Love on the Range Page 6

  “Why did Striker bring her here? Do you all know him? And how is it you’ve heard of Mendez being nearby?”

  “Everyone knows about Striker.” Mary grabbed a biscuit and didn’t meet Gracie’s eye.

  Interesting. They must know the true identity of Striker. They had to. Why else would he have brought Mary to this forsaken place? How would he have even known where to find it?

  “So, the rumors are true. Striker’s in Oregon. Maybe even in Burns.” Gracie speared a broccoli stem and plopped it in her mouth, plans barreling through her mind. Hadn’t the women in the shop ignored her question? Looking almost afraid to answer for fear of repercussions?

  “What do you know about Mendez?” Uncle Lou leveled his gaze at her.

  Her thoughts rolled to a stop as familiar outrage swelled in her chest. “He kidnaps women and sells them. The Mann Act of 1910 was created in order to stop criminals like him from taking women across state lines for immoral purposes, but he’s changed the game because he carts them down to Mexico. And sells them to the highest bidder.” Gracie could hear her voice quivering with rage but didn’t care. “He’s a villain of the lowest order.” She cleared her throat, trying to shake the anger, trying not to remember the story Connie had told her about her cousin. The vile deeds that occurred. “I’ve heard Mendez recently escaped federal custody and is being pursued by Striker.”

  “You learned all that from the papers?”

  She flushed, hating her wayward tongue. “Actually, I have a few additional sources.”

  “Sources?” Uncle Lou’s gaze never wavered, and she had the uneasy feeling she was being interrogated. If her parents found out she’d retained a few contacts from the Woman’s Liberator, she’d be banned from all sorts of social activities.

  Even more reason to secure employment and become independent.

  Trying to appear nonchalant, she poked more broccoli into her mouth.

  Uncle Lou sighed. “Your sources are off, Gracie. Striker is not pursuing Mendez.”

  The food lodged in her throat. Uncle Lou had to be wrong. She swallowed hard. “He will. Striker never lets his quarry get away. And I plan to interview him to prove just that. It’s time America understood he’s not a cold-blooded assassin, but a warm, honorable man.”

  Uncle Lou shook his head and stood. “You be careful, Gracie. If Mendez is near, I’m starting to think you would’ve been safer in Boston.”

  * * *

  During the following weeks the threat of Mendez and his men roused constant dinner conversation between Uncle Lou and James. It was a fear that loomed larger than the influenza. Gracie found the topic fascinating and it was a distraction from wondering how Trevor fared on his trip.

  Late one evening in the bitter beginnings of October, she sat on the porch, stewing. Uncle Lou had returned from town this morning. Never even asked her to go. It seemed that despite Uncle Lou’s curious quirks, there’d be no convincing him to traipse around Oregon in search of Striker. That plan needed revision. How could she convince him to help her? Perhaps he’d empathize with her need for independence? Her foot tapped against the porch floor.

  She was beginning to suspect Uncle Lou’s trips to town were purposefully secretive.

  A frigid blast of wind hit her in the face. She wrapped her arms tight against her ribs and shivered. She had to get to Burns again. Surely the entire town wouldn’t be as closemouthed as those women at the store.

  The sound of hooves caught her attention. Her breath trembled as a lone horseman galloped up to the porch.

  Mendez?

  No, he wouldn’t come by himself. The coward.

  She stood, trepidation quivering through her. Uncle Lou had sent Trevor to Kansas three weeks ago. If this was a person up to no good, only Uncle Lou was home to defend her and Mary.

  As soon as the rider dismounted and began walking to the porch, Gracie recognized the long, lazy stride. Her stiffness melted as she realized how much she’d missed him, and how happy she was that he’d come back. She couldn’t have stopped herself any more than Noah could have stopped the flood. She flung herself off the porch into his surprised arms.

  “Trevor!”

  “Don’t gotta yell in my ear, Gracie.” His voice sounded gruff but he didn’t let go, just held on as if they never parted in stony silence.

  Finally she disengaged herself, straightening her thick wool skirt as if she cared about it being wrinkled.

