Leftover Love (8 page)

“That’s for sure.” While Layne put the first load of light clothes into the washer, Mattie started separating her basket of dirty clothes. “Who washes Hoyt’s and Stoney’s clothes?” Layne asked.

“They do,” Mattie replied. “That’s one of the first things I tell a man when he hires on —I don’t do laundry. I think Hoyt has sweet-talked some girl into doing his wash for him, but Stoney just takes a duffel bag of clothes into town and throws them all into the same machine. It
isn’t just his head that’s gray. It’s every stitch of clothing he owns.”

“Gray but clean,” Layne laughed and added the pile of Mattie’s light-colored clothes to her small load in the washer. “What about Creed? Who does his?”

“He does. A typical bachelor, too set in his ways,” Mattie declared. “Everything has to be done in a certain way or it’s not right. John was that way.” She paused to think about it and frowned. “No, John was worse. He wasn’t set in his ways; he was hardened in cement.”

“How did you manage?” Layne wondered.

“Don’t forget. I came to work for him as his housekeeper, so I was paid to do it the way he wanted it done. If he wanted his shorts ironed, I ironed his shorts no matter how ridiculous I thought it was. Of course, he didn’t think it was too funny when I started putting starch in them.”

“What made you decide to answer that ad in the paper and come to work here?” It was a perfect opening to ask Mattie about the events immediately following her birth. “Couldn’t you find any work in North Platte? You did say that’s where you were from, didn’t you?”

There was a slow affirmative nod from the woman. “I probably could have found work there but I wanted to get away.” She shrugged idly. “It’s one of the oldest stories. I’d fallen in love with a rodeo cowboy. They’re the worst kind,” she informed Layne with a dry look. “They live too fast, love too fast—and leave too fast. But he was the handsomest devil you’ve ever seen. And intelligent. He could talk circles around anybody, so a fresh redhead from North Platte was easy pickings. He was going to call me every week, see me when he could. ’Course, it was all a line.”

“He didn’t come back.” It didn’t take much guesswork to figure out that that man was her father.

“No. Broke my heart, he did. I swore off men. I didn’t want to have anything to do with them. I wanted to get far away from everybody. That’s why I answered that ad in the paper,” Mattie explained while she mocked those earlier, exaggerated feelings of pain and rejection. “I was a very bitter young girl when I came here, soured on life and all its supposed tomorrows. I slapped away every kindness that was shown to me. Pride is a terrible thing, Layne,” she mused almost absently. “It makes you reject the very thing you want the most.”

The shrug of Mattie’s shoulders seemed an attempt to dismiss the somber subject as she again bent to the task of sorting clothes, briskly tossing them into the appropriate piles. Layne could only wonder whether that had been a direct reference to the illegitimate daughter she’d given up for adoption, or if Mattie had been generalizing.

“I guess John eventually changed all that,” Layne said idly.

“It took a while—a long while. He had no patience with people who felt sorry for themselves. I had worked here almost four years before I realized how much that man meant to me. No one could have been more surprised than I was at the time.” She straightened, her face slightly flushed from all the blood rushing to her head, and studied Layne with a speculative look. “All this must be boring to you. Or is this research for your article?”

“I was interested in your background, but we can keep the personal part of it off the record if you want.” Avoiding that gaze, Layne poured detergent into a measuring cup and added it to the clothes in the washer tub.

“None of it’s a secret, but it’s all in the past and I’d rather keep it there,” Mattie stated.

“That’s okay with me,” Layne assured her and set the washing machine to start its cycle.

“It looks like you’re all set here, so I guess I’ll go see if I can’t get that plane started this morning. Enjoy your day off,” Mattie offered wryly, knowing one kind of work was being exchanged for another.

“I will.” A small smile touched Layne’s mouth as she watched Mattie disappear through the door to the kitchen.

That copper hair might owe some of its color to a henna rinse, but Layne suspected that Mattie was still as strong-minded and adventurous as she ever was. Experience might have given her a sense of caution but it hadn’t lessened any of her spunk.

