Mail Order Cowboy. Laurie Kingery
Sarah.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Nick,” Sarah admonished, looking over her shoulder.
“Thank you, but I intend to be more of a help from now on. What should I be doing now?”
Milly’s hands paused, clutching a handful of unshelled pods. “It’s a couple of hours ’til supper—not enough time to get started on any rebuilding projects…. It might be a good idea if you and Bobby were to saddle up and go for a ride around the ranch so you can get an idea of how far the property extends and make a survey of what needs to be done. Oh, and you’ll be passing the creek that runs just inside the northern edge. You and Bobby could take a quick dip and get cleaned up,” Milly added, eyeing his cheeks and chin.
“A dip sounds good.” Nick ran his fingers over the stubbly growth, imagining how scruffy he looked. He was glad he’d kept his razor in his saddlebag. He didn’t want to look unkempt around this lovely woman he was trying to impress.
“Take your pistol with you,” Milly called as he headed for the door. “You never know what you might meet out there in the brush.”
“Do you mean Indians?”
She nodded. “Or rattlesnakes. They like to sun themselves on the rocky ledges that line one side of the creek. There’s a little cave in those ledges. Sarah and I used to play there and pretend it was our cottage until we saw a snake at its entrance.”
“Then I’ll be sure and take my dip on the other side.” He’d had enough encounters with cobras in India to have a healthy respect for poisonous snakes of any kind.
“Don’t let Bobby dillydally in the creek,” she admonished. “Supper’s at six and Reverend Chadwick brought a big ham with him on behalf of the congregation.”
“If Bobby wants to stay in the creek, I shall eat his share of the meat,” he said with a wink.
Nick was as good as his word, riding into the yard with Bobby at quarter ’til the hour. By the time they’d unsaddled and turned the horses out in the corral, the grandfather clock in the parlor was chiming six times.
“Here we are, ma’am, right on schedule,” Nick said, pronouncing it in the British way—“shedule” instead of “schedule.” She watched him, noting the way his still-damp hair clung to his neck while he sniffed with obvious appreciation of the savory-smelling, covered iron pot she carried to the table with the aid of a thick dish towel.
“Your promptness is appreciated,” she said lightly, although what she was really appreciating was the strong, freshly shaved curve of his jaw. Nick Brookfield was compelling even when tired and rumpled; when rested and freshly bathed, he was a very handsome man, indeed. She wrenched her eyes away, lest he catch her staring. “You can sit over there, across from Bobby,” she said, pointing to a chair on the far side of the rectangular, rough-hewn table that had been laid with a checkered gingham cloth.
“How about Josh? Would you like me to take him his supper and help him eat first?”
“Oh, he’s already eaten,” Sarah said. “He’s not up to anything but a little soup yet, but he took that well at least. Maybe tomorrow he can eat a little more and even join us at the table.”
Milly was moved that Nick had thought of the injured old cowboy’s needs before his own. She watched now as he seated himself gracefully, then waited.
“Nick, since this is your first meal with us, would you like to say the blessing?” You could tell a lot about a man by the way he reacted to such a request, Pa always said.
Nick hesitated, but only for a moment. “I’d be honored,” he said, and bowed his head. “Lord, we’d like to thank You for this bountiful meal and the good people from the church who provided it, and the hands that prepared it. And we thank You for saving the house, and Josh, and please protect the ranch and those who live here from the Indians. Amen.”
“Thank you. That was very nice, wasn’t it, Milly?” Sarah asked.
“Uh-huh.” Milly thought Nick sounded like a man accustomed to speaking to his Lord, but Pa had also said sometimes folks could talk the talk, even if they didn’t walk the walk. “Here, Nick, take some ham,” she said, handing him the platter, while she passed a large bowl of black-eyed peas flavored with diced ham to Bobby. He took a couple of slices, then passed it down to Sarah.
“We always pass the meat to Bobby last, because there’ll be nothing left after he’s had a chance at it,” Sarah teased from her end of the table.
Bobby, who’d been watching the progress of the ham platter as it made its way down the table, just grinned.
“He’s still a growing lad, aren’t you, Bobby?” Nick said, smiling.
“I reckon I am,” Bobby agreed. “Uncle Josh says I got hollow legs. Look, Miss Milly, I think my arms have growed some.” After helping himself to a handful of biscuits, he extended an arm. The frayed cuff extended only a little past the middle of his forearm.
“Grown some,” Milly corrected automatically, taking a knifeful of butter and passing the butter dish. “I suppose I’ll have to buy some sturdy cloth at the mercantile next time I’m there and make you a couple of new ones. Josh probably needs a couple, too, though I know he’ll say just to patch the elbows.” She sighed. While making clothing was actually something she was good at, even better than Sarah, trying to find the cash to buy cloth or anything extra right now would be difficult. “Nick, what did you think of our land?” she said, deliberately changing the subject. She could fret about Bobby’s outgrown shirts later.
“It seems good ranch country, to my novice eyes,” he said, with a self-deprecating smile. “Much bigger than I thought. We didn’t even get to the western boundary, or we would have been late returning.”
“It’s actually one of the smaller ranches in San Saba County,” Milly said, but she appreciated how impressed he seemed.
“Is that right? Back in Sussex, you two would be prominent landowners. They’d have called your father ‘Squire.’ Most English country folk have very small plots and rent from the local noble or squire. I noticed there’s fence needing repair along your boundary with Mr. Waters’s land, by the way.”
Before she could stop herself, another sigh escaped. “Yes, he won’t repair it. He doesn’t think there should be fences—‘Just let the cattle run wild ’til the fall roundup, just like we always did,’” she said, deepening her voice to imitate the man. “I suspect he used to brand quite a few yearlings as his that were actually ours, before Pa put up his fence.”
“Has he always been a difficult man?”
Milly shrugged. “He isn’t really difficult, only set in his ways.” He hadn’t acted this way when Pa was alive, of course. And before the war he had cherished dreams of gaining the ranch by his son marrying Milly, or even Sarah. Milly supposed she couldn’t blame the man for wanting to enlarge his property by persuading her to sell out—and only time would tell if he had been right that a woman couldn’t manage a ranch.
Suppertime passed pleasantly. Nick Brookfield had perfect table manners and ate like a man with a good appetite, although not with the same fervor that Bobby displayed, as if he thought every meal would be his last. When it was over, he thanked them for the delicious meal, especially Sarah for the lightness of her biscuits, which brought a grateful warmth to her sister’s eyes.
“Perhaps you should tell me what I should be doing tomorrow,” he said to Milly, as Sarah began to clear away the dishes.
“I think I’ll let Josh do that,” she said. “Why don’t you go visit with him now for a while? Bobby can see to the horses and the chickens.”
“I will.” He rose. “Would it be all right if sometime tomorrow I went into town? I need to pick up my valise at the boardinghouse, and let the proprietress know I won’t be needing the room.”
“Of