  Uncle Lou walked onto the porch, his shoes heavy on the wood. “Trevor. We worried when we didn’t hear from you. C’mon in, tell us what’s been happening.”

  Gracie followed the men, her whole body shaking. She’d hugged Trevor. How completely inappropriate. Yet she wasn’t sorry.

  She hung her coat on the rack by the door and floated into the sitting room. Trevor was home. She couldn’t stop smiling. She’d known Trevor for very little time but her interest in him rivaled her obsession with Striker. In a way, he reminded her of the mysterious agent.

  Perhaps it was the undercurrent of honor that dogged his every step.

  She sank onto the couch opposite him. Uncle Lou sat like a king in his chair. The fire made the room bright and warm. Gracie hoped it hid the blush she was sure still stained her cheeks. Mary came in and set a tray of cookies and milk on the table between the couches.

  “Business is well,” Trevor was saying. “But the influenza in Kansas is out of control. I wore a mask the entire time I was there. This epidemic is killing the country.”

  Wood crackled in the fireplace. A log fell and Gracie jumped. Trevor’s features turned her way. His face was craggier, his cheekbones more pronounced, his chin covered with shadow.

  She felt as if he were slicing her open with his sharp gaze. A nervous smile trembled on her lips.

  “You think it’s funny? People are dying. You’ve probably never heard that word in polite conversation, have you?” His hands pushed through his thick hair before he shot off the couch and stalked out of the room.

  Gracie’s heart lurched painfully in her chest. Was that what he thought of her?

  “I’ll go talk to him,” Mary said.

  Gracie shook her head and stood. “Let me.”

  Uncle Lou looked at her kindly, for once appearing a benevolent uncle instead of an older brother. “He’s tired. Don’t take it personally.”

  Gracie slipped down the hallway. She grabbed two coats from the rack before heading into the starlit chill.

  Trevor stood in the front yard, looking at the sky, his back to her. For a second she was struck by the solitary figure and deeply saddened. He was alone and without God.

  She went to him and gave him the coat she knew he’d forgotten. Wordlessly he took it and put it on. She wanted to slide her fingers through his but didn’t dare. They stared into the night together.

  She wanted him to speak first.

  “Didn’t know you could go five minutes without talking,” he said after quiet stargazing.

  “I have my moments,” she answered lightly, transfixed by the display above. The night sky stretched endlessly above her, stars flung across as if at whim. She knew better.

  “You stop eating while I was gone?”

  She felt him watching her, probing, and knew a hot flush was spreading across her cheeks. She wasn’t sure how much weight she’d lost, wasn’t in the habit of looking in the mirror, but Mary had taken in the waists of several garments and her blouses hung looser. The weight loss hadn’t been intentional.

  “Every meal,” she joked.

  “You looked fine the way you were,” he said brusquely, as if she should stay overweight just to make him happy.

  “It so happens that I’ve been helping Mary with chores. And because Uncle Lou carries less chocolate than to what I’m a
ccustomed, I’ve become thinner. I don’t know why you should care. I’m the same person.” She struggled to control her emotions.

  “You’ve been working?”

  “I’m not a spoiled rich girl.” She hated how her voice trembled. “I care about others…I promise you I do. So I’m learning to do chores and help Mary with whatever I can. Personally, I think I would do better in Uncle Lou’s office. I saw his books and they’re a mess. I know I could straighten them. I’m excellent at math, but he won’t let me near them.”

  “Lou’s books are the least of your concerns. Worry instead about Mendez and his men hiding in these hills.” He scanned the horizon, searching, and goose bumps pebbled her arms.

  “Surely Striker will stop him.”

  Trevor’s gaze roved over her before he looked away. “He can’t do everything, Gracie.”

  “Of course not. I have complete confidence in God.”

  “Good. You’ll need it. Especially with this influenza going around.” Moonlight fell against his face as he looked down at her, his eyes dark pools of mystery. His chin jerked in the direction of the house. “Let’s go sit on the porch.”

