Sycamore Hill (20 page)

“Don’t count on that!” Jordan’s assured voice came from behind me,
turning quickly to a taunting laugh.

Another week flew by. As dawn was peering her brilliant golden
head over the hills, I set my breakfast dishes into a low pan and poured
scalding-hot water over them. Adding a dash of soap, I scrubbed away the
residue of my customary scrambled-egg and bread breakfast. I set the old
chipped crockery on the table to drain and stepped to the back door and tossed
the tepid water out.

Coming back into my warm room, I saw Orphan stretching from her
tightly curled sleeping position. She cast me a disgruntled look.

“Good morning, you little beggar,” I said cheerfully. I was in the
habit now of carrying on one-sided conversations with the cat. “Sorry if I
disturbed your majesty, but I’ve got to get an early start to Eden Rock if I
want to be back here by two o’clock to clean the schoolhouse.”

Orphan, now well nourished and overindulged with affection,
stepped sedately from her commode drawer and glided across the room to rub
against my skirt. The cat’s long, black tail stood at attention as she arched
her sleek back and let out a low rumbling of satisfaction. I leaned down and
scooped her up, nuzzling the cat against my neck and stroking the satin back.

“Your milk dish is next to the stove, lazybones,” I told the
purring animal, which stretched up its neck for my fingers to scratch. “Now,
why don’t you do your share of the work around here and catch those mice that
are walking around at night? Hmmm?”

I set Orphan down next to the milk dish and watched for a moment
as she began to lap. It was silly, perhaps, but I had become very attached to
the stray cat. I smiled slightly as I thought what people would think if they
could hear me talking to the animal in the lonely hours after the children had
gone home.

Orphan paused in her meal and sat down. Licking a paw slowly, she
wiped her face, clearing away the beads of milk that had collected on her long
whiskers. Then she went back to work on the milk.

I stacked several books together, including a new novel that
Bradford Dobson had sent as a gift, then bent down to give Orphan a last
scratch behind the ears before heading to the livery stable to get the horse.

Charles Studebaker had taught me how to saddle and bridle the
gelding when I had explained that I liked to take early-morning jaunts each
Saturday. When he had looked at me curiously, I had quickly explained that I
needed the exercise and the solitude after a week of working in close quarters
with 62 children. He had seemed to understand then, grinning and nodding his
gray balding head, his eyes twinkling.

“Frankly, ma’am,” he’d said with a chuckle, “I’d understand if you
rode that horse straight out of California.”

Several homes showed wood smoke coming out of kitchen chimneys.
Some hens were cackling in a small coop at the back of a white house. Main
Street was quiet, however, and I proceeded quickly to the livery stable before
I could be detained by some chance passerby.

Feeling ridiculously happy, I walked with a swing to my skirts,
smiling to myself. Sycamore Hill was becoming home to me. I was still having my
tussles with stiff James Olmstead. I still carefully plotted my Bible study so
that the fire-breathing Reverend Hayes could find no cause for complaint. But I
was also making friends. Emily Olmstead, in spite of her husband’s
discouragement, always greeted me cheerfully and chattered inanely but
entertainingly. Charles Studebaker, Marba Lane, and even dubious Ross Persall
were friendly acquaintances who might possibly later develop into more. Reva
Gutierrez and Diego were still slightly in awe of me, but would gradually lose
that stiff formality.

Passing by the boarding house, I looked up and thought with
special fondness of Ellen Greer, my closest friend in town— my closest friend
in all my life. The old lady was often difficult, but she offered me
stimulating companionship for at least one short visit each week.

My thoughts turned to Jordan Bennett. I did not want to admit to myself
that I was looking forward to seeing him today. There was no guarantee that I
would. After last Saturday’s argument he had sent in a ranch hand to escort
Linda to and from school.

The horse was saddled and waiting for me in front of the stables.
Surprised, I looked past the horse to see Charles Studebaker covered by his
work apron and pulling a redhot horse shoe from his forge. He looked up and saw
me. He gave me the high sign and then shoved the shoe back into the forge.

