A Groom for Gwen
Author
Jeanne Allan
Reads
18.5K
Chapters
11
Chapter 1
SLOUCHED against the building, Jake watched the woman come down the street. With her yellow hair, she was pretty as a bald-faced heifer. Somehow Jake knew when he cut the right trail, although Michaels never told him.
Michaels. No first name, just Michaels. The man looked like a greenhorn in his boiled shirt and derby. Jake thought of him as a kind of trail boss for the Almighty, but Michaels was unlike any bible-puncher Jake had known. Those preachers could plumb tucker a man out with their palaver about brimstone and damnation. Michaels, on the other hand, didn’t say much, but his piercing blue eyes told Jake that Michaels had experienced more than most men would know in a dozen lifetimes. Those same eyes saw right though a man’s hide and counted all his sins.
Jake had plenty of sins to count, he thought, idly admiring the long, graceful legs striding toward him. No sashaying for this woman. Women rigged out in pants no longer startled him, and he studied her from head to toe with masculine appreciation. She was on the slender side, but she had enough womanly curves to please. Jake had never been partial to the big-bosomed women his brother Luther had liked hanging on him. He wished he could see the eyes hidden behind them dark cheaters—sunglasses, they called them now—that everyone wore. From the look on her face, the woman was making a powerful sight of thinking about something more than the tyke in her arms.
Michaels said this was the tenth time. The tenth and last. Then Jake could present himself at the Pearly Gates. Jake was tired of evil and war and killing and stupidity and greed. Over a century had passed since Jake’s time, and mankind had learned nothing. Sometimes Jake thought he didn’t even care if he went upstairs or down below. He just wanted out of it. No more anger, sorrow, frustration, worry or caring. He wanted, once and for all time, to simply cease to be.
He’d tried to tell Michaels how he felt, but the other man had already gone. Jake hated that. Michaels came and went like a ghost. Maybe Jake did the same. If this was ten, that meant he’d done nine jobs already, but those jobs, those people, had faded from his memory.
His memories came from his real life.
If people like him had memories.
Funny, what he knew and what he didn’t know. Jake knew he’d been gunned down in 1886 while relieving a bank of the responsibility of storing so many banknotes. He didn’t know why he hadn’t been tossed in the hellfire down below. Michaels never answered questions. He simply sent Jake back to earth to help people.
People like the woman drawing near. Jake straightened and tipped his hat.
The August wind blowing off the high Colorado plains made a mockery of her once neatly combed hair. Gwen blinked the grit from her eyes as a crumpled piece of paper blew across the Trinidad street and bounced off her grimy canvas shoe. Dust coated her face. So much for bucolic fantasies. Someone should have warned her country living meant wind and dirt and grasshoppers. And smells. Not once had she seen a painting of cows which included cow patties. It was dishonest, is what it was. Not that she was so stupid she couldn’t figure out what went in had to come out.
Head bowed against the wind, she muttered, “Insanity, thy name is Gwen Ashton.”
Crissie giggled, and tightened her grip around Gwen’s neck.
Gwen gave her niece a look of mock reproach. “A big girl who’s going to be four years old on her next birthday ought to be walking instead of being carried like a baby.”
“I tired,” Crissie said matter-of-factly.
“What a shame. I thought we could have some ice cream, but if you’re too tired to walk, you must be too tired to eat.”
The little girl wiggled. “I want down.” On the ground, she beamed a beatific smile at her aunt. “Strawberry ice cream?”
Gwen shuddered ostentatiously. “Strawberry. Yuk.” The way the dust swirled around them, they’d be better off ordering chocolate so the dirt, which was bound to stick to the ice cream, didn’t show. Not that a little dirt would be such a great disaster. Compared to the rest of the day, a little dirt on ice cream could almost be considered a blessing. And she could certainly use a blessing or two.
“Howdy, Ma’am.”
At first the slow, deep drawl didn’t register. She didn’t know anyone in Trinidad, Colorado, except Prudence. Gwen reminded herself she wasn’t living in Denver anymore. Here, everyone probably greeted strangers. Not to reply would be rude. Fixing a polite smile on her face, she turned to the man standing in the shadow of the storefront. He was tall, forcing her to look up past a broad chest and wide shoulders. The smile froze on her face.
