Chapter 5
“Iwas there at the station yesterday, believe you me,” called Stephen McDowell over the sound of the wagon wheels.
He drove a farm cart, not a carriage as she might have expected.
Perhaps, she thought, he wasn’t so wealthy as all that.
It was a strangely comforting idea. “But the train was late, they said. So I was all set to come back today—just got caught up in work, and next thing I knew I was late. Then I couldn’t find you, and it wasn’t until Jeff at the saloon said he’d seen you being marched off with that lunatic fool Morrow that I had any idea where you might have gone.
” He was quiet for a moment. “I guess,” he said, “the jail cell wouldn’t have been the first place to look, anyhow. ”
She stifled a laugh.
“I should hope not.”
The saloon—he had been there too, evidently.
So it was just as Rhett Hammond said; everyone in West Hope drank at the saloon, and that was what he and this rancher had in common.
The thought of Rhett was inevitable; in fact, she had been thinking of him about every ten seconds, regular as clockwork, though she’d managed to keep the sound of his name echoing in her mind down to a dull roar, suitable for conversing over.
“Although I wasn’t the only one in the jail,” she ventured, feeling as though she couldn’t help herself—it was out of her hands.
Her mouth always tended to run away with her, and why should today be any exception to the rule?
After all, she’d already traveled to California and been arrested by the deputy.
“There was a man there—a young fellow. Did you know him?”
Stephen’s face settled into a grim expression.
“I know him,” he said. “Matter of fact, I put him there myself. His name is Rhett Hammond. I hope he didn’t bother you none.”
She studied her fingers, laced together and resting in her lap, with every evidence of innocence.
“No,” she said, guarding her tone, “he didn’t bother me. What do you mean, you put him there? Don’t tell me you’re a deputy, too!”
“No—though I ought to be, I’d do a better job than Morrow would! Ahh, I’ve got too much work as it is.” He sighed. “I put him there because I caught him red-handed on my ranch. Rhett Hammond is a cattle rustler.”
She blinked up at him.
“He’s a what?”
“A cattle rustler. Varmints who come in when an honest rancher is asleep, away, or otherwise unaware or occupied—comes in and sneaks off with as many of the cattle as they can herd away without gettin’ caught.
But some of ‘em do get caught, thank the Lord, and Rhett Hammond is one of ‘em.” He looked as though he wanted to spit every time he said Rhett’s name.
Lyla studied him, her mind racing. Could the pleasant, slightly flirtatious young man she’d met in the jail really be as distasteful as all that?
“I won’t say he’s the worst of ‘em. The trouble is there’s just too darn many as it is.
The other ranchers and I, we try to catch ‘em whenever we can and turn ‘em in to the sheriff. But Sheriff Edwards has other irons in the fire, and the deputy—well, you’ve met Morrow.”
He shook his head. Perhaps, Lyla thought, he simply appeared as though he wanted to spit as a rule, on a regular basis. Or he disliked Deputy Morrow as much as he disliked Rhett Hammond.
“They say cattle rustlin’ ain’t such a big deal compared to other crimes, and if they’re caught before they steal the cows, then they’ll let ‘em go. Hammond’ll be an exception, I reckon; he’s been seen enough on ranches where he doesn’t belong and has been caught selling horses that don’t belong to him, so he’ll spend some time in that jail cell, never you fear. ”
He was reassuring himself, she supposed; she wasn’t the least bit worried about whether Rhett Hammond would spend enough time in jail or not. On the contrary—it would be far more entertaining if he were let out at once…
“Is it really so bad?” she said. He turned a rather outraged expression on her, and she hastened to explain. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to imply that it isn’t, or—well, one way or another. It’s just that there isn’t much of it in New York City, so I don’t know much about it.”
The tenseness in his shoulders eased a little, and he gave a rather begrudging nod.
“Guess you wouldn’t,” he said. “Well, Miss Partridge, cattle are king around here in West Hope—and throughout the Central Valley. I reckon it’s king in most parts of Texas, too, and other places through the West. But here in West Hope, where I was born and raised, it’s the center of everything—the center of our lives.
Everyone here is involved somehow. Ranchers like me—or the townsfolk who sell us our goods… ”
“Or the rustlers,” she said softly. “Yes, I see.”
“And it’s gettin’ harder and harder for a man to make a livin’ from cattle, with the competition goin’ sky high and the returns not bein’ what they used to be.
” The more animated he became on what was evidently his favorite subject, she discerned, the thicker his accent grew.
It was strange, to contrast how much his voice took her aback, when she had rather liked the sound of Rhett’s voice, accent and all…
With difficulty, she pulled herself back to the present moment in time to catch the rest of his rant.