  His hand reached up to rub the back of his neck as they walked. “People are dropping like flies all over the country. I’ve never seen anything like it. Some are saying this grippe is akin to the Black Plague.” They lowered themselves into the rocking chairs.

  “How horrible.” Light from the windows washed over Gracie’s face. She fiddled with her skirt. “You’ve been gone a long time.”

  “After I conducted business, by chance I discovered my father died. I—” He paused. “Stayed intoxicated for a week or two.”

  “Oh.” Gracie looked away. As if she felt bad for him.

  He didn’t know how that made him feel. Strange. Angry. He didn’t need pity.

  Their rockers creaked on the wooden floorboards. Somewhere in the night an owl screeched.

  “I’m sorry about your father, Trevor.”

  He laughed woodenly. If she only knew. When he spoke, his voice was flat. “I hate my father. I’ve hated him since I learned to speak. He was poison, hurt anything and everyone he ever got close to.”

  “Why do you seem so disturbed by his death, then?”

  He turned to face her, and this time he could clearly see the depths of her irises, the line of her nose, the pity in the turn of her lips.

  His chest constricted at the look on her face. When was the last time someone felt bad for him? No one did. He had a great life. Nothing to feel bad about. And yet the expression on her features moved him in some strange way. Prompted him to speak without knowing why she would care.

  “My father was an evil man.” He stopped rocking. “I always hated him.” A stretch of silence as he searched for words. “He died two weeks ago. I didn’t know he was living in Kansas. He found out I was there somehow and sent for me.”

  “Was it the grippe?”

  “No. Just too much whiskey, too much of everything. I went to see him. He was a shriveled husk of a man lying on a dirty cot and I felt like a little boy again.”

  Trevor cringed, remembering that dark room, the odor of coming death.

  “I raised my voice, lost control. Somewhere deep down, I thought he might care. At the end of a life, looking back, most have regrets. But he was the same, Gracie.” Trevor wiped his palms down his face, wishing he could wipe the memories just as easy. “He laughed at me, said he wanted to say good riddance before he left for good. I didn’t stay. I got out of there fast, went back the next morning and was told he’d died the night before. I’ve hated him my entire life, and he didn’t care a fig.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “My hate served nothing. It was useless and now that he’s gone and I have no reason left to hate, my life feels purposeless.”

  “Oh, no.” She twisted toward him. “That’s not true. Mary adores you. She says you were always rescuing her from one thing or another. And Uncle Lou couldn’t run the ranch without you.” Her eyes were large, the light hitting her face and highlighting her earnestness. “Your life is not purposeless,” she continued fiercely, gripping the arms of her rocking chair. “You have meaning. God made you for a reason.”

  “God again,” he scoffed.

  Gracie leaned closer, as if daring him to look at her. “What if you’d never been born? Who would have watched over Mary? The stars look random at first, don’t you think? But there are patterns to be found, pictures of a larger hand at work.” She did touch him then, tenderly, on the shoulder, and the warmth of her fingers seemed to melt his scorn. “I realize I’m just a young woman who hasn’t had to deal with much unpleasantness, but I believe with all my heart that God cares for you.”

  Trevor frowned and moved away from her touch. “I’ve heard religion before and it’s a bunch of hogwash.”

  Gracie cocked her head.

  “You don’t think that, though, do you?” he asked.

  “Sacrifice borne of passion is not ‘hogwash,’ in my opinion.”

  His fingers tapped against the rocking chair. Passion and sacrifice. That was a new thought. “You’ve got a strange way of looking at God.”

  Gracie smiled the softest smile he’d ever seen. “His love is life to me.”

  Feeling awkward, Trevor gave her a stiff nod. Wasn’t much a guy could say to a sentiment like that. He didn’t know anything about love. “Well, thanks for listening to me ramble,” he said.

  “You weren’t rambling at all. You shared your thoughts and feelings with me. It’s what friends do.” She stood, tucking her hands into the folds of her coat, and inclined her head to Trevor. “I’ll see you in the morning, then?”

  “In the morning.”

