Jessica Nelson - Love on the Range

She turned to James. “Does Uncle Lou own a telephone?”

James grunted and pulled the door open.

“I really need to reach Connie,” she continued, hoping his grunt was not a negative. She absolutely had to obtain those coordinates.

As they moved into the house, warmth embraced Gracie. James turned on the lights. When her eyes adjusted, she saw a young man standing at the end of the hallway, shaggy blond hair framing a handsome face and eyes like sapphires. He strode toward her, and Gracie realized he was not as young as he appeared from afar. Lines wrinkled around his eyes as his mouth curved into a mischievous smile. A light spray of scars pebbled one cheek, though she might not have noticed if she hadn’t been studying him so hard. He was the spitting image of Father, minus the gray hairs and stately air.

“Uncle Lou?”

“You look just like Edith.” He strode forward on long legs, though he stood only an inch or so taller than she, and grasped both her hands. “How was the trip? Not too boring, I hope. And the wagon?”

“Just fine.” She smiled at him. “No one ever told me I look like my mother. Do you really think so?” It was a compliment indeed to resemble a woman as attractive as Edith.

“I thought you were her at first.” He shot her a wide grin, exposing straight white teeth. “Let’s go into the sitting room.” He motioned to a door on her left. James, grumbling about being chauffeur, escaped through a door at the far end of the hall.

Gracie followed her uncle into the sitting room and settled on a couch. She glanced around. Comfort was the first impression she felt, followed by loneliness. The room looked barren of personal mementos. Curiosity stirred.

“I apologize for the wagon ride,” Uncle Lou said, after a striking Indian woman brought a tray of refreshments. “James refuses to drive my car.”

Gracie reached for a cookie off the platter. “Quite all right. I’m here now.”

“It’s a shame about this influenza going around. But don’t worry, my dear girl. You’ll be safe here.” The crackling flames from the fireplace highlighted an impish twinkle in his eyes. “Now let me tell you of my travels….”

They spent the rest of the evening together, eating as they talked. It didn’t take long for her to realize how alike they were. He talked quite a bit for a man, and she learned he’d owned his ranch for ten years and never intended to live back east again.

Uncle Lou delighted her. She could not fathom why Mother and Father disapproved of him. He regaled her with remarkably funny jokes and adventurous tales. Despite their camaraderie, she held back on unveiling her plans for finding Striker. When the hour grew late, he promised to continue his stories tomorrow and showed her to her room.

Weary, Gracie readied for bed. She grabbed the papers from the inner pocket of her soiled suit and set them on the bed. She washed from a small basin on the dresser, and then donned her undergarments. They were silk and, after the grueling day, their smooth coolness was a luxury that made her sigh. After recording the details of her day onto her notepad, she slid into the welcome comfort of bed. She slipped the articles mentioning Striker beneath her pillow.

Connie thought she was crazy, but Gracie couldn’t help but be intrigued by the elusive government agent. Rumors said he was an older man, and without conscience, but Connie’s cousin reported otherwise. According to her, Striker had rescued her from a band of uncouth men who’d snatched her from her very own backyard in California.

Gracie needed to secure an interview with him if she was ever going to break free from her parents and live her own life.

Snuggling against her pillow, she breathed deeply and prayed for success.

Chapter Three

Trevor sat his mount high above Lou’s ranch and inhaled the crisp morning air. Below him Lou’s housekeeper, Mary, hung laundry. Gracie probably still slept, tuckered out by her long trip. He studied Mary. Was she happy here, in constant hiding?

She seemed content in her role, happy to clean and have a quiet life.

Not like Gracie. He remembered his impressions of her on the train, long before she’d officially met him at the station. Trouble, he’d thought.

Like Council Bluff.

Because the screams from that fiasco still rang in his ears, he focused on Lou’s niece.

So far, Gracie had proven curious but easy. He had to just keep her from going into Burns and stirring up interest in Striker.

He scanned the horizon. Mendez and his men were holed up somewhere in these mountains, searching for Mary, waiting for a chance to snatch the prey that had escaped Mendez so many years ago.

Trevor would make sure the only chance they got was to meet an unofficial noose.

That was Striker’s job, after all. He chased down criminals that the higher-ups didn’t have the time or knowledge to find, apprehending them and bringing them in. As the investigator beneath Lou, Trevor both reported to him and received cases from him. Lou was a senior investigator who’d been with the bureau since its formation beneath Chief Examiner Finch.

Bringing in Mendez was Trevor’s longest-running case but he’d determined to do it this year. Based on what he’d seen on the train, Mendez was getting loony. In the last year, Mendez had ramped up his efforts to find Striker. Sending henchmen to scour the countryside for Mary, wanting to use her to find the man who’d rescued her and foiled his kidnapping.

Mary had been Mendez’s first victim. A spontaneous deal that started an illegal thousand-dollar enterprise the government was still working to shut down. Quietly, of course.

But Trevor wanted to be done with all that.

The land called to him. It was time to settle down, own a ranch. No woman deserved the baggage he carried, though. Could he be content on his own? He’d been alone too many years to count. Maybe since he’d been a boy, even. His parents hadn’t offered any kind of protection or companionship, had never given him a reason to want a relationship with anyone, but the urge for a family niggled at him.

He pushed the feeling to the side. With a past like his, he didn’t deserve a wife. His mouth relaxed as he watched Mary go into the house. A short career, one he excelled at but didn’t love, would end with this assignment, even if the guilt didn’t.

And he’d get the one thing he longed for more than a home.

No more blood on his hands.

* * *

Gracie awoke to warm light streaming through large, arched windows into a spacious bedroom. She stretched her arms above her head, yawned and absorbed her new surroundings with all the famed curiosity of a cat.

Simplicity made the small room lovely. A bright, multicolored rug covered the honey-hued oak floor. A gilt mirror hung over a large wooden dresser in front of the bed. The bed had four large posts and the ivory quilt that draped it was warm and soft.

She swung her legs out of the bed and then began tidying up. Her jewels went into a far corner of the closet, shadowed by angles. They’d come in handy should she need to travel across the country in pursuit of Striker. Better yet, if she procured an interview and the Woman’s Liberator sent her on assignment, she’d be financially sound. She’d brought only some of her valuables; a few for sentiment, a few for wear and a few for hocking, should the need arise.

After they were stowed safely away, she unpacked her clothes into the heavy dresser, and then set about trying to make the bed, a chore usually taken care of by maids at home. But this is a new place, she reminded herself. Her fingers tucked the sheets beneath the mattress. There were still wrinkles in the middle of the bed.

She tugged on the sheet.