Beyond All Measure (2 page)

It had seemed simple enough. Now she was much less certain that she’d made the right decision. It was one thing to make a plan and quite another to put it into action.

A buckboard rattled down the street and came to a stop near the elevated platform. The driver, a man in rough clothes, boots, and a wide-brimmed hat, smiled up at her. Backlit by the sun, he appeared muscular and broad shouldered. “Miss Wentworth? Ada Wentworth?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Wyatt Caldwell. I’m here to drive you out to Miss Lillian’s place.”

“But I thought Miss Fields was coming for me.”

He smiled, crinkling the lines around his eyes. “Yes ma’am, that was the plan.” He scanned the now-deserted platform. “I assume that trunk is yours?”

“Yes.” Ada took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Where was Hannah Fields? Had Old Starch and Vinegar dismissed her without any warning? Another wave of anxiety rippled through her. If that happened to
her
, where would she go? Her resources were nearly depleted. Letters to her mother’s Southern cousins had gone unanswered, leaving her with few options apart from the clattering, stifling textile mills of Lowell, Massachusetts—or, even worse, a life as a mail-order bride, brought west to cook and clean and bear children for a man she’d never met.

Her escort, his face shadowed by a battered Stetson, jumped lightly to the ground. Shoving aside a stack of wooden planks and a couple of gleaming saw blades, he hoisted Ada’s trunk into the back of the wagon.

“Ma’am, are you ready? Miss Lillian’s place is a good seven miles down this road. We ought to get going.”

Ada sized him up. He appeared trustworthy, but experience had shown her that people weren’t always what they seemed. “Thank you, but I’ll wait for Miss Fields.”

“Then you’re going to be waiting for quite a while. Hannah Fields up and left town last night without so much as a by-yourleave.” He smiled. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

He offered his hand to help her onto the buckboard seat and climbed up beside her. “I apologize for the undignified conveyance. I didn’t know until an hour ago that you were expected today. There wasn’t time to fetch my rig.” He handed her a parasol and a bundle wrapped in a red-checked tea towel. “I brought you some of Miss Hattie’s fried chicken. I figured you’d be hungry.”

“Thank you. I am famished!” Leaving the parasol on the seat between them, Ada unwrapped the chicken, bit into a drumstick, and chewed with relish.

Her Boston aunt, rest her soul, would be horrified at such undignified behavior. She could almost hear Kate’s chiding voice. “
That’s why you’ve never made a suitable match, Ada. You’re too forthright. Too lacking in the feminine graces
.”

Well, she had made a perfect match once, but now she was alone in the world. She would do as she pleased. As the buckboard gathered speed, she devoured the second piece of chicken, polished the apple on the sleeve of her jacket, and took a bite, enjoying the satisfying and decidedly unladylike crunch.

“You
are
hungry!” Wyatt said. “Hollow all the way to your toes.”

Ada blushed and then chided herself for caring what he thought.

“That’s all right,” he added. “I like a woman with an appetite.”

Ada took another bite.

“So, you came out here from Boston.” His friendly demeanor seemed to have cooled a little. Not surprising in a Southern town, so soon after the war—and from his voice, Mr. Caldwell was obviously a Southerner.

Oh well
. She lifted her chin a little. She could only hope to do her job and eventually win over the townsfolk.

They passed the ladies’ hotel. Two white-haired women sat on the porch. Wyatt nodded to them and touched the brim of his hat as they passed. The buckboard rattled onto a narrow rutted road that led upward into the foothills.

“Yes, Boston.” Ada wiped apple juice from the corner of her mouth. “The land of steady habits, as they say.”

He nodded. “Miss Lillian will appreciate that. She’s a stickler for order.”

She took another crunchy bite.

“Your letter said you were born there?”

