A Rancher Of Convenience. Regina Scott
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was sick, except he could see her from his post, going about her chores of washing and working in the vegetable patch. She didn’t ask him to stay behind in the mornings and teach her either.
She was hiding in the house the same way she’d done when her husband had first brought her home as a bride. He didn’t think that boded well for her acceptance of his proposal, but he wasn’t about to badger her over the matter. That surely wouldn’t make her any more amenable to the idea.
Given her retreat, he was surprised to find a note waiting for him in the barn when he, Upkins and Jenks returned from working the next day. The Windy Diamond had bunks for a small contingent of hands. More workers were generally hired during branding in the spring and roundup in the fall. The barn had a stall for a milk cow and a coop for chickens plus a wide room at the back with bunks, a long table and a cook stove, counter and storage.
Over the past year, Hank had grown accustomed to the room, which always smelled like beans, leather and saddle soap. Jenks never made his bunk, and the narrow bed was crowded with a wad of colorful blankets and bits of leather, horse hair and string the youth intended to make use of. Upkins was always complaining about how the sixteen-year-old made room for every barn cat that wanted a place to hunker down for the night.
The veteran was more fastidious—blankets tucked in at right angles and smoothed down flat, hat hung on a peg above his head and belongings stowed in a trunk that slid under the bed. Hank slept on the top bunk above him and tried to keep things neat, if only to prevent them from falling on Upkins below.
He didn’t much care about his belongings, except for the quilt. He’d won it in a raffle to raise money for the new church that was being built in Little Horn. In truth, he wasn’t even sure why he’d bought all the tickets to win the thing. It was pretty and warm and sweet. All the local ladies had stitched at it, and he knew some of the carefully placed threads had been put there by Nancy. She’d been so determined to help raise the money. What man could resist those big hazel eyes?
Still, the folded pink paper sitting on the table was at odds with the mostly masculine setting. Hank could only hope it wasn’t a note dismissing him from his post for his bold suggestion.
“What’s that you got there?” Upkins demanded as he came into the room.
“Looks like a love letter,” Jenks teased, flopping down on his bunk and setting the lariat he was braiding to sliding off the blankets.
Hank ignored them, reading the politely worded note before tucking it in his shirt pocket. “Mrs. Bennett wants to see me.”
Upkins scrunched up his lined face. “She wants a report, most like. You can tell her the herd is hale and hearty.”
Jenks nodded. “Good water, good grazing, no sign of trouble.”
Hank nodded too, though he thought trouble was likely waiting for him, at the ranch house.
He cleaned himself up before answering her summons, and if he tarried over the task neither Upkins nor Jenks berated him for it. It wasn’t often a respectable lady requested a cowboy’s company. His friends no doubt thought he was slicking down his hair, shaving off a day’s worth of stubble and changing into his best blue-and-gray plaid shirt and clean Levi’s to make himself more presentable. He knew he was just delaying the inevitable.
His steps sounded heavy without the chink of spurs as he climbed the steps to the porch. Shaking a drop of water off his hair, he rapped at the front door and heard her call for him to come in. With a swallow, he opened the door and stepped inside.
It was the second time he’d been invited into the ranch house, and he still thought it didn’t look like Nancy Bennett lived there. Oh, it was neat as a pin, the wood walls painted a prim white and the dark wood floor scrubbed clean. But the entryway had only a mirror and a brass hat hook to brighten it, and the parlor leading off it, with its dual chairs flanking a limestone fireplace, looked as if no one stayed long enough to muss it up. Surely a house that Nancy lived in would have more charm and warmth.
“Back here,” she called, and he followed the sound of her gentle voice down a hallway that led toward the rear door. Three closed doors lined the left wall, and, near the back of the house, a doorway opened onto a wide kitchen.
And Nancy Bennett glowed in her kingdom. He could see her reflection in the silver doors on the massive black cast-iron stove on the back wall, smell the savory results of her efforts from one of the two ovens. How she must take pride in her own hand pump so she didn’t have to go outside to fetch water, and the big pantry lined with shelves where preserves glittered in the lamplight.
But nowhere was her touch more evident than on the long oval table that stood in the center of the room. The expanse was covered with a lacy white tablecloth dotted with shiny brass trivets, a pair of rose porcelain candlesticks dripping crystal and a china vase full of daisies. The entire affair was surrounded by a dozen high, carved-back black walnut chairs. Lucas Bennett must have been expecting company or hoping for a passel of children, because he’d never invited his hands to sit at that table.
Nancy was standing at the head now, wearing a blue dress with green trim, reminding Hank of a clear summer sky and good grass.
“I thought you might join me for dinner,” she said, “so we could discuss your proposal.”
He had a feeling his nerves would make the delicious-smelling food taste like straw, but he nodded. “I’d be honored.”
She smiled, making his legs feel all the more unsteady. “Go on,” she urged, nodding to the foot of the table, where a place had been set with silver cutlery and a crystal glass of lemonade. “I’ll just set out the food.”
His mother had taught him never to sit in the presence of a lady unless the lady sat first. So he stood awkwardly while she carried a tureen of stew smelling of garlic, a basket of biscuits piping hot from the oven and a pot of apple-and-plum preserves to the table and laid them all out on the trivets. Then she gathered her skirts and sat, and Hank sank onto the chair and gazed at her through the steam.
“Shall I say the blessing or would you like to?” she asked.
He could barely swallow much less recite a prayer. “You go ahead.”
She closed her eyes and clasped her hands. “Be present at our table, Lord, be here and everywhere adored. These mercies bless and grant that we may live in fellowship with Thee. Amen.”
“Amen,” Hank managed.
She served him, filling a plate and then rising as if to bring it to him. He leaped to his feet and rushed around the table to take it from her. Her brows went up, but she didn’t speak again until he’d returned to his seat and taken a few bites.
All the while thinking it was a crying shame he couldn’t enjoy the food more, because it was good.
“I’ve been considering your proposal,” she finally said, fork mixing the stew about on her plate. “And I have one question.”
“Only one?” he asked, smile hitching up. “I must have been more persuasive than I thought. Not that I was trying to pressure you,” he hastened to add. Why was it he could never say the right thing with her?
“You have been very kind,” she assured him. “What I want to know is why.”
His mouth suddenly felt as if he’d eaten sand for the last week, and he reached for the glass of lemonade and gulped it down. He knew why his nerves were dancing. Here was his opportunity to tell her the truth. Yet if he told her, would she allow him to make amends? The need to right the wrong he’d done was like a burning mass in his gut.
“I suppose I feel guilty,” he allowed, setting down his glass. “By reporting on the business of the league, I aided Mr. Bennett with his thieving. Seems only right to help his widow and child.”
Her gaze dropped to her still-full plate. “Not everyone would think that way. Lucas always said you and Mr. Upkins and Billy would ride on when you tired of the place. You marry me, Hank, and you stay here. This would be our