The Texas Ranger's Secret (17 page)

“T-take a look at my journal and you’ll see. I write poetry, too,” she finally confessed. “Only nowhere near as polished as yours.”

He felt the journal where it balanced between his shirt and stomach. “These are your personal thoughts. You don’t have to show me.”

“No, really. I want you to tell me what you think.” She seemed over whatever hesitation held her back before and pointed her finger at his belly. “Get it out and thumb it open anywhere. You’ll see.”

Willow wouldn’t let him decline. She rested her arms on the saddle horn until Gage finally gave in and lifted the journal from his shirt. “Any page?”

“Start at the first,” she said, “but it got much better the more I wrote.”

He opened the cover and read a few pages. She really meant what she said. She liked to write. It showed in the variety of her notes, in how hard she tried to let the words paint an image or evoke a feeling inside the reader. Page after page was filled with poems and descriptions of scenery, words she must have heard people say to each other, different phrasings and notations about accents, a collection of traits she found interesting enough to reveal about a character’s particular personality.

Gage thumbed farther, finding notes about reading signs and tracking. A brief story she must have written recently revealed she was trying her hand at fiction.

His admiration for her grew. If she meant to apply the lessons she learned from him, she was smart enough to realize that truth in her work would make her fictional world more believable. Though she had a long way to go in spit-polishing her material, she had the curiosity needed to pursue the craft.

When he thought he’d read enough to satisfy her, he glanced up and saw she was looking at him in anticipation.

“Well?” Hope filled her tone.

He didn’t want to discourage her by saying she could still use some work on it. That these were good first attempts. She was looking for encouragement. “Like I said before, success comes with trying. Now you need to practice, practice, practice, and that means you’ll have to be persistent in filling these pages and others like them.”

She looked crestfallen. “You mean I’ve got a long way to go, don’t you? Weeks, maybe?”

“You in some kind of hurry?” he asked, closing the journal and preparing to slip it down his shirt again. “I’m just saying I think a true writer takes whatever time he or she needs to get a poem or story or book right. If you want to be a storyteller, take the time to get it right.”

“Don’t put it there again,” she insisted, leaning back stiffly in the saddle. “I can do the same myself.”

He handed her the journal and she stuffed it in the squared-off collar of her butternut blouse. “See? Perfectly safe. My foot is throbbing quite a bit now. I think we best be on our way.”

Something else was bothering Willow, and he hoped he hadn’t insulted her. He hadn’t meant to. She’d asked him his opinion and he’d told her as gently as he could that she needed more work. Now it was up to her to either reject what he said or take that suggestion and let it help her.

Pouting was not a skill that would get any writer very far.

Nor any blind man, even if it meant she no longer cared to share his company.

Chapter Eleven

T
he next morning started off much better than the last. Willow woke ready to face the challenge of whatever the day brought. She had nursed her sore ankle after Gage returned to town yesterday and used the rest of her free time to write and get further along with her story.

Ketchum had ended up hurting his foot. She’d giggled as she wrote him tumbling over a rock that had suddenly sprouted legs and transformed into an armadillo that had camouflaged itself to bask in the sun. The story ended with Ketchum roping things he needed so he didn’t have to walk. A tangle between a coyote and a horned lizard kept him entertained while he ate and rested his foot.

Her boss and readers would surely love the realism depicted in this part of the tale.

When Ollie and Thad learned she was headed to town to restock her supply of paper, they had begged to come along. Both stood beside her now, waiting patiently as she paid for her purchases at the mercantile.

She fished into her skirt pocket for money. “Would you like some candy for later? Licorice or salt taffy?”

“No, thank you,” they replied in unison.

Both still hadn’t quite gotten over the ice-cream incident. Neither had mentioned visiting the diner even once on the ride to town.

“Just one more item, Mr. Pickens—” Willow turned back to the merchant “—and that will be all. I’d like a copy of Walt Whitman’s
Leaves of Grass
, please.”

Ollie grumbled as he climbed a small ladder behind the counter and retrieved the book from a top shelf lined with volumes. “You ain’t gonna read us no poetry today, are ya?” she complained.