The man belonged in a picture book about outlaws and desperadoes. He hadn’t shaved in recent history, and dark stubby whiskers accentuated a squared-off jaw which appeared to have been hewn from granite. A devil-may-care smile curved his mouth, but the gray eyes beneath heavy dark brows stayed cool. Gwen managed to say hello.
He removed a battered wide-brimmed black felt hat, revealing shaggy, coal-black hair. “Jakob Stoner, Ma’am. Call me Jake. I guess you need a cowhand.”
Gwen clutched her purse with one hand, and Crissie’s hand with the other. “Where did you hear that?” Silly question. City folk, jammed one on top of the other in town houses and apartments had privacy. In rural communities news didn’t need wires or microwaves to travel faster than the speed of light or whatever traveled fastest.
He shrugged. “Word gets around.”
It wasn’t much of an answer. “Did Prudence tell you I’m looking for a new ranch hand?”
“Prudence?” Amusement gleamed briefly in his eyes. “Ma’am, I don’t think working for you and your husband has anything to do with prudence.”
“I don’t have a husband.” Gwen immediately cursed herself for saying so. Why didn’t she just tell him she and Crissie lived in the middle of nowhere, her nearest neighbor resided miles away, and her ranch manager was ill and her only other ranch hand had walked out during the night? The lock on the ranch house door didn’t work. the only weapon in the house was an antique buffalo gun which she wouldn’t know how to shoot even if it was loaded, and her idea of self-defense was to call a cop if she saw a suspicious-looking stranger. She had no clue how to handle the tall, dark, dangerous-looking man who stood on the sidewalk in front of her.
“You’re hurting my hand,” Crissie complained.
Gwen released Crissie’s hand, but before she could sweep her niece up into her arms, the man squatted down to Crissie’s level. “Howdy, pardner.”
“I’m Crissie,” the little girl announced. “Not pardner.”
“My name is Jake.” Setting a much-traveled duffel bag on the ground by a beat-up saddle, he solemnly held out his hand. “Howdy, Crissie.”
Gwen wanted to snatch Crissie’s hand away. Common sense stopped her. Desperate criminals didn’t carry luggage and saddles. They didn’t abduct nobodies in broad daylight in the middle of town. All she and Crissie had to do was walk away.
At the sight of Crissie’s small. white hand swallowed up by the large, tanned hand of the stranger, a painful surge of memories swamped Gwen. In her mind’s eye she saw Dan marveling at the tiny perfection of his newborn daughter’s hands and feet. Monica painting tiny fingernails outrageous shades of fuchsia and lavender. “Crissie.” The child’s name caught on the painful lump in Gwen’s throat. “We have to go.”
“Is he gonna get ice cream wid us?” Crissie asked.
“I plan to have the biggest vanilla cone you ever did see.”
“I want vanilla.” Crissie immediately abandoned her prior preference for strawberry.
“Let’s head for the ice cream parlor, pardner.” He released Crissie’s hand, replaced his hat, and reached for his saddle and bag.
“Just a moment, Mr. Stoner.”
He must have heard something in Gwen’s voice because he left his things on the sidewalk and stood tall, facing her. “My pa was Mr. Stoner. Since I’ll be working for you, Ma’am, you call me Jake.”
Gwen ignored the slow, confident smile. “You won’t be working for me, Mr. Stoner. I don’t hire a perfect stranger.”
He shook his head, saying ruefully, “Ma’am, the last thing I’ve ever been is perfect.”
As if that were any recommendation. “Mr. Stoner,” Gwen said evenly, “Prudence Owen, the attorney handling the probate of Bert’s estate, is finding me an employee.”
“I don’t think so, Ma’am. If she was, you wouldn’t need me.”
“I don’t need you,” she snapped.
“You need me. That’s why I’m here. You need a cowboy.” He picked up his gear. “I’m a cowboy.”
