Lynda Trent - The Rancher's Wife

She swung her leg over his back and as she righted herself astride him and tightened her knees against his ribs, she noticed he was considerably bonier than he had been when she had ridden him last. His feed was almost gone and she had been able to give him only half rations for the last few days. Settling herself as comfortably as possible, Elizabeth nudged him forward. He flicked his ears back and forth in protest but crossed the yard and started down the hill.

Elizabeth had never shot a rifle in her life and wasn’t sure how to take aim on game, but she had to try. If she couldn’t find food she would have to attempt the ride to town and that would be dangerous, because she wasn’t entirely certain of the way. She had only been there once and the Territory had all been so new to her that she hadn’t remembered much about it. At the time she had thought she would have no reason to need this information. She tightened her month and kicked the mule into a trot.

She continued moving downhill because it stood to reason that game would head for the warmer valley below and away from the windswept hills, some of which were almost as tall as mountains in Elizabeth’s opinion. Besides, the going was easier in this direction.

Once she saw a rabbit sit up on its haunches and freeze, its nose twitching, but by the time she put the rifle to her shoulder, it began running away and she knew she had no hope of shooting it with it bobbing and darting about. She also wasn’t too sure what the mule would do if she fired the gun while astride his back. Certainly Robert had never taken him when he went hunting.

For that matter, if she shot anything much larger than a rabbit, how would she carry it home? Even if the mule would stand still while she draped a dead animal over its back, how could she lift a deer that high? She wasn’t even positive she knew how to dress one. She fought back a wave of panic and let the mule pick his own way through the drifts of melting snow.

Several hours later Elizabeth topped a low hill and found herself looking down at the ranch of her nearest neighbors. A two-story frame house stood in a grove of native cottonwood trees, its sides as white as new snow. Behind it was a proper barn—not like the one that housed her mule—and several pens made of unpainted boards. In the corral closest to the barn were horses and a couple of milk cows. Dotting the slopes on the far side were quite a few white-faced cattle, obviously the property of her rather affluent neighbors. The scene was as pretty as a picture in the books Elizabeth had left behind in Hannibal.

Without thinking, she smoothed her dark hair back into its bun and straightened her dress beneath her wool cloak. From the looks of the place, she felt sure their pantry was well stocked. She hated to have to ask for food, but she had no other choice.

By the time she rode into the yard, two barking dogs came to meet her, their tails wagging. Not far behind them was a tall man with broad shoulders and chestnut-brown hair. He smiled at her. “Afternoon, ma’am. We don’t get many visitors out here.”

Elizabeth found it difficult to speak. His eyes were a warm brown and his skin tanned by the sun. Despite his size, his voice was gentle and held a hint of what she thought might be a Texas drawl. When she realized she was staring at him and hadn’t spoken, a blush rose in her cheeks. Quickly, she looked away for a moment, then said, “Hello. My name is Elizabeth Parkins. We’re neighbors.”

“We are?” He looked puzzled. “I didn’t know anyone had settled around here.”

“We live up the hills from here. On the place that used to belong to Mr. Snodgrass.”

“Snodgrass?” Understanding lit his face. “Do you mean Old Zeb’s gold mine?”

“That’s the place,” she said with a sigh.

“Come in and warm up. My wife will be pleased to meet you.” He grinned up at her. “My name, by the way, is Brice Graham.” He held the mule so she could dismount.

She couldn’t help but notice that his dark eyes were on her, not staring, not leering, but nevertheless not straying either. Breaking eye contact, she shifted the rifle from one hand to the other, not sure how she was going to gracefully get off the mule without dropping the gun. Unexpectedly, she found herself wondering why a graceful dismount was suddenly so important. The sound of her neighbor clearing his throat drew her attention, and when she looked back at him, he had extended a hand as if he might be intending to hold her at the waist to help her down. Before she allowed herself another thought, she thrust the rifle into his hand and hurried herself to the ground, almost losing her balance in the process. Feeling a bit awkward and unsettled at the direction her thoughts had been heading, she cast him a quick smile, then busied herself straightening her clothing again.

“Are you alone?”

She looked back at him and this time found his rather intent gaze unsettling in a way she didn’t dare examine. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she answered, “Yes. I was trying to shoot some game.”

“I see.” He tied the mule to the porch rail and motioned for Elizabeth to precede him up the broad front porch steps. “I believe you said ‘we’ live in Old Zeb’s place?”

“I’m married.” She almost winced at the admission. “My husband—his name is Robert Parkins—has gone to town for supplies. I’m alone at the present.” She hoped she didn’t sound too stilted. Robert was forever telling her she tried to put on airs. For some reason it was important that this man know she was married and not available. Or maybe all those thoughts were on her side alone.

As he opened the door for her, he said, “Forgive me for asking, but if your husband has gone to town, why are you having to hunt for food?”

Elizabeth stepped into the wide entrance hall and sighed with pleasure, distracted by the beauty of her neighbor’s home. Ahead of her a massive staircase curved gracefully up from the polished oak flooring of the foyer to the second floor and was flanked by wallpaper in a lovely floral design. To her right was a tastefully decorated parlor with garnet-colored upholstered furniture and small marble-topped tables. To her left was a library. A real one, like the ones in Hannibal. She automatically took a step toward it before she remembered herself.

“Ma’am?”

He had asked her a question. Elizabeth drew her dignity about her again. “Robert has been gone for weeks.”

“Glory is only a day’s ride from here.”

“I know. I’m not sure of the exact day he left. We have no calendar.” She had been recording the passage of time by making notches in a stick. Robert thought that was foolish, but she had been determined to hold on to whatever civilization she could.

Brice’s brow furrowed in concern. “Perhaps something happened to him. I’d be glad to send one of my men to look for him.”

“No, no. That won’t be necessary.” As much as Elizabeth hated being alone, she didn’t want anyone to go in search of Robert. Her husband’s temper wasn’t that even these days and he would resent her fetching him home like an errant child. Just the thought of him left her cold inside. “I imagine he’s doing business of some sort.” She supposed it could be loosely termed that if Robert was gambling. At least it was business for the saloon.

“Let me send some supplies home with you. That’s the least I can do.”

“I hate to oblige you.” It was true. Having to ask strangers for food and lamp oil was galling to her pride.

“I insist.” He smiled down at her and she felt the ice around her heart melt. “Come into the parlor and rest a bit. You must be tired. This gun isn’t light.” He stood the rifle in a corner of the foyer and showed her into the parlor.