Willow groaned inwardly hearing her niece’s misuse of their beloved language. “No, the book is a gift for someone.”

The child exhaled a sigh of relief. “Good. My stomach is still queasy. Listening to that would have made it worse.”

The merchant placed the book inside the woven bag she’d brought with her to carry her purchases and rang up the total. “You want to pay now or would you prefer I set up an account for you, Miss McMurtry?”

She hadn’t had time to visit the bank yet, but neither did she plan on staying in High Plains longer than the two months she’d promised. If she stayed any longer than that, she would transfer her monthly stipend here. “I’ll just pay as I go for now. Maybe I’ll change my mind later.”

She dug into her pocket and gave him the amount shown on the register.

“Thank you. Oh, and I forgot to tell you.” Junior Pickens handed her the bag. “A few of the ladies said if I saw you to be sure and thank you for the handkerchiefs and for buying their lunch yesterday.”

Disappointment filled Willow. He’d promised to be discreet. “I thought that was supposed to stay between us.”

His Adam’s apple sunk low in his thin throat, then rose slowly to find its perch again. “Seems my intended, Hannabelle, was your waitress and she told me about you buying the ladies’ meals. Of course, I didn’t think nothing of sharing your kindness in sending them the pretty hankies. After all, couples share secrets, don’t they?”

His eyes rolled up into his lids. “Well, turns out she heard the ones who picked up their mail talking about the mysterious gifts they’d received. At suppertime last night, she couldn’t resist telling her personal friend exactly who had bought the meals and the hankies. That friend told another and then the gossip whipped around so fast that this morning seems like the whole town got wind of your good deeds.”

Apology filled his features. “Hannabelle and I haven’t been promised to each other long, Miss McMurtry. I had a hard time telling her she should’ve kept your secret. Now she’s thinks I’ve called her a gossip and won’t speak to me. I’m sure sorry. Guess I should’ve done what you asked and told
nobody
.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Pickens. I understand,” she said, accepting his apology and whispering a little prayer of blessings for the poor man. He looked embarrassed by his indiscretion. “They would have probably eventually found out anyway. And please feel free to call me Willow. I do wish you and Hannabelle every happiness.”

“I’ll carry that for you, Aunt Willow.” Thad reached up to take the bag from her.

Ollie’s fists balled at her tiny hips. “Well, if I was you, I’d march over to that diner and tell that ol’ waitress you want that tip back you gave her.”

“Time to go. We don’t want to be late meeting Mr. Newcomb, do we?” Willow thanked the merchant and rushed the children out of the establishment. Ollie had been daring enough to say what she herself had thought for a second before deciding to be more forgiving.

Once they were settled into the buggy, Willow headed around the corner to find the barbershop and bathhouse. Passing the doctor’s and undertaker’s offices, she spotted Gage’s long, lank form already sitting on a bench in front of the bathhouse waiting on her. He stood a moment and pointed toward a rail on the side of the barbershop where he’d tied his horse.

He must mean for her to corral the team between the two buildings. As she closed the distance and maneuvered the horses alongside his, Gage arrived to lend a hand.

“I see you brought some friends with you,” he said, helping her out of the buggy.

“We didn’t even have to ask her if we could come. She just let us.” Thaddeus offered the bag to Gage while he climbed down.

Gage took it and turned to help Ollie, but the tomboy had already touched ground. “You both look like you’re feeling much better than when I saw you last.”

Willow finished making sure the buggy would go nowhere, leaving the horses tied to the rail. When she turned around, she discovered Gage stood there watching to see if she remembered to secure her ride home.

He nodded approval.

She was glad she’d pleased him.

“Do you have breakfast behind you?” he asked. “If you haven’t, we could—”

“We ate early,” Willow assured him as she fetched a small bundle from the backseat of the buggy. She’d almost forgotten to take her writing utensils with her. Throwing the knitted bundle over one shoulder, she laced her fingers through the two strings that kept it pulled tight. “We preferred to spend our time doing what we came for, so we made sure we ate already.”

“We ain’t had no ice cream or anything today.” Ollie rubbed her stomach. “Don’t want none neither.”