Did he think she was a complete idiot just because she’d never lived on a ranch before? A ranch was nothing more than a business operated outdoors, she repeated to herself for about the millionth time since she’d moved down here. A business about which she knew less than nothing, as became more evident with each passing day. Maybe around here ranchers hired help on such a casual basis. She shook her head, saying under her breath, “Oh boy, Toto, I’m not in Kansas anymore.”
He heard the last words. “You come from Kansas?”
“Denver,” she said curtly. And almost wished she were back there. But that thought led to too many wishes which could never be granted.
“City of the Plains.”
“What?” Her sinuses must be so plugged with dust, they were affecting her hearing. Or pressing on her brain.
“Denver. We used to call her the ‘City of the Plains.’”
Gwen took a deep breath and tried to take control of the conversation. She’d hired strangers before. “Why did your former employer let you go?”
“You mean the people I helped before? I left because they didn’t need me anymore.”
Translation: fired. Downsizing, country style. She had a feeling he didn’t have letters of reference. But ranch hands did appear to have their own network. One cowboy in need of a job. One brand-new ranch owner desperately in need of a cowboy. Prudence had howled with mirth when Gwen suggested contacting an employment agency for a ranch hand. When the pretty lawyer finally quit laughing, she said she’d spread the word that the Winthrop ranch needed hands. This cowboy may not have talked with Prudence, but he’d evidently gotten the word.
Gwen scrutinized the man standing easily in front of her. Nothing about his clothing countermanded her impression that a very dangerous man stood before her. No satin shirts or embroidery or sequins for this man. She could only surmise his faded shirt had once been black and the rose-colored scarf tied around his neck had been red. A scarred brown leather belt cinched worn blue jeans around a narrow waist. Leather chaps made his legs look a million miles long. His boots were worn down at the heels and she’d bet they’d never seen a lick of polish.
The squint lines fanning out from the comers of his eyes attested to a life spent working outdoors. Real cowboys didn’t have to be bow-legged and spit chewing tobacco. He could be a down-on-his-luck cowboy whose empty pockets had dictated he sleep out of doors the past few nights. He might look less lethal if he shaved.
He patiently endured her inspection, but she was under no illusion that he awaited her conclusions with any anxiety or doubt. He clearly intended to work for her no matter what she thought. This man had a high opinion of his worth. And he knew who had the greater need. His quiet assurance irritated her. “I’m sorry you lost your last job, Mr. Stoner, but I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere for a new one. I need some kind of reference or assurance a person knows one end of a cow from the other end before I would considering hiring him. Goodbye, Mr. Stoner, and good luck.” It startled Gwen that a man so relaxed could get his muscles moving so quickly. One second he was beside the building, the next he stood in front of her barring her way.
He held out his hands, palms up, and pointed to a weal running across one palm. “Rope bum. I was twelve and roped an old mossy back steer who had other ideas. I was just stubborn enough to insist he go along with my plans.”
She couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Did he?”
“Eventually.” He stretched out a crooked middle finger. “Broke that when I tried to ride a horse who preferred I walk. This—” he pointed to a scar on the back of his other hand “—is where a Texas cow took exception to me getting between her and her youngun.”
The strong, rugged hands fascinated Gwen. No way could she see those hands operating a computer or elegantly holding the stem of a wineglass. Not that the long fingers, the unbroken ones, that is, didn’t have an elegance about them. She could see those fingers soothing a timid colt or a nervous mare. She could see them stroking naked skin. An image Gwen quickly shook off. “If you think your catalog of injuries serves as an adequate resume, you’re sadly mistaken. You’re clearly unqualified to work on a ranch.”
“I’ll have to respectfully disagree with you there, Ma’am. I’ve had lots of experience. And experience is the best teacher.”
He had an answer for everything. If she wasn’t careful, she’d find herself hiring this modern version of outlaw Jesse James. The truth was, she needed someone who knew cows and horses better than she did. A classification which covered most of the world’s population. The solution came to her in a flash. Prudence. “As I told you, Mr. Stoner, Ms. Owen is doing my hiring. We’ll go over to her office right now, and see if you can satisfy her as to your qualifications. Not that I’m making any promises about hiring you,” she added hastily.
He gave her an amused look. “You’ll hire me.”
