Chapter 6
The days seemed to fly by here in California.
How was it possible, Lyla wondered, when each day in New York had been filled to the brim with work and sleep, with scarcely enough time to eat?
And yet here on the ranch, she had leisure time whenever she cared for it.
Sarah Dalby ran the household just as Stephen had promised; she needed little input from Lyla.
None, in fact, though Lyla thought she ought to offer some all the same.
Of all the household staff, Sarah was by far the bossiest, and yet Lyla found she rather liked her.
She had a feeling they were kindred spirits, of a sort.
Someday, she hoped, she could convince Sarah to like her as well.
She was greatly amused by observing Stephen in Sarah’s company.
It was evident that the housekeeper was used to ruling the roost; Stephen’s behavior, his deference to her, stood in marked contrast to the commanding way he seemed to settle in with everyone else.
Would he ever show that sort of deference to Lyla herself, she wondered?
Perhaps after they were married. She wasn’t sure whether she would like it or not.
That side of Stephen seemed to belong to Sarah, and Sarah alone.
Oh, she just didn’t understand the rich, that was all! No two ways about it.
Still, she was glad enough to accept a visit to town after she had been in West Hope for a week. Stephen had intended to take her for a shopping trip; at the last minute, he found he had to stay at the ranch to attend to business.
“Sarah’ll take you,” he said. “She knows how to drive those horses just as well as I do. Maybe better.” He grinned. “Anyway, she knows her way around town just fine. And I’ll ride in as soon as I can and spot you two a bite to eat at the café if you’re ready and willing to be seen in my company.”
She couldn’t help the skeptical raise of her eyebrows.
“In your company?” she said. “Are you certain that you’re ready to be seen in mine, is all? I hear tell that one’s social status might go down several rungs on the ladder simply by conversing with me.”
The words were out as though she had heard them spoken recently, but it took her a full few seconds to remember who had spoken them. She desperately hoped Stephen didn’t notice the sudden blush that warmed her cheeks.
And indeed, he did not. He didn’t seem to be particularly perceptive about things like that—which she was grateful for at the moment, though she suspected it might come to be rather an irritation in time.
Instead, he laughed.
“Let’s just hope Mrs. Starkey, Mrs. Winlow, and her sister aren’t dining at the café at the same time,” he said. “Their respective husbands are my chief competitors, and they can cut you dead so’s you feel dead, if you catch my drift.”
Lyla wasn’t the least bit concerned about being cut dead by the socialites of West Hope and said so. Her husband-to-be gave her a relieved grin.
“That’s good,” he said. “I’m glad at least one of us feels that way.”
The drive into West Hope along with Sarah was quieter than Lyla would have liked.
The housekeeper responded to her questions in sentences that were short and to-the-point; when Lyla would have asked her to elaborate on a point of interest, the housekeeper shied back, fearful of stretching their already strained relationship.
As they drove into town, though, Sarah spoke unexpectedly.
“I hope you don’t think me too rude, Lyla.”
“Oh—no, of course not.”
“It isn’t as though I disapprove of Stephen marrying, or of you, for that matter.
But I reckon it’s goin’ to take me a little time to get used to havin’ a mistress of the house.
” She shot Lyla a sharp glance. “I know that it ain’t my home, not really.
But after all these years and never expectin’ Stephen to take it into his head to marry—it feels like I’ve lost somethin’, somehow. ”
Lyla took a deep breath. Now was the time, she knew, to proceed with caution, choosing her words carefully.
“I know exactly what you mean,” she said.
“And I feel it does you credit. It is your home, Sarah—has been far longer than it’s been mine.
Nobody wants to take that away from you.
Stephen depends on you—I’m sure that I will, too, as I get my feet under me.
” She blinked back sudden tears, which took her completely by surprise, and hoped that Sarah did not notice them or see them as a sign of weakness.
“After all, I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m doing. ”
It was a weak, poor speech, she thought—but it seemed to win the housekeeper’s approval, for she nodded, though she did not go so far as to smile.
“The sooner you take the reins, the better it’ll be for Stephen,” she said.
“He’s been reliant on me for far too long—another year as a bachelor, and there would have been no going back, I’ll be bound.
Here’s the mercantile.” She handed over a piece of paper, which Lyla took unquestioningly, without realizing the import of what was happening.
