Robin Lee Hatcher (7 page)

“It’s okay. I like buildin’ things.” Sawyer watched for a moment as Mr. Walker limped away, then he grabbed another nail.

He wasn’t wrong about Mr. Walker liking Libby, he thought as he set the nail in place. And he was pretty sure Libby hoped Mr. Walker would stay at the Blue Springs for a good spell. Sawyer had asked God to send Libby some help. Maybe Mr. Walker was His answer.

Six

LIBBY TOSSED RESTLESSLY IN HER bed. She couldn’t rid herself of thoughts of Remington. Every time she closed her eyes, she envisioned him, and those visions were about to drive her mad.

Libby didn’t want to fall in love, and she had no intention of marrying. Marriage meant bondage. Marriage gave men license for manipulation and even abuse. She’d seen it in her parents’ marriage and in the marriages of many of their peers.

Husbands,
the Bible said,
love your wives, even as Christ
also loved the church, and gave himself for it.
Were there any men who loved like that? Perhaps. Perhaps somewhere in the world. But Libby would rather not take the chance of marrying unwisely.

Why was she even thinking such a thing? Had Remington Walker indicated he was interested in her as a woman? Certainly not. She was nothing more than a nurse to him.

Yet when she closed her eyes, there he was, watching her, smiling at her.

She buried her face in her pillow. “Leave me alone.”

But the image of Remington didn’t fade. She saw his raven hair, so desperately in need of cutting. She saw the blue of his eyes, the way his gaze seemed to look through all her barriers and into the depths of her heart. She saw the crooked curve of his smile, the dark stubble on his jaw at the end of the day.

Groaning, she rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling.

What’s wrong with me?

In a short time, he would be well. He would return to Virginia. She would never see him again. That was best for everyone. She didn’t
want
to see him again. She didn’t
want
him confusing her. She had no need for a man unless he liked to work sheep. She was content with her life.

Libby was about to close her eyes when she realized her room wasn’t as dark as it should be. Light flickered across the ceiling. Light that shouldn’t be there. She sat up and turned toward the window. Beyond the barn, she saw flames.

“The shed! Not the wool!” She flew out of bed. “Sawyer, help me! The shed’s on fire! Sawyer!”

She didn’t wait to see if the boy heard her. Barefoot, nightgown
flapping behind her, she raced outside, grabbing a bucket from the ground as she went. She rounded the corner of the barn and came to an abrupt halt. The full length of the wooden building was ablaze. No amount of water could save the shed or its contents. She could only pray the fire wouldn’t spread to the other outbuildings.

Her eyes filled with tears as she let the bucket fall from her hand.

Half of this spring’s wool crop was in that shed. Sacks filled with fleeces, each of them weighing close to four hundred pounds.

Sawyer’s hand slipped into hers, but she didn’t look down. She didn’t want him to see her despair.

The wool had been scheduled for shipment at the end of the week. The heavy sacks would have been hauled into Weiser in the hired wagons, put on the train, and shipped back east. The money from the sale of those fleeces would have put the Blue Springs back on sound financial footing. She could have replaced the sheep they’d lost this year. She could have hired more herders. She could have—

“What started it?”

She turned to look at Remington through the haze of unshed tears. He’d wasted little time coming to help her. But there was nothing he could do.

“I don’t know,” she whispered after a lengthy silence. But she
did
know.

“You suspect Bevins?”

She nodded, unable to speak around the lump in her throat.

Two strides brought Remington close, and suddenly her face was pressed against his shoulder, his right arm circling her back. “Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.”

It felt good to be held in his strong embrace. It felt good not to be alone. It felt good to be comforted. But after several minutes, reason returned. Libby took a step back. “I . . . I’m sorry, Mr. Walker. I . . . I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s understandable.”

She took another step back, escaping his embrace, then turned to face the blaze once again. “We needed the money so badly.”