Prudence took in her stride Gwen’s reappearance, this time with a cowboy in tow. “Have you any identification?” she asked briskly after Gwen explained their visit.
The man hesitated, then patted his back pocket before slowly pulling out his billfold. He handed it to the lawyer without a word.
Prudence extracted the plastic-coated license and quickly scanned it. “This seems to be in order.” She handed the billfold and license to Gwen.
Gwen silently read the information on his driver’s license. Jakob Carl Stoner. Six feet, three inches tall. Black hair. Gray eyes. She quickly computed his age. Thirty-one. That surprised her. For some reason, something about his eyes, she’d thought him older. Slotting the license back in his billfold, she glanced up to catch a puzzled look on his face as he stared down at his billfold. A look quickly erased as he noticed her looking at him. Had he expected her to count his money or snoop through his credit cards?
Prudence asked Jake Stoner a number of probing questions. His answers seemed to satisfy the lawyer. Thanking him, she asked the man to wait out in the reception area.
“Well, Gwen,” she said as soon as the office door closed, “I’d say you found yourself a cowboy. How did you happen to stumble across him?”
“Stumble is the right word. He was waiting for me down the street. You must have started calling people right after I left here earlier.”
Prudence frowned. “Actually, I’ve been so busy, I haven’t had a chance to make any phone calls.” Her brow smoothed out and she shook her head. “I’ve lived here most of my life, and I still can’t believe how quickly everyone knows everything that’s going on.”
“You really think it’s okay to hire him? You don’t think he looks kind of dangerous?”
The lawyer laughed. “I think he’s such a hunk I wish I needed a cowhand.” She sobered. “He seems to know ranching, and you’re darned lucky to find anyone on such short notice. Try him for a few weeks, and see how things work out. If you want, I’ll keep looking for another hand for you.”
Gwen could hardly say the man made her nervous, so she agreed to try him and stood up to leave.
Prudence leaned back in her chair and pointed a fountain pen at Gwen. “I think what it is, you’re used to city boys. This, my dear, is a man.”
Gwen didn’t need a lawyer to tell her that.
Closing Prudence’s door a little more sharply than she intended, Gwen carefully slid on her sunglasses. “All right, Mr. Stoner. I’ll hire you on a trial basis. One month. If your work is satisfactory, we’ll discuss a long-term arrangement.”
“I’ll be here as long as you need me.”
The words were innocuous enough, but somehow he invested them with deeper meaning. As if he meant more than the fact she needed an employee. As if he knew something she didn’t know. She narrowed her eyes behind her dark lenses. “What does that mean?”
“I’m a man who has to drift. I’m just passing through. When you don’t need me anymore, I’ll leave.”
“I’m not interested in hiring a transient,” she said sharply. “I’ve already had one employee run out on me. He didn’t even have the courtesy—or nerve—to face me. Slipped a note under my front door last night. I found it this morning. He went to Wyoming. How do I know you won’t do the same?”
The man met her eyes, his gaze clear and steady. “I’ll stay as long as you need me. I always do.”
Rod Heath’s eyes had been shifty, looking everywhere but at her. Gwen wanted to believe Jake Stoner. She had no choice but to believe him. “All right,” she said slowly. “When can you start?” Please, she thought, let it be now.
He held out his hand. “Soon as we shake on it, Ma’am.”
She didn’t want to shake hands with him. She didn’t want to touch him. The realization disconcerted her. She’d shaken hands with thousands of men in the course of business. Shaking hands with Jake Stoner was no different. Slowly she accepted his extended hand. An electric current zipped up her arm as his work-roughened palm closed around hers. Jake Stoner was more than the hunk Prudence had labeled him. He was overwhelmingly male. Gwen retrieved her hand. If she knew one thing, it was that Jake Stoner spelled trouble. And he worked for her.
He gave her an odd look, but said only, “I’ll get my gear.” Then he laughed softly and nodded across the room.
Gwen followed his gaze, and her breath caught in her throat. She’d left Crissie with Prudence’s receptionist while she consulted the lawyer. Now the child lay sprawled on the floor, sound asleep, one arm curved around an enormous yellow dog.
