A Hopeful Heart (5 page)

Tressa’s pulse raced. Why hadn’t Aunt Gretchen warned her of the need to temper her speech? Working clothes weren’t enough—Tressa must somehow present the complete picture of a lower-class girl. She made a silent vow to choose her words carefully lest she give her secret away and lose her opportunity to find a new life in this barren land.

She followed Sallie out of the cool, shadowy barn into full daylight. The brightness took Tressa by surprise. The sun had been a golden promise resting on the horizon line when they each chose a cow and began milking. But now the gray sky had turned robin’s egg blue, the sun a huge yellow ball climbing toward the heavens. How much time had she wasted trying to draw milk from that cow?

Sallie also gave a start, squinting at the sun. “Aunt Hattie’s surely got breakfast waitin’. We best be hurryin’, Tressa.”

They scuttled through the back door, which led directly into the kitchen. Sallie plunked Tressa’s milk bucket beside the dry sink, where a row of upended buckets dripped from a recent washing. The room held a pleasant aroma, giving evidence that breakfast had been prepared. But no one was around. Then the sound of voices carried from the dining room. Sallie grabbed Tressa’s hand and pulled her in that direction.

Mrs. Wyatt gestured toward the two open chairs when the girls entered the room. “Sit. Eat. The eggs’re probably cold by now, but that’s the price paid by stragglers.” Her smile softened the reprimand. She waited until Tressa and Sallie sat before speaking again. “We were discussin’ the cookin’ schedule. Each of you will take your turn pre-parin’ meals. First just for us, an’ then for my whole crew.”

“So we’ll meet the men after we’ve learned to cook?” Luella tittered, hunching her shoulders and winking in Evelyn’s direction. “Oooh, I’ll be first.”

Mrs. Wyatt continued as if Luella hadn’t spoken. “Most o’ the ranches around here have a full work crew livin’ on the property, an’ the wives’re responsible for feedin’ not only their own families but the fellas who work the place. So cookin’ for a crowd is somethin’ you all need to learn.”

Tressa slid an egg onto her plate, noting the slight tremble in her hand. Not once had she prepared a meal. At Evan’s Glen, she’d often visited the kitchen, receiving treats from the cheerful cook. But at Uncle Leo’s, she wasn’t allowed to enter the kitchen. Consorting with staff had been strictly prohibited. But then her aunt and uncle had callously thrown her into a situation for which she was ill-prepared. Indignation filled her at the unfair circumstances. If only Mama and Papa were still alive, how different her life would be. . . .

“Tressa, are ye all right?” Sallie’s compassionate voice broke through Tressa’s inner reflection.

Tressa shifted to look at Sallie, surprised to discover the girl’s image seemed blurred. She swiped her hand across her eyes, removing the shimmer of tears, and held her volume to a whisper to match Sallie’s. “Yes. Yes, of course, I’m quite—” Then, remembering Sallie’s comment about her speech, she scrambled to reply in a simple manner. “I’m fine. Just . . . tired.” Her voice sounded stilted and unnatural. But Sallie smiled and relaxed into her seat, apparently reassured.

At the head of the table, Mrs. Wyatt turned to Luella. “Well, missy, since you’re all fired up to take on the cookin’ chores, you can have kitchen duties this week.” She rose, swinging a grin around the table. “C’mon, girls, let’s leave Luella to the cleanup an’ get started on turnin’ some o’ that cream into butter.”

Ignoring her stiff hips and aching shoulders, Tressa pushed to her feet and followed Mrs.Wyatt. She hoped it was easier to extract butter from cream than it had been to draw milk from that cow!

5

Abel rose with the congregation for the closing hymn. Beside him, Cole turned to gawk backward. Again. Abel focused on the words of the song, determined not to join his hired hand and sneak a peek over his own shoulder. Cole, Ethan, and even Vince, who was old enough to know better, had sent glances toward the back pew of the church more than once during the lengthy sermon. Constant shuffles from the pews behind Abel had indicated several others were more interested in getting a gander at the newcomers than focusing on Brother Connor’s sermon.