“Morning, ma’am,” he called, coming out of the shed toward me.

“Good morning.” I smiled back, taking my saddle bag and securing
it to the cantle.

“What you got in the saddle bag?” he asked, showing the curiosity
of a friendly neighbor.

“Books,” I answered as I managed to get astride without too much
difficulty. Since I was rather adept with a needle, I had altered one skirt
into a culotte for riding. It was not the most ladylike way to travel, but I
did not have the time nor inclination to learn to use a sidesaddle.

“Looks like you got quite a few in there,” he observed. “You going
anywhere in particular?”

“Just riding,” I said, remembering Ellen Greer and Jordan
Bennett’s warning, and knowing only too well my precarious position with the
school board. “I thought I’d do some school lessons this morning.”

“Someplace where it’s quiet, you mean,” Studebaker said, “and
there’s no chance of interruption.” He gave me a brief wave as he turned back
to the shed and his work.

I enjoyed the morning ride as I turned west and rode through the
flat meadow that preceded the rolling hills. Meadowlarks sang, while sparrows
dipped and soared. Once I even spotted a tall-eared jack rabbit bounding for
cover in the high, pale grasses.

The jarring walk of the horse no longer bothered me and I let my
body relax with the rhythmic walk. Remembering my first ride to Eden Rock, I
smiled. At least I would arrive with more dignity now. I had learned the
horse’s weakness and had developed a firmer hand.

Quickening my pace, I narrowed the distance between town and Eden
Rock. Ahead of me I saw the ranchhouse and outbuildings stretched out against
the hills. Several men were driving a small herd of horses in from the hills.
Turning toward the house, I drew my gaze from the riders to the peaceful,
wisteria-covered veranda. Reva Gutierrez had seen me and was already appearing
at the front steps with a welcoming wave.

“Buenos días,”
I called and Reva laughed delightedly.

“I did not know you spoke Spanish, Miss McFarland,” she said
teasingly, and I grinned.

“You’ve just heard the extent of it!”

Reva was wearing a crisp white blouse with colored embroidery work
around the square neckline. The long dark skirt was smooth over her slender
curving figure. She looked very pretty and I felt suddenly drab and
unattractive. I was several years younger than Reva Gutierrez and yet I felt
older and less alive.

“If you would like to learn, I will teach you,” Reva offered. I
smiled.

“That sounds a marvelous idea. And there are other things you can
teach me, Senorita Gutierrez. I would like to know all about
El Día de los
Muertos.”

Reva looked pleased. “We will talk much... later. First, we must
drag Diego from the corrals. Jordan is breaking horses today and Diego loves to
watch.
Ven conmigo,"
she signaled me to follow.

Walking with Reva, I looked about the neat ranch complex. The barn
doors were open and I could see a man working inside, pitching hay into the
horse stalls. Riding gear was hanging on the wall. Going past the barn and
around to the right, I could hear excited voices shouting encouragement and the
sound of a horse battling furiously, whining and snorting in outrage at the man
on his back.

Reva stepped up onto the fence railing to watch the scene. I moved
closer and gasped as I saw a huge sorrel stallion rear on its hind legs and paw
furiously at the air while twisting its head fiercely against the bit. Jordan
Bennett was astride and grinning like the very devil.

Coming down onto all fours again, the stallion bucked back and
forth, twisting frantically to remove the man from the saddle. Jordan moved
with the horse easily, shifting his weight to maintain his expert balance. He
seemed part of the animal, even his expression mirroring the wild, untamed will
as his arm rose and fell with the movement of the stallion.

Moving closer yet, I stared through the rails of the fence
fascinated. Horse and rider bolted closer and I jumped back, sure the two were
going to pitch right over the railing on top of me. For just an instant,
Bennett’s narrowed eyes caught my rounded ones. The stallion, sensing his
rider’s momentary lapse of attention, whirled suddenly to the side and sent
Jordan heaving through the air into the dust.

