May, I’m so happy for you! You deserve a fine fellow like Edmund McKay.”
They talked of weddings and babies and other things that lifted her spirits as they waited for the men to rejoin them. When he heard the news, Hank went out of his way to tease Lula May and Edmund about their upcoming nuptials, but his smile seemed strained, as if he expected trouble. Surely her friends were no danger. What was wrong?
He stood on the porch as she waved goodbye to them, and she could feel the tension in his lean body.
“What is it, Hank?” she asked. “Did Mr. McKay tell you something I should know?”
He flinched as if she’d poked a sore spot. “Not exactly. I should get back to work. We can talk more later.” Shoving his hat on his head, he strode off toward the barn.
She didn’t call for him to stay this time. Much as she needed to learn, she’d hardly help the ranch succeed by keeping him continually from his job.
What she could do, she realized, was deal with the bank. Returning to the house, she wrote a letter requesting more time and stating the steps she was taking to ensure the ranch earned enough profit to pay back every penny Lucas had borrowed, with interest. She could only hope that would be sufficient, for now.
The next week, she spent as much time as she could out on the range, taking the team to keep up with her boys. She’d driven her mother’s small buggy back in Missouri, but the clattering wagon took a little getting used to. And she didn’t stay out past noon, when the sun was beating down hot enough to fry her lunch on the limestone reaches that ringed the ranch.
But the six hours away from the house opened her eyes. Sitting on the porch, even tending the garden behind the house, she’d never realized the terrain surrounding the ranch was so rough. The house, barn and corral were on flat ground near Hop Toad Springs, but even a half mile away the land began crumbling like a paper crushed in a fist. Limestone reaches thrust up; streams cut draws and canyons. And everything was covered in tall grass and dotted with clumps of short oak trees and cottonwoods.
She also learned that while the cattle roamed free over the wild and windswept acres, there was always something that needed tending. If Kettle Creek was running low, the whole herd had to be driven closer to the house to Hop Toad Springs, which drew from groundwater and never failed. Fences encircling their land had be to constantly patrolled and mended, or the cattle would wander too far afield. And Hank and her other boys kept a close eye on the herd to protect the cattle from predators, four-footed and two-footed.
The last gave her pause.
“You mean there are others out stealing cattle?” she asked Hank as he sat astride his horse next to the wagon. They were about a mile away from the house, resting under the shade of a copse of trees, the oak leaves chattering in a rising breeze that brought the scent of dry dust and clean water.
“Always those who want more than their share, ma’am,” he answered, gaze roaming the area as if he expected an outlaw to leap out from behind a bush.
She could believe that Lucas had turned to rustling from greed. He’d always seemed to want more than what he had. From what she could see, he’d certainly owned more than most people. Hadn’t that been sufficient?
Hadn’t she and their baby been sufficient?
“Look there,” Hank said, pointing to where a longhorn was ambling out of the shade. “See that white circle high on her shoulder? That’s our Rosebud, fairest of them all.”
Nancy raised her brows. “You name the cattle?”
He winked at her. “Only the special ones. Miss Rosebud, they tell me, has never failed to calve since she was old enough to bear.”
Sure enough, a calf, nearly grown now, trotted after its mother. A dozen more cows plodded in her wake.
“You get Miss Rosebud on your side,” Hank said, “and the rest of them will follow you anywhere. Upkins says it’s on account of the way she swings her tail all sassy like.”
Nancy smothered a laugh, and he had the good sense to color. “I didn’t mean anything by that, ma’am,” he hastened to assure her.
“I didn’t think you did,” Nancy replied. But she couldn’t help smiling at the idea that her brash and bold boys gave their favorite cattle pet names.
She tried not to interfere with their activities, but she could tell by their terse answers to her questions, their sidelong glances, that she made them nervous. Like Lucas, they seemed to prefer her safely inside the house. But how was she to learn if she didn’t come out?
Evenings were better. She’d take some fruit or a piece of pie to the porch to wait for her boys to come riding in. Mr. Upkins and Billy always tipped their hats as they passed before dismounting to lead their horses into the barn. One or the other would embolden himself to come closer, ask her about her day, make some comment about the ranch. But they always scurried back to the barn as if concerned they were being too forward.
She made sure Hank didn’t escape so easily. She’d call to him before he could take his horse into the barn, and he’d usually hand the reins to one of the others before joining her on the porch. His boots would be covered with dust, his shirt telling of hard work, yet he always managed a smile.
She’d hand him an apple or a sweet, and he’d lounge against the uprights and tell her about what had happened on the ranch after she’d left him. It took a lot of questions to get the answers she wanted, but she eventually learned that her husband had amassed a herd of about one hundred cows, plus eighty steers getting ready to go to market.
“Is that good?” she asked, before taking a sip of the lemonade she’d brought with her. A fly buzzed close, and she swatted it away.
“Fair to middling,” he said. “If we can get a good price, you’ll have enough to keep things going another year and pay the bank what you owe.”
That’s what she wanted to hear. She had to believe she could make a go of things, for her child.
But the bank must not have had faith even in Hank, for they sent someone to confirm her claims.
Mr. Cramore arrived one afternoon in a black-topped buggy she was surprised had made it the thirty miles from Burnet over rough country roads. A portly fellow, dressed in black with a silk tie at his throat, he hitched his horses to the rail surrounding the corral as if not planning to stay overlong, plucked a satchel off the seat and moved with solemn strides to the porch.
When she met him, he removed his top hat and bowed his head as if to give thanks.
“Mrs. Bennett,” he said in a deep, slow voice, double chins quivering. “My most heartfelt condolences. I’m Winston Cramore of the Empire Bank in Burnet. I had the privilege of knowing your husband well. He will be missed.”
She was only glad the story of Lucas’s illegal activities must not have reached Burnet, or Mr. Cramore might not have been so quick to claim acquaintance. And she sincerely doubted anyone had known her husband well, or someone would have realized his intentions.
“It was very kind of you to come all this way to talk,” she said, leading him to one of the wicker chairs on the porch. “May I offer you something to eat, lemonade?”
“Both would be welcome,” he assured her,
