McBride was the fastest draw they’d ever seen, and his own inflated ego was itching to find out. “Word is you’re pretty fast with that .45, McBride.”

Colt’s hands were relaxed over the pommel of his saddle as he took measure of Nelson. They were close in age by Colt’s estimation, but Nelson was a small man, which made him appear younger. That fact probably accounted for him trying to gain a reputation as a fast gun. The man thought he could gain inches with a fast draw. “I guess there is only one way to find out.”

Nelson grinned. “I figure I’ll find out one day soon.”

“No time like the present,” Colt said flatly, his face completely void of emotion. Colt had heard of Nelson before Wallace hired him, and he knew he wasn’t hired for his cow punching abilities.

“Soon, McBride, very soon.” Nelson circled Colt’s horse before kicking his own mount to a run, dust swirling in his wake.

Colt’s eyes darted to Chet’s rifle, well out of reach. “You’d best be keeping that rifle closer to you.”

“I have to admit they caught me off guard. Things were getting a mite testy before you rode up,” Chet said, shaking his head. “I was hoping Bartholomew had them covered from the barn.” No sooner had the words left his mouth when Bartholomew limped from the barn with his ancient scattergun cradled in his arms.

“That I did, boss,” Bartholomew told him. “I saw them ridin’ in and thought I would make myself invisible for a while. I was just waitin’ for that Nelson boy to twitch the wrong way.”

Colt laughed at the wiry man who didn’t look strong enough to hold his gun, much less pull the trigger. He’d known Bartholomew his entire life, but eyeing him now, he was surprised at how old and fragile he looked. He couldn’t possibly weigh much more than a hundred pounds, including that shock of snow-white hair sticking out in every direction. But Bartholomew was still feisty, and he had a good grip on that gun he called Bessie.

“I’d say they weren’t counting on you being around, Bartholomew.”

“Wallace is always underestimating folks. Maybe that will be his undoing one day,” Chet mused, keeping a watchful eye on the riders who had become dots in the distance. He glanced back at Colt. “So what brings you out this way? The last I heard you were back East.”

“I got back a few days ago. I came out to tell you that Wallace hired on that gunslinger you just met. Hoyt Nelson. I didn’t want them sneaking up on you and Bartholomew out here all alone. Nelson isn’t the only man of questionable character Wallace has hired lately.”

“I pegged him right off for a no-account gun hand,” Bartholomew told them.

Chet knew Colt was the one neighbor that he could trust. He liked the younger man as much as he had liked Colt’s father. Both were men who spoke their minds and had the courage to back it up by any means necessary. “What do you think Wallace is up to?”

“Nothing different, just a different tactic. He’s land hungry, and yours isn’t the only one he’s wanting. I’ve had some cattle slaughtered and right now I’m dealing with rustlers. I’m sure Wallace is behind it, but I couldn’t prove it in court. The Cross Bar D is having problems too, and it wouldn’t surprise me if Wallace is trying to pit us against each other. We’re not even into summer yet and water is scarce. If we don’t get rain soon, no telling what will happen. Tempers are flaring all around.”

Colt couldn’t deny he would also buy Chet’s land, but he wasn’t going to force anyone into selling. While Chet might not be a cattleman, that didn’t mean he didn’t belong. His family history in Wyoming went as far back as his own, and in Colt’s estimation that gave him the right to farm, if that was what he wanted.

Chet inherited several thousand acres from his father, who was a farmer, and he’d carried on the tradition. When Wallace started threatening men that refused to work on his ranch, Chet’s workers left to avoid trouble. Without additional help, Chet and Bartholomew could only farm a few acres, producing just enough grain and vegetables needed for their own use. Chet had considered buying some sheep since he had plenty of land and water, and he wouldn’t need men, just a couple of good dogs. But he knew that decision would create more problems with the cattle ranchers. They hated sheep ranchers more than they hated farmers.

What truly aggrieved the other ranchers was the several thousand acres Chet inherited from his uncle last year. Every cattleman around wanted that coveted piece of land for the water. It was common practice for land to go to auction to pay outstanding debts when the owner died, but Chet’s uncle owned his land free and clear. He’d also hired a big-city lawyer to prepare a will leaving everything to Chet. Since Wallace couldn’t persuade Chet to sell, he’d made it his mission to get his hands on his land no matter what he had to do.

“Wallace just said Major agreed to sell the Circle M,” Chet said.

Colt was surprised to hear this bit of news. “You think he was telling the truth or bluffing?”