Only a small percentage of the current female population were licensed pilots, but Mattie had stopped logging her hours ten years ago when she had flown more than a thousand. The boundaries of the Ox-Yoke Ranch encompassed twenty-five thousand acres, and another ten thousand acres were leased. With a plane a lot of territory could be covered in a hurry—broken fences spotted, strayed cattle located, and overall range conditions checked.

Thoughtfully Layne leaned a hip against the washing machine as it filled with water. In many respects Mattie hadn’t lived up to Layne’s image of what her natural mother would be like. She didn’t possess the tender, motherly attributes Layne had tried to associate with her. But, woman to woman, Layne liked and respected Mattie. Maybe that was a discovery in itself.

The machine kicked into its wash cycle, and the agitator splashed water onto her. Layne jumped with a start, then shook her head when she saw that she’d forgotten to close the lid.

The following week a warm spell came and melted the snow from the hills. The complexion of the rolling landscape changed from its glistening white to a faded brown,
the color of the thick grasses that blanketed the land. Billowing, white clumps of cotton clouds chased each other across the wide blue sky, changing shape and size.

The dense grass absorbed the thud of cantering hoofs as Layne rode alongside Hoyt Weber. A cow had fallen on some ice and badly scraped its front legs. Layne had ridden out on the range with Hoyt to catch the lame cow and doctor its injuries. The animal had not been the most cooperative nor grateful patient. But the task was accomplished and they were heading back to the gate where the pickup and horse trailer had been left.

All the swells and dips of this undulating land looked the same to her. Layne realized how easy it would be to become lost once a person went beyond the sight of the ranch buildings. She was completely turned around and trusted that Hoyt knew which way to go.

They crested a hill and headed down its slope. At the bottom one of the many lake ponds that dotted this region was sprawled in their path. It was ringed with trees, dark skeletons around the ice-packed surface that still held patches of snow. Instead of riding around its long, curving shoreline, Hoyt aimed his horse at a narrow finger. Layne started to pull up, checking her horse’s pace. Hoyt glanced back when she started to fall behind.

“It’s okay. The lake’s still frozen solid. No sense riding around it when we can go across,” he called to her above the groan of saddle leather and drumming hoofs.

Still a little uncertain, she followed him. When they entered the trees, Hoyt slowed his horse to a walk and approached the snow-crusted ice covering the lake. Layne waited until he had started across before urging her own mount onto the rough ice. The shaggy-coated sorrel blew out a nervous snort at the slick footing as it moved gingerly across the frozen lake, its pricked ears in a constant flux of
direction at the ominous cracking sounds beneath its hooves. On the opposite shore it made a slipping lunge onto solid ground.

“See? That wasn’t so bad.” Hoyt grinned at her.

“Lead on,” she laughed in return.

He kicked his horse into a canter to climb the slope of the next mounded ridge. At the top of the hill Layne caught a glimpse of the cartwheeled spokes of a windmill. It had to be the one located by the gate. It was a relief to finally get her bearings and know for herself which way to ride.

The windmill grew steadily bigger as they approached, looming on the horizon. When they topped the last rise, Layne noticed the mud-spattered pickup parked beside the stock tank at the base of the windmill. Her curious glance made another sweep of the wide pocket of range. That pickup was the one Creed usually drove, but she saw no sign of him in the immediate vicinity. The tailgate of the truck was lowered, and an opened toolbox was sitting on the ledge it made.

“It looks like Creed is finally getting that broken shaft fixed,” Hoyt observed.

The comment pulled her gaze back to the windmill. On the platform atop the tall wooden structure, a dark shape was crouched next to the convex blades. Its bulk couldn’t belong to anyone else but Creed.

“Hello!” Hoyt shouted the greeting and Creed’s head came up, and a hand was briefly raised to acknowledge their approach. Hoyt reined in his horse while they were still several yards short of the windmill’s base where he still had an angle of view at the man on the platform. Layne stopped beside him. “We got that cow treated, so we’ll be heading back to the house.”

“Before you go”—Creed moved to the edge of the platform
and looked down—“one of you bring me up a crescent wrench.”

Hoyt hesitated and glanced at Layne. “You do it,” he urged. “I get nosebleeds every time I climb on anything taller than a horse.”