  After she left, Trevor looked out over the land. The place he’d been raised, a place that had never had anything to do with God or love. Yet somehow Gracie’s words found their way deep inside, slipping by the things his mother taught him, by the lessons of the past, to a place where Mary’s soft voice sometimes resonated. Hadn’t Mary said something similar to him before? He’d never listened, though.

  Never needed to hear her.

  But now his pa had passed. Trevor didn’t want to end up like him, alone, purposeless, railing at a world that just didn’t care. Maybe Mary and Gracie had a point about love.

  There was one way to find out.

  Chapter Seven

  Sunday dawned clear and crisp, perfect for fellowship with others of like faith. Gracie jumped out of bed, bounced to her closet, and removed one of the suits Mary had altered for her. The lilac print always made her feel pretty. She’d talked Mary into shortening the length so it skimmed below her knees, a change that bordered on scandalous.

  How should she do her hair? She needed to borrow Mary’s full-length mirror. Racing down the hall, she knocked on Mary’s door and then opened it. “Mary, aren’t you ready yet? We have to go.”

  “I only now finished the breakfast dishes.” Mary turned from her closet, a frown on her lips. “What are you wearing?”

  Gracie skipped to the mirror, examined her image and grinned. “My favorite suit. You did a wonderful job. I feel so chic, so completely modern.”

  Mary’s eyes rounded in the mirror’s reflection. “Gracie, that skirt is a wee bit short to wear to church, don’t you think?”

  “Nonsense. I’m wearing wool stockings. My legs will never get cold. Itchy, yes. Cold, no.” She moved to the closet, admiring Mary’s collection of clothes. A deep blue dress with lace embroidered sleeves and pale pink flowers etching the hem caught her attention. “This is lovely.” She plucked it from the closet and held it out. With all the work Mary did, she deserved to dress up and feel pretty.

  Mary’s nose wrinkled but she took it. “Could you help me put it on?”

 
“Of course.” Gracie hummed a hymn as she helped Mary. Today was going to be beautiful. She could feel it.

  When Mary finished dressing, Gracie flung the door open and skipped down the hallway. She stopped at the stairs to wait for Mary, who walked at a more sedate pace.

  It made her think of her parents, the way Mary walked straight and smooth, the way Gracie herself had been taught to walk. She missed her family, even if they were a little controlling. She missed Father’s rough pats on her back, his proud smile when she finished his accounting and the books balanced to the penny. She missed shopping with Mother, who had a flair for picking flattering styles and colors for Gracie.

  Gracie settled on the bench in the hallway while Mary went to get the keys to the automobile from Uncle Lou.

  Boots echoed on the wooden floor, and Gracie looked up. Trevor stood in the doorway that led to the kitchen. He’d slicked his dark hair back, but he hadn’t shaved and the deep shadow on his chin gave him a rugged edge. His dark blue jeans and hunter-green-plaid shirt melded tightly to his long form, emphasizing pantherlike strength. His eyes were haunted.

  Her hands began to sweat. “Are you coming to church with us? We just read the Bible and talk. Well, Mr. Horn says a little something usually, but it only lasts about twenty minutes.” Gracie clamped her mouth closed. Why did she always jabber on like this in front of him?

  Her heart thumped painfully against her ribs. It was his wounded gaze that did this to her.

  He walked closer and stood between her and the front door. “You look different.”

  What did he mean? Her throat suddenly dry, she swallowed, and then slowly patted her curls. “Yes, I know. Losing weight doesn’t suit me. I can’t help it. I have the face God gave me and less or more weight won’t make me pretty.” Oh, no. That had sounded much too snippy. And insecure.

  Embarrassed, she looked past him to where Mary and Uncle Lou stood on the front porch, nose to nose, arguing. Perhaps escape would loosen the tension that suddenly seemed to weigh her down.

  “I should go protect Mary from my ogre of an uncle. Honestly, whatever is the matter with him, yelling at her like that?” Uncle Lou must’ve tried to order Mary around again. At least she seemed to be sticking up for herself this time.