“Yes. I lived there off and on for most of my life.” A wave of bitter recrimination and regret nearly brought her to tears. Determined not to dwell on the life that was lost to her, she concentrated on the play of sunlight in the rain puddles beside the road and on the soothing sound of his voice as he pointed out clumps of wild honeysuckle, their pale blossoms shimmering like ghosts.

“You’re sure a long way from home,” he observed. “Hannah placed the ad in the
Boston Herald
as a last resort. She was surprised to actually receive an application from so far away.”

Ada chewed slowly. “My father and my aunt died in March, and I need to make a new start. This position as lady’s companion to Mrs. Willis seemed suitable.” She turned toward him, her skirts rustling against the rough wood of the seat. “Tell me, Mr. Caldwell, do you know anything about the rest of the household staff? The cook and so on?”

“The—” He threw back his head and laughed. The horse snorted as if he, too, found her words amusing.

Something snapped inside her. “Stop this wagon!”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I said stop this wagon, Mr. Caldwell, or so help me, I will jump.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He surveyed the empty road. “The closest outhouse is down the road a ways, at the Spencer place. But the woods are—”

“I am not in need of the out—the ladies’ facilities.”

“Then what—”

“I have no intention of spending the next several hours, or however long this dreadful journey takes, riding next to a man who laughs at me.”

“You’re right. I apologize.”

“Too late.” She stood and braced herself against the movement of the buckboard.

“Whoa!” He pulled on the reins. The horse stopped and tossed his head, rattling the harness. “Just how do you intend on getting out to Mrs. Willis’s place, if I may ask?”

“I’ll walk.”

“All that way?”

Without another word she dangled her legs over the side of the wagon and dropped to the ground, wincing as her feet made contact with the dirt road. Squaring her shoulders, she marched ahead of the wagon.

Wyatt slowed the buckboard and studied her as she set out along the road, her feathered traveling hat perilously askew, her arms swinging. A prettier woman he’d never seen, but she sure was prickly.

Miss Ada Wentworth had the fairest skin he’d ever laid eyes on. Dark-brown hair that lay in shiny waves beneath her hat. Wide gray eyes fringed with thick, dark lashes. A generous mouth that would be even lovelier if she’d smile more. But, as she was in mourning, he really couldn’t fault her for that. She was wrapped in a neat package, he couldn’t help noticing—small and compact, with hills and valleys in all the proper locations.

He guided the buckboard around a deep rut in the road, reining in the horse to avoid getting ahead of Ada. She was nearly perfect, from his point of view—if only she weren’t a Boston blue blood. He’d checked out her references and discovered that she was from an old New England family. A family with connections and power.

A family that represented everything he detested.

She slipped and then regained her footing. He fought the urge to scoop her up and set her back into the buckboard. She might be a Yankee born and bred, and she was acting tough as nails, but she couldn’t mask the hurt and vulnerability beneath her brave facade.

He flicked the reins and pulled up alongside her. “I didn’t mean to offend you, ma’am. Honestly. It was your question about the staff and the cook that hit my funny bone.”

She kept her eyes on the ribbon of road in front of them. She’d begun to limp and was trying hard not to show it. Wyatt glanced at the delicate spooled heels of her thin leather shoes. He didn’t know the first thing about ladies’ footwear, but any fool could see that those shoes were meant for city streets, not seven-mile hikes over a rutted country road.

“You sure don’t sound like a regular Bostonian.” He raised his voice to be heard over the creaking of the wagon wheels. “I kinda like the way you talk, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Ada walked on.

“Miss Wentworth?”

She stopped, arms akimbo, and stared up at him. “What is it, Mr. Caldwell?”

“My lumber mill is just over that next hill. It will be embarrassing if I have to drive past there with a pretty woman walking alongside the wagon. My men won’t ever let me live that down. I sure would be obliged if you’d reconsider and come on back up here. I promise to be on my best behavior.”

TWO

Ada shaded her eyes with one hand. Already a painful blister had formed on one toe. Undoubtedly, she’d need a salt soak and a camphor patch tonight. But she wasn’t about to let this infuriating Southerner get the best of her, no matter how charming his smile. “Why should I care what they think?”