“Jordan!” I cried out, pulling myself up on the fence next to
Reva. My heart lodged in my throat as I stared down, sure that I would see him
broken and dead in the dust, or being trampled by that rogue of a horse. But he
was up almost at once. Dusting himself off with his hat, he glared at the
prancing, snorting horse as ranch hands needled him.

“Hey, boss. That ain’t like you to get tossed like a babe,” one
shouted in friendly banter.

“The sorrel isn’t as easy as you thought, eh, Mr. Bennett?”
another called.

Several men had already jumped down from the fence to help Jordan
trap the furious stallion. One man made a leap and grabbed the animal’s rearing
head, reaching hastily up to hold tightly to the ear. The stallion made a lunge
tossing the man up but unable to break him loose. The bared teeth snapped shut
just missing the man. The other cowboys held tightly to the saddle while Jordan
vaulted up again. The three ranch hands let go at once and made a ran for the
fence before the infuriated animal could trample them.

More cheers broke the quiet morning air. Jordan’s face was fierce
with determination. He never once glanced my way again and I felt curiously
hurt. I prayed that he would not be killed and suddenly without the least doubt
I knew that I loved him.

The contest between man and animal continued, with neither gaining
from the other. The magnificent stallion snorted, pawed, bucked and kicked to
be free of the man now once again grinning with obvious enjoyment of the
animal’s spirited challenge. Minutes passed and I watched in awed silence,
hardly able to breathe. Once I thought the stallion intended to ram Jordan
against the fence but turned back as Jordan set the reins whipping into his
hind quarters, making him veer away at the last instant.

Tiring, the stallion reared again and again, lower each time. Then
it began to gallop in wider circles around the corral. Jordan let the horse
have its head and then after a while drew in the reins slowly, but firmly. The
animal slowed and finally came to a prancing stop.

Still maintaining his masterful hold, Jordan pulled back slowly.
The stallion snorted fiercely and yanked hard, but was unable to break Jordan’s
grip. Then, the horse stepped back trying to ease the pull on its mouth. One
step and then another. It was what Jordan wanted, and satisfied, he loosened
the reins slightly, pressing his knees against the stallion’s sweating sides.

The stallion moved forward again, controlled and heeding the
rider’s command. Jordan rode the horse around the corral again several times
and then finally drew the animal in and dismounted. I expected him to look
exhausted, but he looked invigorated, blue eyes shining as he swept the
perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand.

The animal was breathing hard and shook its head, showing that its
spirit was still intact, though curbed by this one man. Moving to the
stallion’s head, Jordan dug into his pocket and pulled out some treat for the
animal. I held my breath again, expecting the stallion to take a large bite and
a couple of fingers off Jordan’s hand. But the animal’s nostrils quivered, and
it accepted the lump of sugar, allowing Jordan to stroke its soft nose. I
breathed again. Smiling, I felt proud of Jordan Bennett, even knowing I had no
right to feel that way.

Sitting at the table in the kitchen, I insisted on helping Reva
shell peas for the ranch hands’ dinner. Diego was working on a test in another
room.

“Your hands are as quick as mine,” Reva commented in some
surprise, watching me split a pod and shoot the young peas into a bowl with my
thumb, then flick the shell into a nearby waste dish.

“I’ve had my share of practice.” I laughed, flicking another empty
pod away and picking up a full one.

“You have?”

“Why should that surprise you?”

“Oh, something Jordan said to me last night about Boston ladies,”
she admitted casually, her own hands moving quickly. I stiffened slightly, but
managed to maintain my light smile as I worked on. The thought of Jordan
Bennett making disdainful remarks about me during a quiet evening with his
mistress hurt unbearably.

“Is Mr. Bennett that well versed in Boston ladies?” I asked
disparagingly. Gwendolyn Bracklin-Reed Bennett hardly qualified him as an
authority on the breed, I thought agitatedly.