The Rancher Inherits a Family Read online

  “I’m proud of you, too, Miss Brewster,” Tate said.

  Harper nodded, but looked to his older brother to see what else he had to say.

  “You did all those very same things. And you have to be a grown-up besides.”

  Marigold blinked back the sting of tears at the boy’s sensitive words. It wouldn’t be good to blubber in front of them when they were expecting her to be an adult. She cleared her throat before she spoke. “When we’re not at school, I’d like it if you called me Marigold. It’s the name of a flower. Did you know that?”

  Harper grinned and Tate shook his head.

  She reached up and ruffled their hair. “Why don’t you go put Peony’s leash on her and take her outside for a while? Hold on and don’t let go.”

  “Okay!” They ran ahead of her to the door.

  Seth stood from the chair where he’d overheard their conversation. “It sounds as though you had a successful first day.”

  She joined him in the shade and they both seated themselves. “No one cried.”

  Her face was flushed, and he’d seen her hold back tears at Tate’s words. “But it was close,” he said.

  “I had no idea the school would be so well-appointed. It’s as modern as the school where I taught in Ohio.”

  “You can have anything brought in by train if you can afford it, and Cowboy Creek has a thriving economy, what with the stockyards, ranches and prosperous businesses. The town founders saw the possibilities and enticed merchants, tradesmen, cattlemen, brides and families—and all those couples and families need schools and churches. Women and children turn houses into homes and towns into communities.”

  “What about you? You said your father was a rancher back in Missouri. What happened to that land?”

  “That depends on who you talk to.”

  “You said your father was killed, but that happened before the war started.”

  “There was no body, but I believe he was killed. He was a leader in the community. Times were tough. There was drought, and a lot of the ranchers were in trouble and took out loans from a man named Zane Ogden, using their ranches as collateral. What they were unaware of were the penalties and ruinous interest payments they turned up owing. Several times my father tried to talk to Ogden on behalf of the ranchers. When my father turned up missing, Ogden produced loan papers with my father’s signature, claiming he’d borrowed against our land. The sheriff agreed it was my father’s signature.”

  “Was it?”

  “I don’t believe my father would have risked our land. Russ thought differently. And Adam got angry with both of us for not fighting harder to have the loan papers canceled.”

  “What happened?”

  “I had to pay back the loans or leave. I sold off a section of land. Mother sold jewelry and furnishings, and we scraped together enough to save the ranch. Russ was in school at the time, and there wasn’t enough left to pay his tuition.”

  “But you kept your stock?”

  “Yes, but the war broke out. Army bought the horses. Nothing left for the ranchers to do but let their cows go to fend for themselves. We sent Mother to Philadelphia and then joined the army.”

  “What about the land? Your home?”

  “There were so many cattle roaming Texas after the war that they were worthless everywhere but in the north and east. Dewey and I ran a few herds from Texas to Colorado and built up some savings.”

  He said it matter-of-factly, but the arduous and dangerous task had undoubtedly been rife with struggles. “And that’s where you met Comanches.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I wouldn’t say ‘met.’ They stampeded our cows and tried to kill us. We fought back and eventually got away. Had to start that herd all over again. Mother was safe and content with her brother’s family during those years, but eventually she wanted to be near her own children again. When Russ sent word about this place, I sold the land in Missouri and sent for her.”

  “So you’ve known Dewey since after the war?”

  “No, Dewey worked for my father. I’ve known him since I was a boy.” With his arm pressed to his side, Seth stood. Apparently, the talk was over and he had a mission. “After supper we’ll start lessons.”

  “Riding or shooting?”

  “Shooting. Put on boots suitable for standing in a field.”

  She stayed seated and looked up at him. “I’m guessing there’s no use arguing?”

  “You got that right, teacher.”

  Chapter Five

  Dewey had gathered tin cans and old bottles, and lined them up on stacks of crates on the east side of a pasture.

  Marigold looked over the revolvers lying on the piece of canvas Seth had unrolled. “Have you given your mother these lessons?”

  “My mother was a rancher’s wife before I was born. I’m guessing her father taught her how to ride and use a gun. If not, my father surely did. You can ask her.”

  She wiped her palms on her skirt.

  “Pick up each one and find one that feels right in your hand,” Seth instructed. “Your hand should fit up high on the grip, and your knuckle needs to wrap over the trigger.”

  The revolvers were heavy, and none of them felt right, but she chose one.

  “Does your knuckle joint bend over the trigger?” he asked.

  “I think so.”

  She showed him and he approved of her choice. “It’s a Remington army revolver. First, I want you to learn to plant your feet and hold the gun steady. Lean forward slightly to counteract the kick of the gun. You’re going to look down the barrel and find your target.”

  She leaned too far forward and he corrected her with a gentle alignment of her shoulders. “That’s good. Look along the top of the barrel, and get your target in line. Your goal is to pull back the trigger so smoothly that the firing mechanism ignites and fires the bullet. If you jerk or move, the bullet won’t go where you want it to. Focus on releasing the trigger as smoothly as you pulled it back. Go ahead and fire a few shots so you know what it feels like. I don’t expect you to get your first shots on target until you know what I’m talking about.”