“I guess you’re right. Never mind.” He flicked the reins and urged the horse onward.

Ada’s toe was on fire. She could feel blood oozing into her stocking. Her blouse was drenched in sweat, and a thick layer of dust coated the hem of her skirt. Maybe she would ride with him now, at least until he made her angry again.

She hurried alongside the wagon. “Very well. I’ll ride with you.”

He looked down at her. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

She ground her teeth. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

A wide grin split his tanned face. “Maybe.”

He jumped down, ran around the buckboard, and lifted her onto the seat. Settling himself beside her again, he snapped the reins, and the horse set off at a brisk trot. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

She rested her throbbing foot and retrieved the parasol he had brought. “What is it?”

“You’re from Boston, but there’s more than a trace of the South in your speech. I’m wondering why.”

“I spent a lot of time with my mother’s family in New Orleans when I was growing up. Their accent rubbed off on me—much to my father’s chagrin.”

“What did he have against New Orleans? It’s a great city. And Louisiana gumbo makes one fine meal.”

Ada shook her head. There was no explaining Cornelius Wentworth. She’d never understood him.

“Guess it’s none of my business,” he said. “I was just making conversation, trying to make you feel at home.”

She brushed away sudden tears. “Boston is home.”

“I know exactly how you feel.” Wyatt guided the wagon around another rut in the road. Above the jingle of the harness, he said, “Myself, I was born and raised on a cattle ranch west of Fort Worth. As far as I’m concerned, Texas is the best patch of earth ever created. But after the war, I was needed here. I started a lumber business that’s doing real well.”

“Miss Fields said as much in her letter. She said the entire town has grown since the war ended.”

“Folks say we might be headed for some bad times in Tennessee, but for now, Hickory Ridge is doing all right. Still, I’m going to sell the mill one of these days and buy myself a piece of Texas. Build up the best herd of longhorns in the state.” He glanced at her. “Do you know anything about cattle, Miss Wentworth?”

She sighed. Creation, but this man was a talker! “I’m afraid not.”

“Longhorns are a cross between the stock the Spanish explorers left behind and the English stock folks brought down from the north and the east,” he began, obviously relishing the chance to enlighten her. “They’re one of the toughest breeds there is, which makes ’em ideal for the trail. They have an instinct for finding food and shelter in bad weather, and the cows produce offspring for a good long time.”

Even though she hadn’t completely forgiven him for making fun of her and for ignoring her question about the Willis household, Ada couldn’t help smiling at his boyish enthusiasm for all things bovine.

Wyatt went on. “Now that the war is over, the demand for cattle on the northern ranches oughta go sky high. A man with a healthy herd will do right well for himself.” He grinned. “But that’s all in the future, of course. My mama always said to bloom where you’re planted, and for the present, I’m planted right here in Hickory Ridge.”

Ada nodded. It felt strangely intimate to see this stranger’s enthusiasm and know his plans for his future. What would he think of her own plans?

The buckboard passed through a stand of hickory trees so thick that it momentarily blotted out the sun. Moisture dripped onto the thick moss below. Bees droned in the sedge beside the road. As they emerged again into the patchy sunlight, Ada felt parched inside and out. Already she regretted her decision to move south. She missed the sight of the ships in Boston Harbor and the cool morning mist rising off the river. Here, she felt caged, the forest hemming her in.

The feeling had crept upon her three days into her journey, when the rails turned westward and then south, revealing the remnants of the brutal war that back in Boston had seemed so remote it might as well have happened on another continent. From the sooty windows of the train, she’d glimpsed once-prosperous farms now ravaged and burned to the ground, denuded forests, broken breastworks rotting in the sun. Here and there lay rows of grass-covered mounds—obviously the graves of fallen soldiers. An aching sadness seemed to lie over the land, intensifying her own sense of loss.