The Texas Ranger's Secret (15 page)

What else did she need to take with her? Willow surveyed the room and decided she ought to include her journal and a sharpened pencil. No, two pencils, in case one broke. Though her memory was fairly good, she wanted to jot down notes if necessary.

The journal still lay open on the reading table, where she’d left it long past midnight. She’d stayed up writing, making certain she’d reached the page goal she’d immediately set for herself in order to meet Biven’s requested deadline for the first story. She’d left Will Ketchum reading signs in Dead Man’s Gulch to make sure he found his way to safety. Just as she’d done deciding which way was the right way to town. Maybe something she would learn about roping today would spur a unique solution in how Ketchum ultimately saved himself.

Better get gone or Gage would think she’d changed her mind about meeting him.

Willow grabbed the journal and pencils, then closed the door to her mess of a room. She would clean it up later when she returned. As she tiptoed past the other bedrooms, she wondered if anyone else was already up. No aromas drifted from downstairs hinting that Myrtle had started cooking for the day, and the house remained quiet.

She finally paused at the front door just long enough to consider a quick visit to the kitchen. A piece of fruit or something from the pie safe that had been left over from yesterday sounded the most logical choice to grab, but that would take time she didn’t have. Breakfast could wait until after the roping lesson.

Heading out, Willow glanced toward the barn and wished she’d instructed Shepard or one of his men to have a horse saddled for her already, but she’d been busy writing and never got around to connecting with any of them when they returned last night.

She couldn’t blame anyone but herself that there wasn’t time to saddle up now, so she’d just have to walk the distance to meet Gage. It wasn’t that far beyond the main house and surrounding buildings. At least, she didn’t remember it to be. Following the stream that led to the lake should take her to the field of verbena quickly enough.

As she passed the barn and salt shed, she saw Shepard letting the horses out of the corral and into the pasture for the morning. She’d thought he and his men might sleep in a bit after their long evening away, but he seemed back on his schedule. A man with a good work ethic.

Maybe she’d take a few lessons from him. But she still hadn’t questioned him about why he’d removed his gold tooth. There had simply been no time to talk to him yet. If Snow occupied Ollie and Thad for a short while this morning, as she said she would, then there might prove a few moments for that talk with Shepard later.

Willow waved and he tipped his hat in acknowledgment. So far he’d been the sort of man who, while not being unfriendly, didn’t invite her any closer. Maybe that was one of those unwritten Texas codes between hired hand and employer. Or maybe Texas men just took more time than most to show a bent toward friendliness. The Texas women she’d experienced in High Plains could certainly attest to that! Maybe that was why Snow had been acting so sour since she arrived. She’d turned Texan on her.

The walk to the meeting place took longer than Willow expected. The bright light of dawn stretched far and wide, revealing the brilliant blue of the Texas sky and the rolling green grass of the vast prairie. Daisy’s guests must have worked up a real hunger yesterday leaving their wagons and buggies back at the barn to walk all this way to the reception tables. It hadn’t seemed that far yesterday when she’d headed back with Gage and the children to take the breakfast baskets to Shepard and his men, but then her mind had been occupied with repaying the ladies for her misguided steps concerning the bouquet.

Just ahead, the stream pooled between two gentle slopes of the prairie, forming the lake where the cold beverages had chilled. Above the slope on the opposite side of the lake, she saw Gage Newcomb’s tall dark figure standing near the headstones and wooden crosses that made up the fenced-in family cemetery.

Wearing his hat and burnt-at-the-edges-but-clean duster, he slapped a lariat against his right leg as if he were counting her footsteps. His legs were braced apart, his back to the rising sun. From the slight breeze that drifted her way, she noticed his hobbled horse indulging himself in a patch of some kind of greenery that smelled like mint.

She couldn’t see Gage’s eyes, nor could she read his expression, but his stance hinted he might have a word or two to say about her being late. She might as well get her apology over with.

Willow hurriedly passed the horse. “Sorry,” she said, sweeping beyond Gage to place her journal and pencils on a bench that offered mourners a place to sit and rest. “I overslept.”