She reached out for Sawyer and took hold of the boy’s hand again, drawing him to her side. They remained there, the three of them, until the fire burned itself out, leaving nothing behind but smoldering remains. Then, before dawn could paint the horizon, they turned in unison and walked back to the house.

After Libby saw Sawyer to bed, she went into the kitchen and made a large pot of coffee. It was pointless for her to try to sleep. She had decisions to make, and more questions than answers.

What would Aunt Amanda do if she were here?

A sad smile touched her mouth. She could almost hear the spunky little woman.
“What do you do now? You pick
yourself up and go on with what you got, that’s what. You
don’t let nothin’ keep you down, dearie. You just show the
world what you’re made of.”

But what
was
Libby made of? In the sixteen months since Aunt Amanda died, everything had gone wrong. Maybe Libby wasn’t capable of running the ranch on her own. She’d had to let most of the herders go last fall. Dan Deevers was dead. Instead of buying new ewes and rams last year, she had to sell off more of her herd. And then there was Bevins.

What made her think she could make a go of the Blue Springs without Amanda’s help?

“Can’t sleep?” Remington asked from the doorway.

To be honest, she’d expected him to join her. Or at least she’d wanted him to. “You’d better sit down, Mr. Walker. You’ve already used that leg too much for one night.”

He came forward, his stiff movements confirming the truth of her words.

“The coffee should be ready. Do you want some?”

He nodded as he settled onto a chair.

I felt so safe when you held me. I wish you would hold
me again.

Fearing her thoughts, she rose and fetched two mugs from the cupboard. After filling them with hot coffee, she returned to the table, setting one of them in front of Remington.

“I know it’s none of my business, Libby, but what does the loss of that shed mean to this ranch? How bad is it?”

His eyes were filled with concern, and she couldn’t resist the pull of his words. Especially the sound of her name. Libby. He’d called her Libby instead of Miss Blue. “It’s bad. Real bad. Half of this year’s wool crop was in there.”

“Half? Where’s the rest?”

“I didn’t have the men or the wagons to haul the sacks to Weiser after the shearers were done. I barely had enough to pay them their wages. So I sent what I could and planned to use some of the money from its sale to ship the rest to market. Now . . .” Her voice drifted into silence.

“What does Bevins have to do with all of this?”

Her fingers tightened around her coffee mug. “Plenty.”

Remington waited for her to continue.

“He wants to control the water from the springs that are on this ranch. Control the water, control the land.”

“What about the other ranchers in the area? They must know it wouldn’t be good if that happened. Why haven’t they helped you?”

“There aren’t any other ranchers. My nearest neighbors have a small farm about ten miles south of here.” She shook her head. “The Fishers have even fewer resources than I do.”

“I see.”

Libby sat a little straighter in her chair. “Bevins made plenty of offers to buy the ranch, but Aunt Amanda wouldn’t sell. Neither will I. We’ll fight him to the last.”

For the first time in fifteen years, Remington wanted something other than revenge. He wanted to give rather than take. He felt something besides hate. The foreign feeling left him on uncertain footing, and it was no doubt unwise. He needed to stay focused on his goal. He needed to remember what brought him to Blue Springs Ranch.

But he couldn’t remember. Not when he looked at the determination on Libby’s face, tear streaks still evident on her cheeks.

“I’ll fight with you,” he said softly.

Her eyes widened in surprise. “But you’ll be leaving soon. You have no reason to—”

“I’ll stay until I’m sure you and Sawyer aren’t in any danger of losing the ranch. It’s the least I can do after you nursed me back to health.”

You’re out of your mind. That’s a promise you can’t keep.

“And nursing you back to health was the least I could do after nearly killing you.” Libby rose and walked to the back door. She pulled it open and stood framed in the opening, staring at the sunrise. The sun set her hair ablaze, shimmering red and gold. “I can’t pay you, Mr. Walker.”

