had been kicked into a lumpy pile at the end of the bed.
She stretched the soreness in her shoulders and back from days of traveling, listening for Roy’s movements around the house. Nothing. He must have risen earlier to start work on the homestead.
Her body, she discerned, was weak and adjusted to city life. That would have to be remedied, and quickly.
She found fresh water in the basin, washed her face and tried to tame her unruly auburn locks with pins. Leaving the hats with their feathers and satin rosettes nestled in her suitcase, she picked the plainest dress of the five she’d brought, a sturdy gray serge, and dressed. She would look more the part of a frontier woman, and hopefully have more suitable gowns when Garret Shaw made an appearance in the next couple of days to drive Roy’s cattle.
Her pulse fluttered. As an insensible afterthought, she dabbed some rose salve on her full lips. Ridiculous little hope. She wiped the salve off with the back of her hand. A brute of a man like him would never appreciate any extra effort on her part.
A trip to the stove brought the discovery of cold biscuits Roy left for her when he’d taken breakfast long before. She took her fare onto the front porch and ate overlooking the view she loved so dearly. The breeze lifted her hair and the air smelled like wheat and cattle. A far cry from the cluttered smells of the city.
Sweating, cussing a string of obscenities, Roy worked the front acreage with a two mule team and the plow he had put so much effort into keeping viable. “Son of a motherless goat on a crutch, you godamned stubborn cockchafer! Haw!” wafted to her on the wind. She smiled. Roy always had a colorful way of swearing, and though her mother had been horrified by it, Maggie couldn’t help but be secretly impressed with his creativity.
“Cockchafer,” she mouthed. Absolutely the worst word she had ever heard, and delightfully naughty to say out loud.
She wiped the crumbs off her dress. Slowly Roy made his way behind the plow, his shirt sticking to his back. She’d learn how to help him out around the house. She hurried to the pump for a bucket of water, strode out to the field and handed him a sloshing ladle.
He drank deeply. “Thank you kindly, Magpie. You bored yet?”
“A little,” she admitted with a smile. “I suppose I need to learn the ropes around here.”
Roy laughed and wiped the back of his arm across his drenched brow. “You remember Buck?”
“Of course! He was the best horse a girl could have. Please tell me you still have him,” she said, grinning like a child on holiday.
“He’s in the barn. Just take him around the corral, though. I reckon it’s been a long time since you rode a horse and I want you safe about it. After you get your horse legs back you can take him farther out.”
She raced off toward the small stable, water sloshing from the bucket in her hand.
“Do you remember how to put a saddle on him?” Roy shouted after her.
“I’m sure it’ll come back to me,” she called behind her.
“Be gentle with him. He’s an older horse now,” he yelled.
The barn was modest in size and smelled of horses, hay, and leather. The air was slightly cooler inside than out and dust motes swirled lazily through the dusty light. Buck must have smelled her because he stuck his head over a stall door and whickered a greeting.
“You’ve grown fat, old friend,” she cooed as she brushed burrs out of Buck’s mane. “You’ve grown fat, and I’ve grown weak. Whatever shall we do to remedy this dreadful situation, huh? I think we can help each other out, don’t you?” She put the brush down and hoisted the blanket and saddle over the horse’s back.
Mounted, she made exactly one turn around the fenced area near the barn. The saddle slipped, almost pitching her off. Buck’s naughty trick of sucking air into his lungs when she tightened up the cinch of his saddle had worked again. How could she have forgotten? She slid dangerously to the side and hobbled off inelegantly to tighten it up. “Snarky little horse. You couldn’t give me a break on my first day back?” she asked the old buckskin horse, smiling.
Remounted, she walked him around the corral, feeling the pull of long unused muscles. By the time she managed to kick Buck into a trot, the excitement of riding him again had her laughing.
Roy had given Buck to her when she turned seven, and she had always loved riding him. He was a gentle-natured young gelding when Roy presented him to her thirteen years before. Now, he was downright comatose. Getting him into a trot required a surprising amount of effort, but long in the tooth or not, Buck was still her horse and she loved him.
She opened the gate and rode out to drink in her surroundings. Freedom that had never existed for her in Boston filled all the open space, and though she was slow to regain rhythm on her horse, a piece of her opened up. Something that had been closed for a long time; something deep inside her. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she could breathe.
A short yell came from the other side of the house, and she turned Buck around. The mules raced out of the front pasture. The blade had come out of the earth and the plow flailed behind the frightened team on its side. Her breath caught in her throat and she kicked Buck hard to get him going. He lurched, almost dislodging her from the saddle as he took off. She held onto the saddle horn for dear life and pointed him toward the front of the house.
Roy lay about two hundred yards away on a bed of tilled earth, and he barely moved, which confused her. He held a shaking hand in the air as if he hailed her. As she reached him, she reined in the horse and jumped off. Her ankle wrenched, shooting pain into her leg as she landed near her fallen father.
“What’s happened?” she said through a fog of panic, held his head up and put it in her lap.
“The plow— I was trying to fix it underneath and the team spooked. Snake—”
“Shhh,” she murmured. The flesh of his stomach was open and bled freely. Dear God! “Why didn’t you unhitch the horses, you ridiculous man?”
Roy tried to smile. “Don’t boss me around.” He’d gurgled when he’d spoken.
“I don’t know what to do. What do I do?” she whispered. “I’m going to go get help, Roy.” She ripped off a length of her petticoats and put it onto his stomach, placed his hand firmly over it. “Hold that tightly on.”
“It’s too late, Magpie.”
“No! Don’t you say that. This isn’t all I get with you. You’re going to be around for a long time. Hold that tight. Tighter! I’ll bring help.”
If he replied, she didn’t hear it. She scrambled up on Buck and kicked him until she could barely hold on and rode hell for high water. Tree branches whipped at her skin and reached for her like clawed hands as they flew toward the main road. Her breath stayed caught and stifled the lump of fear that filled her throat. Every thundering hoofbeat brought her closer to help, but what if Garret was out with the cattle or in town on an errand? What if she couldn’t find anyone while Roy lay there hurt and alone?
Wilderness blurred by in a messy canvas of greens and browns, and Buck’s labored breathing picked up as the old horse slowed down.
“Come on, Buck. Can’t slow down now,” she chanted, and he held steady, possibly at the sound of her panicked voice. Whatever the reason, she was grateful.
She pulled him through the woods to avoid the corner at the road and raced for the dusty trail that led to Garret’s house. She’d ridden this road a hundred times in her youth, but none of them held such terror as it did now. Every minute was an hour as she pounded toward the house. As it came into view, a great shuddering relief took her. Now, if only she could remember how to stop the horse.
By the time she reached the house, Buck was beyond her control. The old horse had reacted to her fear, and she couldn’t seem to slow him down, now he’d gotten going. Garret loaded supplies with two