Abel refrained from looking, but he was keenly aware of the women’s presence somewhere behind him. The chorus of higher-pitched voices added a whole new quality to “Cast Thy Burden on the Lord.” And with the service now ending, he’d have to turn around and make his way out of the church. In all of his years of attending the Barnett Community Church, he had never gone a Sunday without shaking hands with every other member and offering a greeting. But how could he greet Aunt Hattie today without acknowledging those women she’d brought to town?

His stomach churned, and it had nothing to do with the lumpy oatmeal he’d eaten for breakfast. Aunt Hattie meant well. She really thought she was doing the men of the town a favor with her herdsman school. Abel suspected if the widow had any idea how much it affected him to have those eastern women sitting in church, she would’ve driven over to Pierceville and attended service there instead this morning.

Telling her might make things easier for him, but he’d never let on to Hattie. There wasn’t a purer soul in all of Ford County. She’d been the first one to come calling after Pa fell ill. She’d invited Abel to Sunday dinner more times than he could count. But if she invited him today, he’d say no for the first time.

The hymn ended on a long note, the harmony echoing from the rafters. Then with a wave of his hand, Brother Connor brought the singing to an end. Abel drew a deep breath and stepped into the aisle between the two rows of pews. On an ordinary May Sunday, the women clustered to share the latest gossip, and the men—married or single—smacked one another on the back, talked about the weather, or bragged about the number of calves born on their spread.

Today, however, wives captured their husbands’ arms and escorted them straight out of the church building without giving them a chance to say a word. The single men stood for long seconds, their gazes bouncing between Aunt Hattie’s girls and one another. Then, as if someone had fired a warning shot, they all leaped into action, crowding into the aisle and gathering around the pew at the back of the church, where Aunt Hattie stood like a mother bear shielding her cubs. Ethan and Cole crowded past Abel and clattered down the aisle to join the others.

The men all talked at once, creating a bigger hullabaloo than the summer day a hound dog pup sneaked into church and crawled under old Widow Parker’s skirt. Rumor had it the shock of having the long-legged hound tangled up in her petticoats—followed by the uproarious laughter of her very own congregation—led directly to her decision to close up her café and move to Junction City and live with her oldest daughter. Abel hadn’t thought any event could best that one, but the excited chatter from the back half of the church proved him wrong.

Vince stepped beside Abel and shook his head. “Fool men. They act like they’ve never seen females before.” He shrugged. “ ’Course, with ladies bein’ scarce as hens’ teeth around here, I reckon we can’t fault the fellas for struttin’ a bit.” He nudged Abel with his elbow and added, “If I was a mite younger—say maybe twenty-six . . . or twenty-seven . . . I’d be over there lettin’ those gals know I was available, too.”

Abel grunted. Vince knew Abel’s age, and Abel suspected it was no accident the old cowhand chose to name the number of candles that would decorate his next birthday cake, assuming Aunt Hattie made one for him again like she’d done in the years since his ma’s passing. But he also figured Vince was smart enough to know why he didn’t hurry over and make his presence known to those women.

Crushing his hat against his thigh, he strode toward the double doors that led out into the sunshiny churchyard. Vince followed. As they edged past the group, Aunt Hattie’s voice carried over the fray.

“Mr. Samms! You hold up there a minute.”

Stifling a groan, Abel came to a halt.

Aunt Hattie’s stern frown sent the men scuttling out of her way. She stepped to the end of the pew, creating a formidable block between the men and the girls. “Cole an’ Ethan was just sayin’ you got a couple o’ cows due to birth in the next day or so.”

Keeping his gaze angled toward the wide opening only a few feet ahead, Abel gave a brusque nod. “That’s right.”