His father would have said it was better to give than receive. His father had been a generous man with a compassionate heart.

“I don’t expect pay, Libby.” Using his crutch for leverage, he rose from the chair. “This is something I want to do.”

Help her and then what? Return her to her father?

She glanced over her shoulder. Her green eyes revealed quiet despair. “Your family will be wondering what’s happened to you.”

“I don’t have a family.” A trace of bitterness worked its way into his reply.

Her gaze fell away from his. “Neither do I.”

He studied her across the sea of lies and half-truths that flowed between them. Yet the lies didn’t matter at the moment. All that mattered was the vulnerable but determined young woman who stood before him.

Seven

NORTHROP SETTLED BACK INTO THE leather-upholstered chair. “Well, O’Reilly, do you want the job?”

It was a rhetorical question. The man wouldn’t turn him down. Northrop had offered him a mere fraction of what he’d agreed to pay Walker, but it was far more than any Irishman was worth, even though Gil O’Reilly came highly recommended.

“So, ’tis not your daughter you want me t’find, but the detective you’ve hired t’find her. Am I understandin’ your meanin’, sir?”

Idiot.
“Yes, that’s right.”

“And does this detective have a name?”

Northrop felt like grinding his teeth. “Of course he has a name. Remington Walker.”

O’Reilly let out a low whistle. “’Tis Mr. Walker himself you’ve got workin’ for you.” He rose from his chair. “I’d not be honest in takin’ your money, Mr. Vanderhoff. Remington Walker was the best agent Pinkerton ever had. Though I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting him, I know his reputation right enough. He’s got a nose for findin’ people, he has. He’ll find your daughter if anyone can, and when he knows some-thin’, he’ll contact you. I’d swear to it on my dear departed mother’s grave.”

“Are you saying you don’t want the job?” Northrop raised an eyebrow. “Not even if I give you a bonus in addition to your fee? Say, a thousand dollars if you find Mr. Walker by the first of September?”

“Didja not understand me, Mr. Vanderhoff? You’d be throwin’ your money away t’hire me, what with Mr. Walker already on the job.”

“It’s my money, O’Reilly.”

The red-haired Irishman shook his head. “That it is, sir. That it is.” He considered the matter a moment or two. “I guess if you’re determined t’throw it away, you may as well throw it my way. I’ll take the job—and your money too.”

“Good.” Northrop grabbed a telegram off of his desk. “My agreement with Walker was that he would send reports every two weeks. This came from San Francisco over a month ago. There’s been nothing since. I want to know why.”

By the end of Remington’s second week of convalescence, his side wound scarcely bothered him. He still couldn’t walk without the crutch and the pain remained constant, but he moved faster and his stamina had improved. Perhaps Libby’s cooking had something to do with his returning strength. Apart from her porridge, the meals she prepared were delicious, the portions generous.

“Where did you learn to cook like this?” Remington asked as he dished another helping of potatoes.

“Aunt Amanda.”

He knew, of course, that she hadn’t learned to cook at Rosegate. “Your aunt sounds like an interesting woman. Tell me about her.”

Libby smiled. “She was interesting all right. There wasn’t anything she couldn’t do. She could rope a cow as well as any man. She sheared the sheep and helped with the lambing and patched the roof when it leaked. She rustled grub for twenty shearers in the blink of an eye, and she could shoot the ear off a cougar at two hundred yards with her Winchester.” Libby shook her head. “Aunt Amanda tried to teach me how to do everything like her, but I’m merely adequate in comparison.”

“I’d say you learned at least a few of your lessons well enough.” He grinned wryly as he spoke, rubbing his ribs with one hand. Then, as he spooned canned beets onto his plate, he asked, “Was she your mother’s sister or your father’s?”

“Aunt Amanda was . . . unlike either of my parents.”

Not the whole truth, but not really a lie.

Libby pushed the food around her plate with her fork, obviously troubled by either his question or her reply. Perhaps both.