The dog opened his eyes. One blue eye and one brown eye stared at Gwen. She stood very still, not daring to breathe. Crissie sucked contentedly on her thumb, her head resting on the cowboy’s saddle. Gwen prayed her niece wouldn’t accidentally annoy the dog in her sleep. Quietly she asked, “Whose dog is that?”
“Mine.” A burly man turned from his conversation with the receptionist. “Mack won’t hurt her. He loves kids. My wife took off for California with my boys. She isn’t coming back and refused to take the dog. I can’t take care of Mack, so I have to take him to the pound. Too bad, really. He’s a good dog, but almost five years old. People want puppies.”
Gwen gave the huge dog a second look. “What is he?”
The man shrugged. “Near as I can figure, part husky, part golden retriever, and maybe some mastiff or Great Dane. He’d make a good watchdog for your little girl. He’s housebroken,” the man added quickly.
Gwen walked toward Crissie. The dog raised his head, giving her a fixed look. “You’re sure he’s friendly?”
“Oh, sure, he won’t hurt you.”
“Move, Mack. I need to wake up Crissie. Be a good dog, Mack.”
The dog slid out from under Crissie’s arm and rose to his feet. He gently nudged the sleeping girl. She opened her eyes and giggled. “Mack tickles.” She stood up. “Look, Gwen, he likes me. The man said he can come home with me.”
“He’s been fixed. I got his shot records, his bowls and most of a bag of dog food out in the pickup,” the man said hopefully. “I sure hate to think of ol’ Mack getting put down. People want puppies.”
“So you said.” Gwen had no intention of taking the dog.
“Mack’s my new bes’ friend.” Crissie hung on to the dog for dear life.
Gwen eyed the dog dubiously. He seemed to like Crissie, and he might be protection for the young girl. Gwen glanced at Jake Stoner. And for her.
His mouth twitched. “I’ll get Mack’s gear out of the truck.” As he passed Gwen, he said in a voice pitched for her ears alone, “With a dog of that size, you won’t have to worry about me attacking you in your bed.”
So he wasn’t just a cowboy. He was a mind reader, too.
Mack sat in the back seat with Crissie as they headed east out of Trinidad. After eating his ice-cream cone in two gulps, the dog had covetously eyed Crissie’s cone, but to Gwen’s relief he hadn’t snatched it from the little girl. Gwen decided to overlook Mack’s licking the ice cream residue off Crissie’s face. Crissie hadn’t minded. The child had wholeheartedly adopted the dog. Maybe keeping him wouldn’t be a total disaster.
“Kids on a ranch can get lonely.” Jake Stoner read her thoughts again. “The dog’ll make a good playmate and watchdog. You didn’t make a mistake taking him, Ma’am.”
“If the dog doesn’t work out, I’ll take him to the dog pound myself.” Out of the comer of her eye she saw the amused skepticism on his face. “I will. And don’t call me ma’am.”
He laughed. “You’re stuck with the dog and you know it. I don’t recall you ever got around to telling me your name.”
“Gwen Ashton.”
“Ashton. Your family been ranching around here long?”
“No. I inherited the ranch from a client of mine.”
Ah.
Gwen heard a wealth of meaning in the simple response. “There’s no ‘ah’ about it. I don’t care what you’ve heard, Bert and I were friends. Nothing more.”
“I haven’t heard anything. Why don’t you tell me?”
She didn’t need to explain anything to an employee. “I’m a Certified Public Accountant. I worked for a firm up in Denver, and became acquainted with Bert when I started doing his taxes.”
Glancing at the puffy white clouds piling one on top of the other over the dark mesa to the south, Gwen thought again how the stark beauty of this countryside went a long way toward explaining how Bert Winthrop, so conscientious about caring for his livestock, could set new standards in lackadaisical when it came to the paperwork involved with running his ranch. All the tax preparers who’d washed their hands of him probably never left their sterile cubicles to breathe deeply of the country air.
“He left you his place because you showed him how to get out of paying the government what he owed?”
