upbringing struggled valiantly for several seconds before it surrendered to her emotions.
“Are you jesting, Uncle Lou?” she asked carefully.
“He’s not jesting, missy. Life is harsh. If’n there’s a God, He’s a cruel one and not who we’d like to follow.”
Gracie didn’t know whether to weep with pity or laugh outright at James’s response. She stared down at her plate, silently entreating God to give her some words, some hope for these people. She looked up at last only to find everyone eating and conversing, all thoughts of God shoved to the back of their minds.
“Tell me about your business, Uncle Lou,” she said when she had regained her composure. For the rest of breakfast they monopolized the conversation with talk of business, politics and the suffrage movement. Uncle Lou, it turned out, was in favor of women getting the vote. “1912,” he said, pride swelling his voice. “We gave women that right years ago.”
“Gracie here’s a fan of jazz.” Trevor pointed his fork at her. She flushed. He’d remembered.
“Really?” Uncle Lou winked at her. “I like Jelly Roll Morton myself.”
The heat in her face hiked up a notch. “I’ve heard his morals are questionable.”
James busted out laughing. A smile played over Uncle Lou’s face. Gracie’s brows drew together, and when she glanced at Mary she noticed the other woman’s cheeks had turned scarlet.
Gracie saw Trevor studying her, a half grin catching the corners of his mouth. She caught her lip between her teeth. He found immorality amusing but seemed angered by her belief in God.
Maybe his perspective might change as they traveled the countryside searching for Striker.
* * *
Gracie almost went stir-crazy.
Four days passed before Mary agreed to take her around the ranch. She’d managed to steal a few moments each day exploring, but had spent the bulk of her time helping Mary with chores. And slipping in a few questions about Striker. Mary didn’t say much about him, though, and Uncle Lou proved exceptionally closemouthed.
After hanging laundry on the fourth day, Gracie borrowed one of Mary’s leather coats and soon they were strolling across the flat land, watching the mountains roll in the distance.
“What is that one?” Gracie pointed to a shrub near her feet.
“Bud sagebrush. It’s common around these parts. There’s some red top grass and winterfat over here.” Mary gestured to her right. The wind caught strands of hair and blew them across her high cheekbones. “Paiute use winterfat sometimes to treat fevers. The sheep eat it, too.”
Gracie studied the hoary white plants. By itself the plant looked ugly and bare. But where winterfat grew in bunches, the plant took on the appearance of a silver bouquet. The whole of Harney County took her breath away and she hadn’t even explored the mountains yet. It was unfortunate this land was so far removed from civilization.
They ambled along, Gracie listening closely as Mary pointed out various species of plants and gave little tidbits of information about the area. Then Mary stopped abruptly, her gaze resting on a peak in the distance.
Gracie squinted in that direction but saw nothing out of the ordinary.
“I just remembered ironing I need to do.” Something like regret flashed across Mary’s face.
“Oh, how disappointing,” Gracie said. The brisk breeze caressed her face, carrying new and exciting scents. “Do you have to go?”
“I’m sorry.”
She didn’t want to offer but forced herself to anyway. “Can I help, then?”
Mary grimaced. “No. You’ve almost been insane trying to get outside. Enjoy your walk. You’ve done more than necessary.” She hesitated. “Be careful. If you see anyone, come straight to the house.”
“Wait! Do you suppose we’ll be going into Burns anytime soon?”
“If you’re really looking for Striker, you won’t find him there.” Mary turned and picked her way to the house.
“But I need a telephone.” Gracie frowned as Mary retreated without an answer. If she knew Striker’s whereabouts, and understood why Gracie asked questions, then why had she been so evasive?
As soon as Mary became a dot on the bumpy horizon, Gracie’s gaze circled back to her surroundings. Steens Mountain rose in the distance, its snowy tips glowing in the crisp air. Mary had told her the mountains were really a single fault block, rising almost ten thousand feet in places.
Good details to get down. She pulled out her map, guessed her coordinates and refolded the map. She drew out her notepad and jotted the numbers, adding a description of the terrain. Could there be caves and hidden dwelling places in these rocks?
The back of her neck prickled. Criminals of the vilest natures could find refuge here. Would Striker? It explained the sightings in Burns and other Oregon towns.
Striker wouldn’t hide with criminals, though.
She slipped the pad of paper and folded map into her coat pocket and began to walk, stripping off the coat and tying it around her waist. In Boston she was often stuck indoors sewing, knitting, learning how to run a large household and how to balance the books. With the war going on she’d been inside much of the time, doing good deeds that left her with sore fingers and crooked stitches. Despite her longing to serve her country, there seemed to be no place where she fit.
She had wanted to join the military but her parents expressly forbid it.
Gracie had considered becoming a wartime operator but her French made people cringe.
The sight of blood caused her to faint, which ruled out nursing. Thus the uneventful good deeds such as sewing came into play.
Thankfully, there were rumors the Great War would soon end. She hoped they were true for the soldiers’ sakes as well as her own.
The sound of hooves broke her thoughts, scattering them as surely as the approaching horse shook dust from the horizon. A horseman pounded toward her, gaining ground by the second. The rider’s form sharpened into a broad-shouldered man.
Chapter Four
Heart slamming against her sternum, Gracie backed up, then realized the futility of such an endeavor. Her imagination set sail as the rider’s shape morphed into a more recognizable figure. One who wore Trevor’s conspicuous hat.
Relief rushed through her so fast her knees trembled. Trevor often came to meals but she had not been alone with him since their conversation at the train depot. She fumbled with her skirt, the memory of feeling dowdy the first morning here flustering her into a nervous state. She took a deep breath.
That was ridiculous. Gracelyn Riley did not get nervous. Especially over a man.
She straightened her shoulders, willing some starch into her backbone as the horse thundered up to her. The beast stopped mere inches from her nose. Swallowing a squeal, she stepped back.
“Hello, Trevor. What are you doing out here?” She looked up at him, shading her eyes from the morning sun.
“That would be my question for you.” His deep voice carried a sterner note than usual.
“Is there a problem with me walking in the grass?”
“Let’s just say you know nothing about the Oregon desert. Anything could happen to you out here, and you wouldn’t know how to deal with it.”
The rich scent of horse and leather floated to her. The sun warmed her cheeks and his hat cast a shadow over his face. No doubt he wore that stubborn look he’d sported on the bench.
A hot flush of anger zipped through her.