  She glanced at him. He gave her an encouraging nod. She held up the revolver, hoping she remembered everything he’d told her. Her hand trembled, and she lowered the gun. “There’s so much to think about. How can you remember all this? When those Comanches were shooting arrows at you, did you think about all this?”

  Behind them Dewey chuckled. “Purty sure he was thinkin’ ’bout shootin’ ’em faster before they put any more holes in ’im.”

  “Shooting becomes like anything you’ve done hundreds of times,” he assured her. “It’s like putting on your boots or signing your name. Once you’ve done it repeatedly, it’s second nature.”

  She couldn’t imagine shooting a gun would ever be second nature, but she understood the importance of learning, so she lifted the revolver again. Once she had a shiny bottle in her sites, she pulled back the trigger. The gun jumped in her hand. A plume of dust spat far to the right of the crates, and the explosive sound startled her.

  “That’s good. You have five more shots before you have to reload, so just get the feel of it. We’ll work on aim as we go.”

  Seth patiently taught her how to load bullets into the chambers, and after reloading several times, she asked, “Are you sure there’s not something wrong with this gun?”

  He took it from her, raised it, cast and all, and fired six times in a row. A neat line of tin cans flew back into the weeds. He turned the butt toward her. “Reload.”

  She met his eyes, and couldn’t suppress a grin. “Apparently it’s not the gun.”

  Dewey cackled and found himself a spot to perch on a fallen log well behind them.

  She opened the cylinder and loaded the chambers.

  “You’re doing just fine,” Seth told her in
an encouraging tone. “You’ll get the feel of it.”

  “Even if I get good at hitting cans, I don’t know how I’d be able to shoot a person.”

  “Might be a snake you need to shoot. Or a coyote. But if someone was a threat to you or to the boys, you’d be able to shoot. You can shoot to wound without killing.”

  Her arms grew tired after several more rounds, and Seth apparently recognized her fatigue. He rolled up the guns, and they headed back to the house. “Tomorrow you’ll learn to saddle a horse.”

  Yes, because this has gone so well, she thought, and resigned herself to another challenging day.

  * * *

  “There’s a reception planned for Sunday afternoon,” Evelyn told Marigold when they were preparing the evening meal the following day. “You and the other new women will be officially welcomed to Cowboy Creek.”

  Marigold finished peeling potatoes and started them boiling. “What do you do with the peels?”

  “There’s a pail outside the back door. Scraps go into the compost pile for the garden.” She set plates on the table. “You can let your cat out of your room if you like. She can have her freedom in the house.”

  “You wouldn’t mind? She doesn’t shed terribly, but she does lose a little fur.”

  “I have to sweep every day anyway, what with those two men and now three boys. What’s a little cat hair?”

  “I’ll try letting her out of my room for a little while and see how she does. Thank you.”

  Once the meal was ready, Seth came inside and Dewey showed up freshly washed. They seated themselves and Marigold ushered the boys to their places on benches. It was the first time they’d all sat around the table together and Seth had joined them inside.

  Seth and Evelyn sat with their hands in their laps. “We’re going to say a blessing over our meal now,” Evelyn said.

  “Bow your heads like Seth is doing,” Marigold told the boys.

  Tate and Harper obediently lowered their heads, but Little John watched wide-eyed as Seth prayed.

  It had been many years since Marigold had heard her father’s deep voice lifted in thanks to the Lord, and Seth’s prayer vividly reminded her of the many good years during her childhood.

  She’d helped provide the same safety and comfort for her niece, creating a little family for the child whose father had rarely been around. She had wonderful memories of Violet as a toddler and a small girl. She’d doted upon her, felt important and needed. But all that had come to an end. When Daisy had died, she’d written letters and sent telegrams to her brother-in-law because she’d known it was the right thing to do, but she’d secretly been relieved when he hadn’t responded. She’d let herself fall into the hopeless dream that she and Daisy would be a family forever. But then—

  “Marigold?” Evelyn, holding a bowl of beets, brought her out of her reverie. She quickly put a small portion on her plate and passed the bowl.

  Evelyn cut Little John’s chicken into bite-sized portions and stirred his potatoes. The child sat on a wooden stool Dewey had cleaned up and brought in from the soddy.

  The meal and their conversations all seemed so commonplace, but she knew better than to take anything for granted or get used to these familial occasions. Seth and his mother and Dewey had been together for years, and now the Radner children were officially in his care and part of his family. She was an outsider, here for a brief stay before moving to another student’s home.

  “You’re getting around well now, Seth,” his mother said to him.

  “I’m feeling better.”

  “Do you want to sleep inside tonight?”

  “No. I get up during the night, and I don’t want to disturb anyone.”

  “Is sleeping uncomfortable?” Marigold asked.

  He nodded. “Some.” He glanced at Tate on his left and Harper between Dewey and Marigold on his right. “We’re going to saddle up tonight.”

  “We getta ride the horses?” Tate asked. “I want a big black one.”

  “The mares are the gentlest,” Seth told him, “and they’re mostly brown.”

