Sixteen Brides (29 page)

“You’re a preacher.”

Cooper looked surprised. Frowned. “Oh, my goodness . . . no. Definitely not.” He sat down and took a sip of coffee. “First off, I’m not what my family expected. Like I told you when we hauled all those books in here, I’m from a family of teachers. College professors. A long line of them actually, going all the way back to the founding of Harvard in 1650. So you can imagine that when I took to working with my hands . . . well. Let us just say the family was not pleased.”

He gazed through the window for a moment. “Funny thing about Harvard. It was founded as an institution to train pastors. That was my family’s second choice for me. But I didn’t want that, either. So. In my youthful stubbornness, I patterned myself after a distant uncle and took up blacksmithing, and, as it turned out, I was very good at it. Some called me an artist.”

“Looking at that fence around Katie’s grave, I’d say they were right.”

“Yes, well. Others would say that when I lost my hand in the war, that was God’s way of punishing me for being rebellious and refusing my intended path.”

“But you didn’t think that way.”

“Honestly, Matthew, I didn’t know how to think. All the hours I’d spent reading philosophy and theology and every other ‘ology’ known to man, and when this happened”—he held up his stump—“I didn’t have one single answer to the questions that mattered.”

“But this”—Matthew tapped on the Bible—“answered them all.” He didn’t try to remove the sarcasm from his tone.

“Did I say I had all the answers?” Jeb shook his head. “No. If you think I said I have all the answers, you misunderstood. I don’t. I do, however, believe, from the soles of my worn-out boots to the top of my gigantic frame, that the only answers that matter are right here.” He laid his massive hand on the open book. “We all have to find our own way, Matthew. For me it came after a long winter reading this book. Mostly the story of a man named Job, and yes, I see the irony of that, given my name.” He took a deep breath. “Job convinced me that losing my hand wasn’t punishment for something I’d done. It also convinced me that I’ll never—this side of eternity—have answers to all my questions, but that God doesn’t mind my asking them, and he really only requires one thing of me.”

“Which is—?”

Jeb laughed. “Well, you aren’t going to like it.” He clamped his hand over his mouth.

“Which is?”

Jeb repeated the gesture, then took his hand away. “Putting my hand over my mouth and listening.” He tapped the Bible’s open pages. “It’s in there. You can read it for yourself if you want to.”

What Matthew wanted was to stop being afraid that the demons he’d seemingly outrun were going to catch up with him. He wanted Linney to be happy and, if possible, proud of him. He wanted not to spend the rest of his life alone. He also wanted to have the kind of peace Jeb Cooper exuded. He wanted to sing . . . not out loud, but in his soul.

“As to the spring house,” Jeb said quietly. “I’d be happy to build the rest of it all by my lonesome, if you’d be willing to see if there’s any answers in there for you.” He nodded at the Bible.

“What about all those other books?”

Jeb shook his head. “There’s pure delight in that room. But this book is the only one a man really
needs
.”

Not only was he not angry, Matthew realized, he was also curious. What did he have to lose? Cooper had no real stake in whether Matthew read that book or not, whether he believed it or not, whether he found his way in life or not.

“I should tell you the rest of my story,” Jeb said. “Just so you don’t learn it from someone else someday and think I was dishonest.”

Matthew half wondered if Cooper was about to confess to some terrible crime after all.

Jeb picked up the letter, opened it, and handed Matthew the bank draft written for more money than Matthew would earn in a year. “Elizabeth Jorgenson is my sister,” Jeb said. “She sends me one of those every other month—along with whatever books I’ve asked her to buy for me. The money comes from a combination of our parents’ estate and a few things I’ve invented over the years that most of the blacksmiths in America seem to think make them more productive.”

“You’re telling me you’re rich.”

Jeb shrugged. “I’m telling you why I don’t need to plant or harvest to live out here. But I like helping folks, and I like the peace and quiet.” He nodded toward the back of the house. “I have an idea for a system that might water a garden while cooling a spring house. If it works, I’ll patent it.” He smiled. “And, yes, I was hoping to lure you out here so maybe you’d read God’s book and see if it might have a word or two that could get you through the rest of your life.”

By the light of the summer moon, Matthew Ransom opened the gate to Katie’s grave and sat down. For a long while, he didn’t say a word, just sat with his back to the iron fence and listened to coyotes and the creaking of the windmill and the faint splashing and trickling as cold well water made its way up out of the ground and into the newly erected spring house.