Willow watched amusement dance in Gage’s eyes, but he was wise enough not to smile at the child. If he had, knowing Ollie, her niece probably would have kicked him.

“What’s all this?” Gage peered into the bag of goods as they headed for the benches around the corner.

“I told you I’d bring what we needed to braid with. I hope I thought of everything.”

Gage lifted out the book. “Whitman’s poems?”

“It’s a gift. I thought you’d like it. You haven’t let me pay you yet, remember?”

“Thank you. I think he’s one of the greats.”

It disappointed her when Gage simply put the book back where he’d found it. Maybe he was a man unaccustomed to anyone giving him a gift.

“This ought to do here.” Gage halted and set the bag down next to a burlap sack stored beneath the bench where she’d spotted him earlier.

“Is that yours?” Willow wondered if he’d forgotten she said she would bring whatever was necessary.

He nodded. “Thought I’d add a few things I hadn’t mentioned or maybe you wouldn’t think of. We’ll see what you brought first.”

She and Gage sat down side by side as the two children stood in front of them. She slipped her knitted pouch off her shoulder and gently nestled it next to her sore ankle.

“If you want your own bench, you’ll need to grab a place now or you won’t get one later,” Gage told the children. “Some of the older men in town like to whittle there or here where the sun’s brightest. A good place to see what you’re making when you’ve got old eyes.”

Willow glanced at Gage’s face. Had he chosen this place for that reason? Were his eyes troubling him?

An ugly possibility reared its head. She’d noticed him squinting on more than one occasion. Blinking rapidly, then squinting, as a matter of fact. The red welts shone even fiercer in the bright glare of sunlight on his face. Had whatever happened to him damaged his eyes, as well?

She would study him closer today and see if what she suspected was true.

“Can we help?” asked Thad, continuing to stand in front of the adults. “I don’t want to just sit and watch. When I get bored, things just tend to happen.”

“Your choice.” Willow bent to take the poetry book out of the sack and set it aside on the bench between her and Gage. Then she grabbed the three strands of yarn Gage had suggested she purchase and handed them to him.

“Good. Looks like you remembered to make them twice the length you needed.” Gage started to tie off an end of each piece of yarn with an overhand knot. “What I’m going to show you is a couple of ways to make a rope from scratch. That way if you ever need one in a hurry and don’t have one, you can make one yourself.”

He showed each of them the knots he’d made. “This knot is your bowline. Make sure it’s just big enough to work a pencil through.”

Two pair of little hands reached in and pulled out pencils from the sack to try it themselves. Even Ollie wanted to participate. Willow and the children lined up close together.

“If you were out on the trail somewhere, you could use a small stick or twig instead of the pencil. Now take your pencil or stick and work it through one of the knots.” Gage waited for all three to complete the task.

“What if I was by myself and didn’t have you to hold the end?” Ollie asked the very question that entered Willow’s mind. Gage was the one making it all work.

“Fasten the pencil end to something that will keep it secure, like maybe a saddle horn or around a small but heavy rock. Something stationary.” He glanced at the children. “Meaning it won’t move. Keep in mind that fastening it to something will take up some of the length you’re trying to give yourself. Everybody understand so far?”

All three nodded.

“Now look at your yarn closely. The threads are twisting one direction. That’s the direction you need to twist when I tell you to. If it’s twisting the same direction as a clock moves, that means a right-handed person created it. If it goes the opposite way, it was made by someone left-handed.”

“Hey, this one’s a left kind,” Thaddeus announced. “Ollie, what do you have?”

“Mine goes like a clock,” she grumbled.

“Mine’s right twisted,” Willow chimed in. “Ollie, would you be more comfortable with Thaddeus’s?”

Her niece didn’t answer. She just grabbed his and said, “That’s better.”

Thaddeus shifted places so the two strands wouldn’t be crossed over Willow’s.

“Okay, you all set?” Gage waited until she and the children each had a firm hold. “Now you’re going to twist the end of the yarn that isn’t connected to the pencil. Be sure and keep doing that in the same direction it was made.”