Laurie Kingery - Mail Order Cowboy

Milly shrugged. “He isn’t really difficult, only set in his ways.” He hadn’t acted this way when Pa was alive, of course. And before the war he had cherished dreams of gaining the ranch by his son marrying Milly, or even Sarah. Milly supposed she couldn’t blame the man for wanting to enlarge his property by persuading her to sell out—and only time would tell if he had been right that a woman couldn’t manage a ranch.

Suppertime passed pleasantly. Nick Brookfield had perfect table manners and ate like a man with a good appetite, although not with the same fervor that Bobby displayed, as if he thought every meal would be his last. When it was over, he thanked them for the delicious meal, especially Sarah for the lightness of her biscuits, which brought a grateful warmth to her sister’s eyes.

“Perhaps you should tell me what I should be doing tomorrow,” he said to Milly, as Sarah began to clear away the dishes.

“I think I’ll let Josh do that,” she said. “Why don’t you go visit with him now for a while? Bobby can see to the horses and the chickens.”

“I will.” He rose. “Would it be all right if sometime tomorrow I went into town? I need to pick up my valise at the boardinghouse, and let the proprietress know I won’t be needing the room.”

“Of course,” she said. So he had taken a room at the boardinghouse before coming to meet her and the rest of the ladies, she mused. He’d intended to spend some time getting to know her. “Actually, we need sugar from the general store, if you wouldn’t mind picking it up. Oh, and perhaps some tea? Don’t Englishmen prefer to drink that?” At least, she thought she had enough egg money in the old crockery jar to cover those two items. She was going to have to scrimp until they had enough eggs to spare from now on.

“Coffee is fine, Miss Milly. You needn’t buy anything specifically for me.”

An hour later, he found Milly ensconced in a cane back rocking chair on the porch, reading from a worn leather Bible on her lap.

“What part are you reading?” he said, looking down at it. “Ah, Psalm One—‘Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful,’” he quoted from memory.

Her hazel eyes widened. “Were you a preacher, as well as a soldier and occasional field surgeon?” she asked, gesturing toward the rocker next to her in an unspoken invitation to sit down.

He sat, smiling at her question. “No, but my second oldest brother is in holy orders, vicar of Westfield. They’ll probably make him a bishop one day. Any Scripture I know was pounded into my thick head by Richard when I was a lad.”

“And do you read the Bible now?” she asked.

He wished he could say he did. “I…I’m afraid I haven’t lately.”

He could see her filing the information away, but her eyes betrayed no judgment about the fact.

“And how did you find Josh? Does he need anything? Is he in pain?”

“He’s not in pain, no, but he needs a goodly dose of patience,” he said, appreciating the fine curve of Milly’s neck above the collar of her calico dress. “He’s restless, fretting over the need to lie there and be patient while he heals. But I think he’s reassured that I can help Bobby handle the ‘chores’—” he gave the word the old man’s drawling pronunciation, drawing a chuckle from her “—and keep this place from utter ruin until he can be up and around again. Oh, and he says there’s no need to sit up with him tonight, if you’ll let him borrow that little handbell of your mother’s he can just ring if he needs you.”

“Hmm. That sounds just like him. I’d better check on him a couple of times tonight at least. I can just picture him trying to reach the water pitcher and tearing open those wounds again. That old man would rather die than admit a weakness.”

Nick chuckled. “He said you’d say that, too.”

They were silent for a while. Nick appreciated the cool breeze and the deepening shadows as the fiery orange ball sank behind the purple hills off to their right.

“Nick, why did you leave India, and the army—if you don’t mind my asking, that is?” she added quickly.

She must have seen the reflexive stiffening of his frame and the involuntary clenching of his jaw.

“It’s getting late, and I’m keeping you from your reading,” he said, rising.

“I’m sorry, that was rude of me to pry. Please forgive me for asking,” she said, rising, too. Her face was dismayed.

“It’s all right,” he told her. “I’ll tell you about it sometime. But it’s a long story.” He’d known the question would come, but it was too soon. He wasn’t ready to shatter her illusions about him yet.

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