“I was wonderin’ . . .” She caught his sleeve and gave it a tug, forcing him to look at her. “My pupils need to see a birthin’, maybe bottle-feed a baby or two. Think we might be able to work somethin’ out where they come to your place an’—”

“Brewster Hammond’s probably got more cows than me still –needin’ to birth.” Abel shifted slightly, removing his sleeve from her light grasp. “Might have better luck at his place.”

“That’s right, Aunt Hattie.” Hammond’s son, Gage, stuck his nose into the conversation, his smirk wide. “Nobody’s got more cows than my pa. You’re sure to see a birth or two at our place on any day of the week during the calvin’ season.” He winked at the cluster of girls, but Abel noticed only one responded to his brazen gesture.

“Brewster Hammond might have more births on a given day,” Hattie countered in an even tone, shifting her frame to block Gage from the girls’ view, “but his spread’s farther out. Makes it harder for me to get the pupils there an’ back without wastin’ most of a day.”

Abel licked his lower lip, his mind racing. “Don’t you have cows birthin’ on your place?”

“ ’Course I do, but you know I don’t bring ’em in close like you do. They have their babies out in the pasture an’ my men tend to ’em out there.”

A thought flicked through Abel’s mind:
Why haven’t the other ranchers near my place lost part of their herds the way I have? Why is the rustler targeting me?
He pushed the silent question aside to focus on Aunt Hattie, who continued in a persuasive tone.

“It’d be easier on the girls—them bein’ new around here an’ all—to see their first births in a barn rather than out in the open.”

Seemed to Abel a birth was a birth whether out on the open range or in a barn, but he wouldn’t argue with the lady. Not when she’d done so many kind deeds for him in the past. “I reckon it’d be all right if you brought ’em over.”

A smile lit her face. “Thank you. Just send one o’ your hands by”—Cole and Ethan jabbed each other with their elbows, grinning like they didn’t have good sense—“when you think a cow’s fixin’ to deliver. I’ll bring the pupils quick as a lick.”

Abel made a mental note to instruct Vince to oversee the delivery and supervise Aunt Hattie’s pupils. “That’d be fine, Aunt Hattie. Have a good day now.” He slammed his hat onto his head and charged out the door.

Tressa tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze following the tall cowboy as he strode from the church. She recognized him as the man who had retrieved her hat the day she arrived in Barnett. That day, she hadn’t looked directly into his face, too embarrassed by her clumsiness to raise her head. Today, however, with him caught up in conversation with Mrs. Wyatt, she’d had an opportunity to peruse his features without his knowledge. And she liked what she’d seen.

His thick, wavy hair, combed straight back and shiny with oil, reminded her of Papa’s hair. Where Papa’s was black with streaks of gray, however, the rancher’s was dark brown with streaks of lighter brown, probably from time in the sun. His eyes were just as warm and brown as Papa’s, though, and something in his reserved expression conjured pictures of Papa’s reticence after Mama died. Looking into his eyes had ignited something akin to compassion in her breast.

She followed Mrs. Wyatt and the other girls out of the church, holding her arms stiffly to her sides in an attempt to shrink herself. The men crowding close made her uncomfortable. For reasons she couldn’t explain, one in particular—the one Mrs. Wyatt had called Gage—left her feeling as though bugs crawled under her skin. When he sidled into her pathway, she sidestepped past him and scurried to Mrs. Wyatt’s wagon. His laughter followed her, creating a rush of anger. She would keep a watch on that man. She didn’t trust him.

Luella, however, took her time sashaying to the wagon. She cast her dimpled grin over her shoulder, batting her eyelashes. When she reached the wagon, she spun to face the men and waved good-bye with a little waggle of her fingertips.

Mrs. Wyatt made a
tsk-tsk
sound and shook her head. “Luella, save up your flirtin’ till it’s time to use it.”

With a pout, Luella climbed into the back and flumped down beside Evelyn. Mabelle and Paralee scrambled in, followed by Sallie. Tressa took hold of the back and started to heave herself in when a hand curled around her elbow. She gasped in surprise and peered into the face of a tall, weathered man with striking dark eyes and thick pewter hair.