“You didn’t bring a rope? Or a horse?” Disapproval echoed in his voice.

“I figured you would have the rope.” She wished now she’d followed her first instinct and ridden here. She probably would have remembered to grab a rope. “I didn’t know I’d need a horse. You told me what I did wrong with mine yesterday. I thought we could move on from that.”

“So you just want to know how to rope from a ground position. Not while riding?”

He surprised her with that question. She supposed there was a difference in how it was done in motion. But not wanting to admit she hadn’t even considered both ways, Willow simply said, “I’ll see how well I do standing still. Then we’ll figure out whether or not I need to know more.”

She definitely needed to be more specific in the future about what and how much she wanted him to teach her about a subject.

He quit tapping the lariat against his thigh. “Your choice.”

Willow glanced around and wondered why he chose this particular location. “I don’t see a stump to practice on.”

“You won’t find one around here. Well, maybe a lightning-struck one,” he amended. “Trees are precious commodity in the Panhandle. We either grow ’em full crowned for shade or to act as wind barriers. If they’re not good any longer, we pull ’em up by the root and burn ’em for fuel. You’re gonna have to rope other things today, like maybe one of these headstones or the bench. Thought I’d try you out with this stone marker. Or maybe a fence picket will do.”

Willow hesitated. The thought of roping a headstone had never entered her mind. Given her talent for knocking things over, what if she pulled the rope too taut and yanked the stone out of place? That would cause her nightmares for weeks. “I’m game for a picket. Let me try that first.”

“All right, show me what you know.” He offered her the lariat.

“You’re supposed to show me, remember? You’re the teacher. I’m the student.” She didn’t grab the rope and instead waited for him to start the lesson.

“So I take it your grandfather never showed you how to do this?”

“I watched Grandfather plenty of times, but seeing how it’s done and doing it are separate matters altogether.”

Gage faced the fence and began slipping the rope through the small loop he made at the end of the lariat. “This little end is called a honda. Form a noose about a foot or two wide.”

She admired the dexterity of Gage’s long fingers as they worked.

“You’re right-handed,” he said.

The fact that he’d noticed that about her pleased Willow. But why shouldn’t he notice? A good teacher should become aware of his student’s preferences.

“If you were left-handed, you would do this directly opposite what I’m gonna show you now,” he said. “Hold the loop lightly in your right hand a foot or so from the honda and coil the rest of the lariat in your left hand. Leave enough rope between the noose and the coil so it doesn’t kink. Say about five or six feet.”

Willow watched, wishing she had her journal in her hands right about now. She would have been writing madly to get this all down. But she didn’t want to stop him to go pick it up.

Gage nodded toward the fence. “Plant yourself in front of the target. Relax your wrist, then slowly swing the rope over your head, right to left. It should look like a rawhide wagon wheel revolving horizontally over your head.”

He had a way with description she could use in her story.

Her breathing sped up to keep time with the
whoosh, whoosh, whoosh
of the rope cutting the air.

“Now you’ve got to swing your arm forward and bring your wrist down to shoulder level, then extend your arm. After you’ve done that, you’ll open your palm and cast the loop toward your target. Let me show you.”

The power of his arm and wrist kept a steady rhythm as the rope revolved and extended toward the fence picket. Willow was amazed at how he didn’t miss a beat with his wrist as he talked. So calm. So collected. So persistent.

“The force you used to thrust the loop forward determines how far the lariat goes.” His words of instruction matched rhythm with each flick of his wrist. “Don’t worry if you don’t rope it the first time. Practice helps you learn how to reach your target or not overthrow.”

“I doubt I’ll ever overthrow,” she confessed, imagining what kind of strength it must take just to be accurate, much less too powerful.

She watched him blink, then squint hard seconds before his wrist and arm suddenly stopped revolving. The rope landed and Gage pulled the length of the lariat coiled in his left hand, tightening the loop around the picket. Perfect!