Jeb had said something that week as they worked together about “living water,” but he’d waited until tonight to direct Matthew to a passage in the Bible that started with the words “Ho, every one that thirsteth,” and went on to invite a man to incline his ear and go to God so that his soul could live. In recent days Matthew had realized that if he could get past his own emotions long enough to pay attention, the Bible indicated that God really did want to be sought and called upon. He didn’t just sit up above everything and point his finger when a man failed.

The prophet recorded God saying, “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.” Matthew could appreciate that. A loving God probably wouldn’t have gone off in a rage and done anything so reckless as to accidentally kill someone he loved. When Matthew wondered about it aloud, Jeb agreed that he didn’t think the concepts of “accidents” and “God” meshed.

The Bible promised a lot. It said a person could “go out with joy and be led forth with peace.” That spoke to a longing inside of Matthew that he had been ignoring ever since Katie died. He’d been drowning in anger and bitterness and guilt since then.

Jeb said that guilt might be the last thing to go. “Katie—” Matthew started at the sound of his own voice in the night. When had he begun talking to Katie instead of thinking about God? Somehow, though, it felt right and so he kept it up. “Oh, Katie.” And he began to cry. “I . . . I’m . . . so . . .
sorry.
” It was like a dam burst inside him. He had so much to be sorry about. He’d failed her. Brought her out here and then gone off and left her alone so much, and slapped the few requests she made away like so many bothersome gnats. He hadn’t listened at all to what might be important to her.

“I didn’t listen and it had to feel like I didn’t care what you felt or thought. That wasn’t it, Katie-girl. I was just . . . so . . . stupid.” He hung his head. “Even if you did run to Lucas, who could have blamed you? But I’m sorry for that, too. Sorry for not believing you and for getting angry. Sorry for taking the chances I did. For—” He broke off for a few minutes. Waited to calm down before he said more.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen. It wasn’t murder. But I’m guilty and oh . . . Katie . . . God . . . can you forgive me . . . please?”

He went forward onto his hands and knees then and leaned across the grave and wept some more. At some point in his weeping he realized he wasn’t talking to Katie anymore. Instead, he was talking mostly to God again. Asking forgiveness. And finally breathing, actually breathing and feeling almost whole for the first time since the moment when, thrown out of a runaway wagon, he had crawled through the spring grass and embraced his wife’s lifeless body.

Matthew spent almost the entire night inside the fence at Katie’s grave. He wept and prayed and talked to Katie and to God, and as the eastern sky began to grow pale in a promise of dawn, he had finally poured it all out. He felt as if he’d been wrestling with some of those demons all night. Maybe he had. He’d never know for sure. But he knew one thing. The Matthew Ransom who closed the gate on Katie’s grave as the new day dawned was not the same Matthew Ransom who’d opened it the night before.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR

My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not. . . .
For their feet run to evil. . . .

PROVERBS 1:10, 16

R
umpled clothes and a face creased with dirt. An oversized hat sporting a dark ring of sweat around the crown. Boots with spurs. Sunburned hands. Ruth rose from where she’d been helping Sally select medium-sized cucumbers for a new batch of pickles. “Hello, stranger,” she said to the cowboy, then glanced at Sally. “Is it just my imagination or does this cowboy bear an amazing resemblance to my son, Jackson?”

“Oh, Ma.” Jackson flung himself down out of the saddle and administered a fierce hug. “We’re on our way back to the ranch,” he said, with a glance in the direction of his partner. “But Pete said I should make sure it’s still okay to stay on.”

Pete nodded. “Took us longer than I expected to cover the canyon territory. Figured you’d be worried about him.”

“There’s still branding to do, Ma. I want to stay on with the boys.” Jackson leaned close and muttered, “Please, Mother. They just quit calling me
Jacqueline.
If I don’t finish the job, they’ll never let me live it down.”

Pete shifted in the saddle. “Might be you’d want to ride up next week and see your cowboy bulldogging and branding.”

“I can’t imagine you’d want a bunch of ladies in the way when you’ve got so much yet to do,” Ruth said.

Pete grinned Sally’s way, then looked back at Ruth. “Well, ma’am. The fact is the boys would probably love an audience. Especially one as pretty as you all—if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Well, in that case,” Ruth said, “we’ll see if we can’t oblige.” She gave Jackson another hug. “Can you stay long enough for us to feed you?”

Jackson looked at Pete. With a slight shake of his head, Pete said, “Best be hitting the trail.” He nodded Jackson’s way. “You go on now and say hello to the other ladies. Just make it quick.”

As Jackson retreated toward the house, Sally said, “You boys have been gone so long I bet you don’t know about the new mercantile in Plum Grove. The Haywoods decided to have a big doin’s for the Fourth of July. Even a dance.”