  “What about Marigold?” Harper asked. “Is she gonna ride, too?”

  He met her glance. “Yes, and I have a special horse for her.”

  “Is this like the revolvers?” she asked. “I pick the one that feels the best?”

  “No. I picked one for you.”

  Her arm and shoulder were sore from yesterday. “I can hardly wait.”

  “Peony is going to have her freedom in the house,” Evelyn told them.

  “Please watch that she doesn’t get outside,” Marigold asked. “I only take her out on a leash. I don’t know what she would do.”

  “She’d be a barn cat,” Seth replied. “We have several of those around here.”

  “She hasn’t even seen another cat since her brothers and sisters,” Marigold reminded him. “And she’s never seen a horse or a chicken. She’d be terrified.”

  “Don’t worry so much,” he said. “Animals are smart.” He placed his napkin on the table. “I’ll have coffee later. We’ll get to our lesson.”

  “I’ll help with the dishes,” Marigold said.

  “No, you go on with your lesson,” Evelyn told her. “I can clean up the dishes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Evelyn got up and waved at her. “Shoo.”

  Dewey, Tate and Harper hurried ahead. Marigold and Seth followed, Little John between them, and reached the corral. Seth opened the gate with one hand.

  “What’s that horse, Seth?” Tate asked.

  “She’s a paint. I brought her from Missouri.”

  “She’s purdy,” the lad replied.

  Dewey caught the multicolored horse and walked it toward the rail Marigold hugged. With his good arm, Seth reached for the animal’s halter and brought her close. “This is Bright Star. Go ahead and let her get your smell.”

  Tentatively, Marigold reached out, but when the massive animal nuzzled her hand, she jumped back.

  “She likes her forehead rubbed here. And you can stroke her neck. She’s a fearless and gentle girl. Don’t be afraid.”

  With her heart beating in terror, Marigold did as he asked. The beast stood silent and still, occasionally flicking her ear.

  “Get her used to your voice,” Seth said with a nod.

  “Oh. All right.” She focused on the beast in front of her. “Well, hello. We don’t know each other, but Seth thinks we should fix that.” Bright Star’s ear twitched again. “I, uh, I guess we’re going to be friends. Do you like poems? ‘High waving heather, ’neath stormy blasts bending, midnight and moonlight and bright shining stars. Darkness and glory rejoicingly blending, earth rising to heaven and heaven descending...’”

  * * *

  Seth didn’t know whether to be amused or impressed by the schoolteacher’s bravado. She stepped up and met every challenge presented to her. He’d chosen Bright Star for her because the mount had seen him through difficult times. It was sure-footed and built for endurance, while also being trustworthy, calm and gentle. Bright Star trusted him, and therefore would make an excellent first horse for this first-time rider, because the animal would sense the importance of this responsibility.

  “‘Man’s spirit away from its drear dungeon sending, bursting the fetters and breaking the bars.’”

  Marigold was feminine, but she was no wilting flower. Seth was relying upon her height, her untapped strength and innate desire to learn and prove herself. “I think she likes poetry. Who wrote that?”

  “Emily Brontë.”

  Definitely more charmed than amused, he nodded. “Now she knows your voice.” He instructed her to stand on a stool and flatten the hair on the horse’s back, then throw a blanket over and smooth it out. “It’s important there’s not the slightest wrinkle under that saddle. Even if a gentle mount su
ffers in silence, pain will keep it from listening to your commands. Your horse depends on you to use a good-fitting saddle and make it comfortable. None of my animals fight the bridles or saddles. A horse that knows the tack is painful will fight letting you put it on.”

  He had Dewey demonstrate how to lift the saddle and use his hand to protect the horse’s withers as he settled it. Marigold got the saddle on right the first time. He leaned back and raised his eyebrows in appreciation, and she gave him a half smile. Seth showed her how to tighten the cinches and check the straps.

  While Bright Star stood saddled and waiting, he instructed her on mounting. After several awkward hops, she figured it out and sat atop the horse. A sheen of perspiration glowed on her forehead, and tiny corkscrews of red-gold hair formed at her temples. Her hazel eyes were bright when she glanced around, looked at the horse beneath her and then down at him. “I did it!”

  “Yep, you did.” He held the reins and led her around the corral at a walk.

  Tate sat atop the fence and waved. Across the enclosure, Dewey led Harper and Little John on the back of a spotted gray mare named Frances.

  “You’re going to walk her around yourself now,” Seth said and handed Marigold the reins and instructed her how to use the reins and her knees to guide Bright Star. “In a few days, you’ll be riding outside this pen.”

  She walked the horse around the interior a couple of times without a problem and reined in beside him. He instructed her how to swing her leg over the horse’s back—the same way she had when getting up—and then step to the ground. “She’ll stand right there for you.”

  She got her leg over, but lost her confidence and started to slip off. With his good arm, Seth caught her from behind and eased her to the ground. The delicate orange-blossom essence that was part of her hair and clothing stirred his senses. She was strong and soft and trembled ever so slightly in his one-armed embrace. Her feet reached the dirt, and she turned to him, her face inches from his, her eyes wide with surprise.

  He took a step back.