“You ready to give it a try?” He walked over and unfastened the loop, then recoiled the rope to its original position.

Willow shook her head and finally grabbed her writing instruments, taking a seat on the bench. “I want to write it all down so I can remember it later.”

She opened her journal and began recording the images so vivid in her mind.

“Like I said, practice is the way to make yourself good at it.” He turned around and built his loop again, then threw it a second time, only to miss.

She looked up from her scribbling. “Why did you miss?”

“The truth?”

“Always.” She stared and wondered why he’d even considered being anything but honest with her.

“You distracted me.”

She usually messed herself up and didn’t mind taking the blame if she was truly guilty of causing trouble for someone else, but she’d been nowhere near his target. “How did I do that?”

Gage retrieved his rope and strolled over to sit beside her on the bench.

“I let you. I was paying more attention to your hair than I was the picket.”

“My hair?” Her hand dropped the pencil and immediately shot up to feel the top of her head. Had her ribbon shifted? The tail drooped? Was there still a nest of curls she hadn’t managed to untangle with the brush?

Embarrassment heated Willow’s cheeks. “I had to hurry with it since I was late getting here. I usually brush it better than this.”

Gage reached and stopped her from patting her head to check for disarray. When her arm slowly returned to her side, he ran his fingers through the cascade of curls hanging down her back.

“Settle down,” he said softly. “You’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve just never seen the sun shine so strong in a woman’s hair. I thought I was only imagining the streaks that look like copper running through it. Then I found myself wondering if it would be as warm and welcoming to the touch as it looked.” He leaned a little closer, his breath brushing her temple as he whispered, “It is.”

A shiver of attraction ran through Willow while he explored the texture of a curl between his fingers.

She didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted that he felt at liberty to be
this
honest. If this was what he’d meant earlier at the livery in asking for payment after each lesson, she would certainly have a say about it. As soon as she could find the good sense to speak again.

“Come on. Set down the book or journal or whatever that is,” he said. “Let’s see how well you build a loop.”

Gage rose, ending her quandary about his being so near. She laid the journal down and accepted the lariat he insisted she take.

“Which picket do you choose?” He took up a place directly behind her.

She pointed. “The one just above the gate latch.”

“Show me what you thought you saw me do.”

Though he stood far enough back to give her room to navigate the rope, Willow sensed the power of his eyes focusing on her every movement, studying, weighing, judging her ability to find accuracy.

She hesitated. It had looked so easy. Taking a deep breath, she did her best to remember each step. Her arm was getting tired twisting that wagon wheel over and over above her.

“Trust yourself.” His words jolted her as she cast the loop to reach her target.

It landed dead center.

“Did you see that?” she exclaimed. “I did it the first time!”

“You’re gonna be good at it. Now try it again.”

His compliment thrilled Willow and gave her courage to try again. Several more attempts met with the same effect and her arm felt as if it was loosening up more.

“You’ve got good eyes and quick timing with your wrist. That’s half the battle. Keep after it until you’ve lassoed a dozen pickets or more.” Gage pointed to the bench. “Try something bigger now, keeping in mind how large to build the noose.”

Willow did as he instructed but missed when she made the attempt, the force of the rope slinging her journal and pencils off the bench.

She hurried to try again, only to stop short an inch away from grabbing the rope. There, crawling across her journal and too close to the noose she’d thrown, was a spiky creature with a round body and blunt nose. Horns extended from its gray-and-yellow-tinted head. She shrieked and moved backward.

Gage came to her rescue, picking up the lizard-like reptile and opening his palm to show it now lying on its back, completely limp and playing dead. “It won’t hurt you. Just a little old horned lizard. Probably unburied itself from the sand to sun itself or head over to one of those ant hills for some breakfast.”

She shuddered and grabbed the rope, her journal and pencils while she could. “I say how about we help it on its way?”

Gage chuckled and set the creature down. The lizard darted away. “You know she could teach you a thing or two about hitting your target.”

“She?” Willow wondered how he’d made that determination so quickly.