“And if that Bartholomew Starkey thinks that he can step in on my turf and steal my clients out from under me just because his stock had five sets of twins this year, then he’s got another think comin’.
” He gave a snort that seemed to suggest that he had reached the end of his diatribe and nudged her gently with one elbow. “There’s the house, see? Right ahead.”
She sat up straight, feeling her eyebrows gradually rise as the full magnitude of the McDowell ranch house hit her.
It was enormous. Three stories high, sprawling, beautiful—was she meant to manage it all on her own? He must plan on having a dozen children to fill those rooms! And a dozen, she suspected, would not even come close.
“The old family home,” he told her, grinning in obvious appreciation of her reaction. “Well, about a third of it is, anyhow. I added on over the years.”
She found her tongue.
“Why?”
He didn’t appear the least bit taken aback by her frank questioning.
“Seemed like the thing to do,” he said, shrugging.
“There are about half a dozen live-in staff, so you needn’t worry on that account.
Sarah Dalby’s my housekeeper, and she runs a tight ship.
We’ve got twice as many ranch hands, too, and bring more on as we need ‘em. They live in those bunk houses back there. Over there’s the barn—and to the west, east, and north, the fields.
You can see some of the stock. Look. See those black dots way out there? ”
She shook her head, marveling.
“Mr. McDowell…”
“I reckon you’d better start callin’ me Stephen right off the bat, Miss Partridge. Everyone does.”
She put a hand on his arm, lightly.
“Stephen,” she said, and managed a smile. “I had—no idea your home was this…grand.”
His grin was a little sheepish now.
“I know,” he said. “I didn’t tell the matrimonial agency, and that was on purpose.
Folks around here know that I’m—well, I’m wealthy.
The richest rancher in the county, by far—biggest in the Central Valley, and maybe more than that, too.
Maybe in the whole state. Now, folks in West Hope are good people.
Don’t misunderstand me. But I wasn’t keen on marrying into another ranchin’ family and havin’ them expect to be allowed part of the spread. ”
She gaped at him slightly.
“You—you wouldn’t consider marrying someone out of fear that you would have to give something to their family?”
“Now, when you say it like that, it sounds downright terrible. That ain’t what I mean at all, Miss Partridge.”
She saw at once that she had offended him—and, she thought ruefully, with reason. As usual, her mouth had worked more swiftly than her mind. She touched his sleeve again, just lightly, and said, “Please, call me Lyla.”
“Well, all right, if you want.”
“And I’m awfully sorry if I sound ignorant. I’m sure I just don’t understand the…the nuances of things. After all, I’m not from around here.”
Her placating worked wonders, and his smile returned.
“No, you sure ain’t,” he said. “All the way from New York—and just to marry me! Well, Miss—I mean, Lyla—I sure hope you ain’t disappointed.”
She shook her head, feeling as though her eyes would never be opened wide enough to take in all the beauty, and the wealth, around her.
“No,” she murmured. “I’m not disappointed.”
But she was confused. She’d prayed for three days before accepting this match—hoping against hope that the good Lord would send her where she belonged.
And here she was, in the midst of a spread that was owned by a man of such fabulous wealth that he could likely buy out all the owners of the textile factory she’d worked in back home—yes, and throw Albert Woods out on his ear, if he had a mind to!
She was one of the only people she’d ever known who had never been taken in by the promise of wealth.
How impossible it seemed that she should end up married to a man so rich that…
Well, that it made other men into desperadoes.
The difference between men like Stephen McDowell and men like Rhett Hammond struck her like a valise full of books.
Cattle was king, Stephen had said, and he evidently meant it.
She had never had much money to her name, goodness knew, but neither had she ever felt compelled to turn to crime and steal things that didn’t belong to her.
Cowboys and criminals—the way the deputy sheriff had marched her off to the cell on just the word of the mayor’s son—was everything unfair in California, then?
Or was it just West Hope itself?
Stephen did not allow her much time for any deep pondering.
He pulled the cart up in front of the house and leaped out, throwing the reins to a weathered hand who was waiting on the veranda.
In a moment, moving with more alacrity than she might have expected from a man his age, he was standing before her, smiling up at her, holding out his hand.
“Come on, Miss—Lyla. Now that you’re here, I’m awful excited to show you around.”
To show the place off, she supposed he meant—but there was nothing wrong with a man taking pride in his home, after all. And if he had truly worked to build this all up from only a third of its size, he had reason for pride indeed.
Biting her lip and managing a smile, she gave him her hand and allowed him to help her down to the ground.
As the sun sank ever closer to the horizon, the tour of the house and grounds was little more than a whirl of places and information in her mind.
But shining clearly through it all was one thought—I wonder whether they will let Rhett Hammond out of jail soon?