“Go on, then, Lyla—Mr. Barnes at the shop will help you with everything we need.”
Lyla gaped at her.
“But…aren’t you coming?”
Sarah sighed.
“It’s a mercantile,” she said. “I reckon they have those in New York, too. You’ve got to learn to take charge, Lyla Partridge, if you’re going to run Stephen’s household the way it ought to be run.
Besides.” She sniffed. “It’s been years since I’ve had the chance to sit still for a cup of tea at the café.
I’ve been lookin’ forward to it all mornin’.
” Now, seeing Lyla’s expression, she did smile. “Run along, Lyla. You’ll be all right.”
It was strange that something as simple as buying provisions for a household should seem so intimidating!
And yet, Lyla shied away from the mercantile’s front door as though it led to certain death—or embarrassment.
She wasn’t sure which would be worse. At last, as she listened to the cartwheels rattle away and realized, for once and all, that Sarah was not going to rescue her, she steeled herself and entered the mercantile.
There were shops in New York, of course—but they were nothing like this.
She was used to getting her meat at the butcher and other food items at the greengrocer’s down the street—when she and her mother could afford it.
But the mercantile was enormous, covering two stories, with every sort of item and product under the sun, as far as she could tell.
She stopped just inside the door and took it in for a moment, wordlessly.
The young man behind the counter called to her.
“Hello, miss—can I help you?”
There were a handful of others in the store, she noted dimly as she hurried toward the counter. She was conscious of curious gazes landing on her from every direction.
“Here is what we need,” she said, handing over the list. The young man eyed it for a moment, then eyed her—suspiciously, at first, but with growing appreciation. She groaned internally—not another bachelor!
“And who is all this for, might I ask?”
“Oh, I beg your pardon. The McDowell ranch.”
His brow cleared at once—and so, she noted, did his obvious interest in her.
“You must be Mr. McDowell’s affianced,” he said, smiling brightly, though a bit nervously. “Welcome to West Hope, Miss Partridge. I’ll package up your list—er…” His eyes ran down the paper thoughtfully. “It might take some time.”
With the first hurdle over and done with, Lyla felt she could afford to be generous.
“Take all the time you need,” she said, waving a hand. “I’ll just—um—look around, I suppose.”
Ducking her head again, she plunged into the depths of the store.
She had no desire to encounter anyone who might try to strike up an acquaintance; Stephen’s words about the ability of his name to cause cutting behavior had struck more deeply than she expected.
She held her breath until she reached the far end of the store, amid the dry goods.
Surrounded by shelves that rose nearly to the roof, she felt strangely safe and comforted.
Sighing, she stepped around the corner and nearly ran into the man who was standing there.
“Oh!”
“Shh,” he cautioned, putting a finger to his lips. Above that, his dark blue eyes danced. “Someone’ll think I’m turnin’ my hand to rustlin’ pretty women instead of cattle.”
She gaped at him, trying to ignore the fact that her stomach was doing somersaults.
“So, you did get out of jail!”
Rhett Hammond shrugged his shoulders, offering her an easy smile. He leaned against the corner of the wall, hands in his pockets—they were now a little hidden from the counter and removed from most of the other customers. No one could see them; she was almost certain.
The thought sent a flush of heat to her cheeks, and she felt strangely faint—but not, she noted, the least bit concerned.
“So, you did give a thought to my fate, after you left me there?”
She scoffed.
“Left you there—as though I had anything to say about it?”
“Looks like you have one of those rich ranchers in your pocket. You might have asked him for a favor on behalf of your old friend.”
“Old friend!”
“Shh!”
“What are you doing back here, anyhow?”
“Tryin’ to decide how many pounds of sugar I need for this winter’s fruitcake supply,” he said airily. “I’m hidin’ out, of course.”
“In the mercantile?”
“A man’s got to spend his time somewhere. Besides, the floor-to-ceiling shelves remind me fondly of the jail.”
“How did you get out?”
“You don’t know what I was in there for to begin with, Miss Lyla.”
“Oh, but I do,” she argued. “You were there for cattle rustling.”
“Is that so?”
“I have it on very good authority that it is.”
“Oh, well, that settles it, then. You should never argue with authority. I tried it once—and that’s how I ended up washing Deputy Morrow’s unmentionables for a month.”