on my apron strings.”
“My pesky little brother is sixteen. I can hardly believe it myself. And Katy, at the wise old age of thirteen, says she’s never going to let a boy kiss her for as long as she lives.”
“Oh, my! That will change in a year or two.”
Clara cut up the peeled potato, dropped it in the kettle and picked up another one. “Not too soon, I hope. Sometimes I think she has the right idea.”
“And what about you?”
Clara glanced up into Mary’s narrowed, knowing eyes. She knew that expression well. Her grandmother had always sensed when something was troubling her. What was she seeing now? Bright eyes? A hot, flushed face?
“I take it you’ve met my new hired man,” Mary said.
Chapter Two
Clara felt the heat rise in her face. If she could feel it, she knew her grandmother could see it. “He’s fixed the pasture fence,” she said. “I very nearly rode Foxfire into the new barbed wire. Whose idea was it to fix that fence anyway? The wire’s been down for years.”
“It was Tanner’s. But when he brought it up, I thought it was a good idea. I’m getting too old to chase your family’s calves out of my garden.”
“Oh, dear! Why didn’t you say something, Grandma? If we’d known about the calves, my dad would’ve fixed that fence a long time ago.”
Mary shrugged. “Judd is a busy man. I didn’t want to bother him about such a little thing. But never mind, it will be fixed now.”
“I suggested to Tanner that he put in a gate. That way we can still cut across the pastures when we come to visit you.”
“Oh? And what did he say to that?”
“He said he’d have to ask the boss.”
“He did, did he?” Mary chuckled as she picked up another potato. “I must say, I like a man who knows his place.”
Clara sighed. This wasn’t going at all well. “Grandma, what possessed you to hire him? He’s a drifter, and you don’t know anything about him. He could be a criminal, waiting for a chance to rob you.”
“Oh? And what would he steal?” Mary’s hands worked deftly as she talked. “The little money I have is safe in the bank. If the man needed food, he’d be welcome to all he could carry. As for the rest, look around you, child. What do I have that’s worth taking? My clothes? My pots and pans? My garden tools?” Her eyes twinkled. “My virtue, heaven forbid? Look at me. I’m an old woman. And whatever else Tanner may be, he’s a gentleman.”
Clara resisted the urge to grind her teeth. The look she’d seen in Tanner’s cobalt eyes was not the look of a gentleman. “What makes you say that?” she asked.
“I offered to let him sleep upstairs, in the boys’ old room. He insisted on laying out his bedroll in the hay shed. Didn’t want folks to gossip, he said.”
Clara groaned inwardly. As if anyone would gossip about her grandmother letting hired help sleep upstairs! Tanner’s excuse had been designed to flatter her and win her confidence. He probably slept outside in case he needed to make a fast getaway. She was becoming less and less inclined to trust the man.
“Why didn’t you tell us you needed help?” she asked. “We could’ve sent a couple of the ranch hands over to do the work. My father would have paid them.”
“I know, dear.” Mary quartered a peeled potato and dropped the pieces into the cooking pot. “But you know I don’t like accepting charity, even from my own family. Tanner needed work, and I …” A smile creased her cheek. “To tell you the truth, I liked the young man right off. And I enjoy his company over supper at night. It’s nice having somebody to talk to.”
Clara forced herself to take a long breath before she spoke. “How long does he plan to be here?”
“We haven’t talked about it. But once he’s made a little money, I expect he’ll move on. He doesn’t strike me as the sort of man to take root in one place.” Mary glanced into the pot. “I believe that’s enough potatoes for now. Give me a minute to put them on the stove, dear. Then we can go on with our visit.”
She pushed forward to rise from her rocker, but Clara had already picked up the pot. She stood, laying her knife on the porch rail. “I’ll do it, Grandma. You stay and rest.”
Swinging through the screen door, she strode into the kitchen. The interior of the house was shabby but comfortable. Mary could have bought new dishes and furniture, but the chipped plates, scarred table and mismatched chairs held precious memories of her husband and children. As Mary was fond of saying, the pieces were old friends and they served her well enough.
In the kitchen, Clara covered the potatoes with water, added a pinch of salt and set the pot on the big black stove to boil. Her grandmother would be waiting outside, but the quiet house held her in its calm embrace, urging her to linger. Savoring the stillness, she wandered into the parlor, where framed photographs of Mary’s family covered most of one wall.
Clara knew them well. Here was Reverend Ephraim Gustavson, her mother’s younger brother who’d gone off to Africa to be a missionary. And here, on the left was a ten-year-old photograph of her own family—her mother, Hannah, and her handsome, serious father, Judd, with their three children. The two younger ones, Daniel and Katy, were almost as fair as their mother. In their midst, Clara looked like a gypsy changeling. But then, her paternal grandfather had been dark. He’d died long before Clara was born, but she’d seen his picture. Tom Seavers had looked a lot like his younger son Quint—Clara’s adored favorite uncle.
Here was Uncle Quint in the photograph taken on his wedding day. He was devilishly handsome with dark chestnut hair, twinkling brown eyes and dimples that matched Clara’s. His bride, Aunt Annie, was Mary’s second daughter. More delicate than her sister Hannah, she had dark blond hair, intelligent gray eyes and a practical disposition that balanced her husband’s impulsive ways.
Clara worshipped her aunt and uncle and looked forward to their rare visits. Never blessed with children, they lived a glamorous life in San Francisco and had traveled all over the world. They always came to the ranch laden with exotic gifts and thrilling stories. On their last visit they’d brought Clara a bolt of white Indian silk, exquisitely embroidered in silver thread. “For your wedding, dear, whenever that might be,” Aunt Annie had told her.
Clara’s mother had put the treasured fabric away for safekeeping, but every now and then Clara would lift the bolt from the cedar chest, touch the silk with her fingertips and wonder if it would ever be used. Many of the girls she’d known from school were already married. But she’d always been more interested in horses than in boys. The idea of pledging herself to a man for the rest of her life had always seemed as far-fetched as walking on the moon. Not that she wasn’t popular. At the town dances, she never lacked for partners. But none of the local boys, even the ones she’d allowed to kiss her, had piqued her interest. They were nice enough, but not one of them had offered a challenge to her way of thinking. In fact, they hadn’t challenged her at all. They had no curiosity, no desire to test the limits of their small, safe lives. On the other hand, a certain blue-eyed hired man …
The sound of muted voices from the front porch yanked her attention