“He left me the ranch because I love it as much as he did.” Beside the road sunflowers turned their faces to the sun. “I love the beauty and I love the history. I loved hearing Bert talk about his family pioneering out here on the high Colorado plains. They homesteaded and survived grasshopper plagues, Indian scares, bank failures and the ‘Dust Bowl’ years when the drought was so severe most of the topsoil blew away. Generations of Bert’s family were born, lived, and died on the ranch.” Gwen smiled reminiscently. “Until I met Bert, I never thought before about history as being someone’s uncle or aunt or grandfather. Some of his family actually came out here by way of the Santa Fe trail. Some fought in a Civil War battle down in New Mexico. Did you know there’d been a Civil War fight out here? I didn’t.”
“The battle of Glorieta Pass.”
“That’s right. And one of his ancestors hauled freight from a foot in New Mexico to a place up north of here on the railroad.”
“Ft. Union to Granada.”
“You must be interested in history, Mr. Stoner.”
“I’ve picked stuff up.”
“I never realized how fascinating it could be. Some of Bert’s relatives kept journals, and I’ve been reading them. Bert had roots and family which goes back over one hundred years in this area.” She slowed the car to make a turn. “I love the journals and wouldn’t part with them for a million dollars. I offered to make copies for Gordon, but he’s not the least bit interested. Not in them.”
“Who’s Gordon? Your ex-husband?”
“I’ve never been married. Gordon Pease is Bert’s nephew. He’s convinced I manipulated Bert into leaving me the ranch. That I took advantage of a senile old man. If he’d spent ten minutes with Bert in the past year he’d know the last thing Bert was, was senile.”
“What was he?”
“Lonely, I suppose.”
“So you were kind to him.”
“Bert wasn’t a pathetic old man who needed befriending,” Gwen said indignantly. “He enriched my life.”
“He left you a ranch because you listened to him?” Jake Stoner asked, skepticism filling his voice.
“He left it to me because he knew I’d love it. Bert married late, and his wife Sara died early. Bert should have remarried, but he didn’t, and all that’s left of his family is Gordon. Gordon moved to Colorado about five years ago and moved in with Bert for a short time. According to Bert, Gordon hated the ranch and everything about it. Gordon only wants the ranch because he thinks he can sell it and make a bundle.”
“You plan to sell it?”
“Never. All my life I’ve dreamed of my own home. A big house with a white picket fence. My dad was in the Air Force, and my mom would no more than get unpacked and it was time to pack up again. Mom and my brother Dan loved it, but not me. I wanted to settle. Mom says I take after my Grandmother Ashton. Both my grandfathers had itchy feet. They were always quitting their jobs and moving on to where the grass was sure to be greener. Grandmother Ashton hated it. She used to show me pictures and tell me about the home she grew up in back in Missouri.”
“With a white picket fence?”
“The fence is symbolic,” she said impatiently. “Putting down roots, that’s what counts. A place where a person belongs. So that no matter where you go, you know home is waiting for you to come back. I want a home which records our lives. I want marks on the wall showing how tall Crissie is at five and ten and fifteen years of age. I want to know that whatever weather I’m dressing for now, I’ll be dressing for the same weather five and ten Augusts from now. I want Crissie to be able to plant a tree and watch it grow for years and years.” Gwen gave an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry. My brother used to say I was a little irrational on the subject. It probably sounds stupid to a man like you who doesn’t like to stay long in one place.”
“There was a time when I considered settling down myself. Not too far from here. Even built myself a nice little place and...”
Gwen pulled into the ranch yard and parked the car. Then she turned to see why Jake Stoner hadn’t finished his sentence. He was staring in astonishment at Bert’s house. Her house. “I know it looks a little strange,” she said defensively, “but I like it. The earliest part dates from the early 1880’s, and every generation of Bert’s family added on to it. This is a house with character.”
Jake Stoner stepped out of the car and pivoted slowly on the heel of his boot, scanning the landscape. Squinting into the sun he methodically studied the various ranch buildings one by one. His gaze lit on the small stone house where Lawrence Hingle and Rod Heath, the ranch employees, had lived, then moved on to the earliest section of the main house. “I’ll be double-dog damned,” he said in quiet disbelief. He looked around again, eyed the mesa in the distance, and roared with laughter.
