The Rancher Inherits A Family

“Mother,” Russ said by way of shushing her.

“Where do you stay, Dewey?” Marigold asked, to change the subject.

“I have a place in the rear of the small barn.” He gestured over his shoulder with a thumb.

Evelyn tilted her head. “I’ve tried to get him into the house, but he won’t have it—not even over the winter.”

“Got ever’thing I need right out there, and I don’t bother nobody when I get up to look at the stars of a night,” he replied. “Ain’t slept in a house my whole life, an’ I don’t have a mind to now.”

It was clear they’d had the discussion more than once, and Evelyn wasn’t winning.

Little John woke up, and his disoriented gaze went from person to person, until he found his brothers. He sat up and scooted close to Marigold. She patted his leg. “This is Little John,” she told the newcomers.

The boy stuck his thumb into his mouth.

“Harper, will you please take him around back?”

“Yes’m.”

Tate followed his younger brothers.

“Three children are a big responsibility,” Russ commented.

“I know all about responsibility.” Seth’s voice held a depth of meaning.

Russ took a sip of his coffee.

“Miss Brewster is here to help us.” Evelyn gave Marigold a warm smile.

“I’ll see to those dishes now,” she said. She got up and made her way inside.

There was more to this family than anyone had shared, but it was none of her business. None of this was her business, when it came right down to it, but here she was, embroiled in the care and feeding of three children and a wounded rancher.

Chapter Four (#u684a7081-c780-59ca-84b2-388470446868)

That evening she was putting things away in her room when there was a tentative knock at the door.

“Come in.”

Tate entered and looked around. “Seth asked me to fetch you.”

“Thank you. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

She found Seth alone, propped in a sitting position on the narrow bed on the porch. As far as the eye could see the darkening sky to the west was streaked with vivid tones of orange and purple. Already a few stars blinked in the broad expanse.

“I thought we should talk some about how the days are going to work.”

She seated herself on the twig chair. “All right.”

“For now, Dewey will give you and the boys a ride to school in the mornings. The more efficient way to travel will be if you learn to ride and take a couple of horses. There’s a corral and water troughs behind the livery and saddle shop. If there was a storm, Colton there would see to the stock. From there it’s just a walk around the corner to the schoolhouse.”

Horse riding hadn’t been in her plan when she’d traveled here, but she understood the practicality. “I see.”

“And then there’s safety.”

At his words, she looked straight at him.

“We’ll start lessons tomorrow.”

“Lessons?” she asked.

“Shooting, loading. I have a few revolvers, and you’ll be able to find one you can handle well enough.”

Alarmed, she balked at the plan. “Who might I have to shoot?”

“You may never have to shoot at all, but you need to know how.” He paused and she continued to question him with her stare. “A snake, a bandit, a wolf.”

The woman was obviously reluctant about the prospect of these lessons, but Seth felt as accountable for her as he did the boys. She’d be staying under his roof, on his land, and he had to look out for her.

“I’m just going to say this straight,” he continued. “Cowboy Creek is a peaceable town, with lawmen and regulations, but it’s a cow town and it’s brimming with men. Lots of men, young and old, nearly all of them looking for a woman. The school is located near prestigious homes and close to businesses, so it’s not secluded whatsoever, but sometimes things happen. Ruffians have been known to ride into town. You’re there to teach the children, and they’re in your care each day. Always be aware of your surroundings. Keep a gun in a safe place, just in case it’s needed.”

“Does the current teacher have a gun?”

“I can’t tell you for sure, but if she was my wife, I’d be sure she had one.”

Her focus skittered away and her face seemed a trifle paler than it had moments ago. She swallowed and rubbed her palms on her skirt. She was a city girl, raised in a comfortable home, educated and perhaps protected. He felt bad about delivering hard facts, but someone had to. She needed to be aware.

“Miss Brewster...” he began.

Her gaze flitted to his again.

He took a match and striker from the small stand beside his cot and held them out to her. “Will you light a couple of the lanterns, please?”

She did as he asked, her skirt pooling on the porch floor as she kneeled. Dust flamed inside the glass chimney and burned off quickly.

“You know more about me than I know about you, partly thanks to my mother. No one ever has to wonder what she’s thinking.” He shrugged. “But I’m curious. What was your life like in Ohio during the war?”

“Probably very different than the stories I’ve heard about lower states,” she answered. “The men, young and old—except the very young boys—were off fighting. My father was a banker. His family had come to Ohio from New York when he was a boy. He took a job working for the governor just as the war started, and he spent a lot of time in Washington. Daisy married about that time. Her husband was wounded at Arkansas Post and later recovered and went back to his regiment. She wrote him daily, but rarely had a letter in return. He returned for a day or two now and then between assignments. My mother became sickly, so my sister and I cared for her with domestic help.”

She adjusted the wicks on both lamps, stood and took a seat again. “We followed the news and corresponded with neighbors and schoolmates who were off fighting. When news came of men killed, the war seemed so far away. Daisy and I attended church and oyster suppers and gatherings and received callers. We made cakes for special occasions. We had ladies over and sewed quilts for sons and husbands, rolled bandages for the field hospitals, and all the while we prayed for the fighting to end.”

The sky had darkened, and now the golden light from the lanterns glowed on her delicate features. “I’m sure my telling seems idyllic to someone like you, who was in the thick of things, getting shot and all.”

“Thinking of scenes like that kept a lot of us going,” he answered. “Knowing there was gentility to return to. Families, church suppers and cakes. Quilts.”

His deep tone and heartfelt words betrayed his emotions, so he cleared his throat. “Did you write to someone special?”

“I was merely fourteen when the struggle over slavery began. My father insisted Daisy and I continue our studies. I hadn’t time to grow into thinking about boys before they were all gone.”