“Let me help you, miss.”

His low, polite voice did little to calm her racing pulse. She tensed as he lifted, assisting her into the back of the wagon. Seating herself, she smoothed her skirt over her ankles. “Th-thank you, sir.”

He closed the hatch and then touched the brim of his hat, reminding her of the man who’d retrieved her hat. A bit of her nervousness drifted away. Without another glance in her direction, the man strode around the side of the wagon and rested his elbow on the edge of the wagon’s side.

“Harriet.”

Mrs. Wyatt held the reins in her hands. “How-do, Brewster.”

Tressa couldn’t determine from Mrs. Wyatt’s tone whether she was pleased or perturbed to be delayed by this tall, courtly man.

“My son tells me you’re wantin’ your pupils to witness the birth of a calf or two.”

“Gage spoke rightly.” Mrs. Wyatt jiggled the reins, signaling her impatience. “But I’ve solved the problem. Abel Samms said he’d let the girls come on to his place when the time comes.”

Abel . . .
Close in sound to Athol, Papa’s name. Tressa’s heart gave a little flutter, and she filed the name away for safekeeping.

The older man frowned, the leathery skin between his eyebrows folding into a tight crease. “Now, you know my herd’s five times the size of Samms’, Harriet. You’d have a better chance of seein’ a birth any day of the week if you just came out to—”

“Appreciate your willingness to help us, Brewster.” Mrs. Wyatt bobbed her chin toward the man. “But things’re set, an’ I’m content to let ’em be. You have a good Lord’s day. Bye now.” She clicked her tongue on her teeth and flicked the reins. The horses trotted forward, leaving the gray-haired rancher standing in the churchyard, staring after the wagon.

“Now
he
’s a handsome man.” Luella’s low-toned comment brought Tressa’s attention from the rancher. Luella flicked a knowing look around the circle of girls in the back of the wagon. “Just like his son.” She heaved a dramatic sigh. “Oooh, Gage is my pick of the men in town.”

“Gage . . .” Evelyn sniffed, snapping her parasol open over her head. “Why, he’s just a boy. He probably hasn’t been shaving for a full year yet.”

“Even so,” Luella said in an insistent voice, “he’s the most eligible man in town. The son of the most successful rancher. I can’t believe all of you aren’t itching to be matched with him.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes and double-fisted the parasol’s bamboo handle, gazing out across the passing landscape with her lips pursed tight.

Sallie’s eyes sparkled. “Seems to me the father’s the most eligible, since he’s the one who owns the biggest ranch. An’ perhaps he’s taken a fancy to our Tressa here.”

Luella snickered, and Tressa gawked at Sallie in horror. “To me?”

“Why, ye didn’t see him scurryin’ forward to help any of
us
into the wagon, did ye?” Sallie grinned. “An’ wouldn’t it be a fine thing, Tressa, to be chosen by him?”

“Oh, he’s far too old for Tressa,” Paralee contributed.

Mabelle hunched her shoulders as she leaned forward. Her cheeks blotched red, matching her sunburned nose. “In lots of Beadle’s dime novels, the woman’s lover is double her age. She never seems to mind.”

“Mabelle!” Paralee squealed.

Luella clamped her hand over Paralee’s mouth. She tipped her head in the direction of Mrs. Wyatt. When the older woman didn’t even glance over her shoulder, Luella lowered her hand, but she hissed, “Hush now! We don’t want Aunt Hattie tellin’ us to quit thinkin’ of the men.” She giggled. “As if I could do it.”

Tressa wriggled backward, distancing herself from the group. The conversation left her feeling as though her breathing was constricted. The purpose in coming to Kansas was to secure a husband—she knew that—but shouldn’t marriage be a dignified topic? Somehow Luella’s smirks and the others’ teasing comments made a mockery of the beautiful union her parents had shared. Sallie, Luella, Paralee, and Mabelle sat with their heads close together, whispering and giggling. Tressa shifted even further into the corner of the wagon.