The look in his eye advised Layne that he wasn’t joking. His phobia about heights was very real. High places had never bothered her, so she didn’t offer any objection to his request.

“Sure, I’ll do it,” she agreed and swung out of the saddle.

Bending, Hoyt reached for the reins of her horse. “While you do that, I’ll get the horses loaded in the trailer.”

“Okay.” She passed him the reins.

The pickup and horse trailer were another hundred yards distant, beyond the fence gate. Layne didn’t object to walking that far. After so much riding, she needed to exercise her legs a little. As Hoyt led her horse away, she walked to the toolbox on the tailgate of Creed’s truck.

“The crescent wrench should be lying right on top,” Creed called down to her. It wasn’t but she quickly found it among the other tools.

“Got it.” She started for the base of the windmill.

“Are you sure it’s a crescent wrench?” he questioned with a hint of skepticism.

She didn’t bother to look up as she continued confidently to the crossboards that served as a ladder. “Don’t worry. I know what it is.”

The boards were rough-cut and quick to splinter, but Layne had borrowed a pair of Mattie’s lined leather gloves to ride that morning. If she’d worn her mittens to climb the windmill, they would have been shot with slivers of wood. She paused to glance up and check how much farther it was to the platform.

When her gaze came back level again, she suddenly noticed the view of the Sand Hills from this high vantage. She could literally see for miles and miles. She stared, her imagination caught by the bigness and the emptiness of it.

“You okay?” The graveled edge of concern in Creed’s question snapped Layne from her absorption. She looked up quickly to see the rough crags of his broad features as he peered over the edge of the platform.

“I’m fine,” she assured him and hurriedly started climbing again.

When she was at the top, his hand closed around her arm just above the elbow and hauled her the rest of the way onto the platform with little apparent effort. Layne scooted
away from the edge and passed him the wrench. She noticed the way his half-glance identified the tool, then came back to her face, something flickering briefly in his expression.

“I used to help my dad a lot when he was monkeying around in the garage,” she offered in explanation. “So I was indoctrinated early in the world of wrenches and ratchets.”

He held her gaze for another beat, then turned toward the stationary windmill blades and began to tighten the bolts that secured the metal shaft. With the wrench delivered, Layne was free to climb back down, but the view from atop the windmill platform was too compelling. She leaned back on her hands to gaze at the vast stretch of rolling hills.

“It’s quite a sight from up here, isn’t it?” Layne murmured.

“Yup.” But Creed never paused in his task to take a look.

His lack of interest didn’t alter hers. All the statistics Layne had heard and read over the years about the Nebraska Sand Hills came to her mind. They comprised some nineteen thousand square miles of long ridges and mounds—the most extensive dune formation in the Western Hemisphere, likened to the Great Eastern Erg of the Sahara Desert.

Only here, the desert was an oasis because the vast dunes sat atop great aquifers. The abundant supply of moisture gave the wind-sculptured sand its lush mantle of grass—a veritable sea of waving grass.

Having driven through the area, Layne knew it was large, but nothing had prepared her for the immensity to be seen from this high viewpoint.
There was nothing for mile upon mile but small, angular peaks and flat, broad mounds, heaving and swelling like the ocean. Here and there the smooth ripple of grassland was dotted with trees and thickets growing up around half-hidden spring runs. There was an odd patch of white, too, marking the location of one of the many lakes and ponds that were strewn through the area.

“Cherry County is supposed to be larger than Connecticut, isn’t it?” She directed the question at Creed without turning to look at him.

“Yup.”

“Is it true that there’s a part of Cherry County—larger than Delaware—that doesn’t have a town or a post office?” Once that had seemed a gross exaggeration. Now Layne was prepared to believe it was possible.

“That’s what they say.” Creed leaned his weight into the wrench to tighten the bolt that last fraction.

Slightly miffed at his indifferent response when she was seeking information, Layne sent him an irritated glance. Having a conversation with him was like pulling teeth.

It goaded her into challenging him. “Don’t you ever talk?”

There was a small pause in his work as Creed cast a sidelong glance at her before his attention reverted to the long shaft. “When I’ve got something to say.”