Pete nodded. “The boys always head into town for the Fourth. We draw straws, and the short straws stay home to tend the place—and usually feel right sorry for theirselves.”

“The foreman doesn’t have to draw straws, does he?”

“Are you askin’ me for a dance, Mrs. Grant?”

“Well . . . what if I am?”

“What if I want more than just one?”

Sally’s face turned nearly as red as her hair. “Well, that depends.”

“On what?”

“On how often you stomp on my toes during the first one.”

Pete grinned. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

Jackson returned and, after another quick hug, climbed aboard Sam. Pete touched the brim of his hat. “I’ll tell the boss to be expectin’ company.” He grinned at Sally. “And start practicing my do-si-do.”

Jackson chirruped to Sam, and together he and Pete rode away.

“That boy is growin’ up faster than the big bluestem up on the hill,” Sally said.

Indeed he was. Ruth’s eyes misted over at the thought.

“I’m so sorry.” Hettie clutched her stomach and gave Ruth a private, knowing look as they entered the soddy with Caroline after morning chores. “I’d like to see Jackson bulldogging and branding and whatever else he said he was going to do. Really, I would. But I just . . . I just don’t think I should leave with so much to do in the garden.”

“I don’t mind staying behind, either,” Caroline said. “Someone needs to be here to tend the livestock and the chickens. Y’all go ahead. Hettie and I will manage just fine.”

Zita spoke from where she stood at the kitchen stove mixing up flapjack batter while Ella and Sally set the table. “I can stay, too.” She nodded at Ella. “You go on with Ruth and Sally.” She shook her finger at Sally. “Just see that you behave around that cowboy.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” Sally promised. “I’m savin’ my best stuff for the Fourth of July dance.”

“You’ve got a good vantage point from up there.”

Ruth looked back to see Lucas limping toward the buggy she’d drawn up to the corral.

“It was Pete’s idea.”

Lucas hauled himself up beside her as he asked, “So what do you think of your little boy now, Mama?”

“He’s a completely different young man. Just as you predicted, he’s much more confident, and amazingly unafraid.”

“Oh, I think he’s still afraid.” Lucas nodded to where Jackson stood in the middle of the corral trying to rope a calf for about the eighth time. “But he’s learned to go ahead and do what needs to be done in spite of it.”

“Then I’d say he’s learning the real meaning of bravery.”

“Just like his mama did.” Lucas leaned back in the buggy seat and stretched. “Wah Lo’s missed having a lady around the place,” he said. “He’s been grumpier than usual ever since you and Mrs. Raines left us. How is Hettie? I’m sorry to see she didn’t come along.”

“Caroline and Zita stayed with her. I’m afraid Hettie’s not very well. She’s having trouble keeping anything down. And she was already so thin.”

“When’s the baby expected?” At Ruth’s look of surprise, Lucas smiled. “Wah Lo doesn’t keep things from me.”

“Christmas, she says.”

“You might ask if he has anything besides the tea he sent home with you before.”

“Thank you. I will.”

Jackson finally got a rope around the calf. The animal bolted and nearly dragged him onto his face, but while the cowboys standing around the corral whooped and hollered encouragement, he stiffened both legs and held on until he’d regained control. Finally, he managed to bring the calf down. The watching cowboys cheered and threw their hats in the air while another wrangler applied the brand. Jackson looked her way. Ruth waved and applauded.

“Not exactly what you had in mind for the boy, is it? Ranching, I mean.”

“I’ve been thinking about just that,” Ruth said, “ever since he and Pete stopped by at Four Corners. What I
really
had in mind was for him to be happy. I didn’t expect it to happen this soon. Or this way. But what was it I heard Pete say the other day? ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’ ”

Lucas laughed. “Good for you.”

“The only thing I’m worried about now is that he’ll be bored silly when he comes back to Four Corners. We’ve got a little more in the way of livestock to tend—thanks to a certain rancher who won’t listen when he’s told what to do—but Four Corners is a far cry from a working ranch.”

“Well, that’s one of the reasons I climbed up here beside you, ma’am. What would you say to my giving the boy a start on a small herd? Say, a half dozen cows due to calve in the spring. There’s good grazing on part of your place. They’d do fine. Eventually Jackson could keep the difference between the market price and what he’d owe me for his start. I’d like to make it a gift, but I’m thinking you’d throw a fit. Besides, if it’s a gift, then he doesn’t learn just how hard it can be for a man to keep himself alive, let alone support a family out here. If things go well, he wouldn’t have to depend on his ma’s selling her place to give him a future.”

He glanced at her and shrugged. “Who knows? Nebraska could grow on you. You might decide you don’t want to sell out and move on.”

“I don’t suppose that while you’re helping Jackson learn about life, those cows grazing on Four Corners might possibly take up with a few stragglers from the Graystone Ranch?”

Lucas chuckled. “The possibility had crossed my mind. But only
after
the idea popped up of getting Jackson a little start of his own.” He paused. “If I’m overstepping, I’ll back down. But I like Jackson, and I probably won’t ever have a chance to help my own son—”

“I don’t know why not,” Ruth said. “You’re still a young man. Heavens, you could have a
dozen
sons in as many years.”

Gray cleared his throat. “Well, ma’am, the last time I checked, that kind of thing required a wife.”

Keep it light. Tread carefully.
“The last time
I
checked you didn’t seem to have any difficulty attracting ladies. The only reason Caroline didn’t come is she didn’t want to leave Zita and Hettie alone. And don’t forget that I was on that train and have been witness to your charms.”

“Yeah, well—” He shook his head. “Nearly killing myself showing off made me realize that my ‘charms’ weren’t nearly as charming as I used to think.” He paused. “In fact, I’ve changed my mind about a lot of things since that night. Being completely unable to control the future is a sobering thing for a peacock.”

“I hate to tell you this, Lucas, but you’ve never been able to control the future.”

He chuckled. “Ah, but now I readily acknowledge the fact. As to the rest, it took thirty-one years, but I think I’ve finally matured to the point where I realize that love-at-first-sizzle can end badly. In fact, it probably isn’t real love at all.”

Ruth glanced at him. He was looking straight ahead, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. Was he regretting the way things had begun between him and Caroline and wishing she were here . . . or thinking about the woman he’d called out to in his feverish dreams? She cleared her throat. “I’ll have to speak with Ella and the others about the cattle, but I can’t imagine anyone will object. We’ve talked about running cattle on one quarter, but with Jackson over here, there wasn’t anyone to keep track of them, and there’s no fence up yet—” She sighed. “There’s always so much to do.”

“I don’t want the idea of Graystone cattle grazing your land to be an issue. If you have any hesitation about that at all, then never mind about any other cattle besides Jackson’s. How about you ladies talk it over and you can let me know . . . maybe at the dance on the Fourth? You might even reserve a dance or two—assuming, of course, you don’t mind a partner with a limp.”

Her heart thumped. He wanted to dance with her?
To talk business.
She nodded. “I suppose I can put up with a limp. For the sake of business.”

“Good. And as long as you’re in the mood to say yes, is there any chance you’d walk over to Hannibal’s corral with me right now? I want to test a theory.”

Ruth frowned. “I’ve seen quite enough of Hannibal
and
his handiwork. And didn’t you just tell me you’ve learned your lesson when it comes to showing off? Only a fool would try to ride that creature after what he did to you.”

“Who said anything about trying to ride him?” Lucas shook his head. “No, you’re right on that score. Hannibal is going to live out his days entertaining the ladies and being generally spoiled. But he’s still got a bad attitude about life, and the last time you were here—well . . . please. Indulge me.” He slid to the ground and held out his hand.

Ruth let him help her down. “I’m warning you. At the first sign of his charging the fence, I’m hightailing it in the other direction.”

“Fair enough.”

Together they walked through the swirling dust and away from the activity in the branding corral. “Clyde Day couldn’t do a thing with him. I stepped in and put an end to his more . . . intense methods. But—” Lucas stopped. “There. See that?”

“See what?” Ruth frowned. “He isn’t doing anything.”

“Oh, but he is,” Lucas said. “He was causing a ruckus until just now. Now he’s watching
you
.”

Ruth shuddered and stepped back—inadvertently into Lucas. He put his hand at her waist. “Don’t be afraid.” He was standing so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck. She began to blush like a schoolgirl. “Take a step forward,” Lucas said. “I’m right here. I won’t let anything happen.”

She stepped forward. The horse turned his head to one side. She took another step. He put his head down. Then he stepped forward.

“Here,” Lucas said, his hand still at her waist. “Stop right here.” They were a few feet from the fence. Hannibal watched. “Say something to him.”

“What should I say?”

“Try ‘hello,’ ” Lucas teased.

“Well, hello, you worthless bit of horseflesh,” Ruth said. “I personally think the man behind me should be feeding you to the coyotes after what you did to him, but—” Hannibal’s head came up. His ears came forward. He took another step. And whickered.