Grace be a Lady (Love & War in Johnson County Book 1) (2 page)

Lulled
by the sway and click-clack of the train, Grace stared blankly out the window
at the towering, snow-capped mountains in the distance. She ached so much to
see Hardy she felt nauseated, but her bitterness toward Bull kept invading her
mind, replacing the ache with hate. Somehow, some way, she would get back to
her son, and free them of Bull if she had to kill the man to do it.

She
at least had some measure of peace, knowing he wouldn’t hurt their son. And,
soon, she would be with Hardy again.

Unfortunately,
the plan to make that happen hadn’t formed yet.

The
train’s whistle blew and she snapped back, taking in the handful of weathered,
forlorn-looking buildings on the horizon.

Misery.

Not
much more than a hamlet, it consisted of about a dozen buildings sitting on a
wide, rolling plain of golden, fall grass. In the background, the mammoth Big
Horn Mountains grazed the cloudless sky, while fingers of evergreen forests struggled
toward the town, not quite reaching it. Her stomach fell as she realized the
job prospects in such a small community would be limited, to say the least.

Perhaps
Bull had known that.

Grace
pulled away from the window and laced her fingers over her stomach. Had Bull
sent her here, knowing the only way to survive might be to become a . . .
a . . . ?

She
couldn’t even
think
the word. There was absolutely no way, no
circumstance, no situation that would push her in that direction. There had to
be some other kind of job in this town. And she would find it.

Amidst
the hiss of steam and laughter of warm reunions, Grace climbed down from the
train and stepped out onto the platform. Another dozen or so people disembarked,
as well, and filtered past her. She watched them go, so envious that they
probably had homes, friends, and loved ones waiting for them. She felt that
tightening in her throat again and angrily forced it back.
Focus on the job
.

Grace
marched over to a window of the rail office to assess her appearance. Her
honey-tinged golden hair was twisted in a stylish chignon atop her head, but
the hair-do was precarious at best. Sighing, she re-tucked some stray hairs and
fluffed the bun, pinched her cheeks to add some color, and then looked down at
her dress. The bodice and skirt, made of sky blue satin, were trimmed in
midnight-blue velvet and draped with generous folds of powder-blue lace. A row
of petite velvet bows paraded down the center of her ensemble. She was a tad
over-dressed to be searching for a job. Resigned, Grace puffed the sleeves,
smoothed the folds of her skirt, and marched towards the town, her fishtail
bustle swishing demurely in the dust.

She’d
only gone a few steps when she realized the first building on the main street
was the sheriff’s office. Relieved she wouldn’t have to go asking about for
directions, she entered the rather small, unpainted clapboard building with as
much pride as she could muster, though she felt like she was going to see the
principal.

As
she stepped into the office, an old man snatched his boots off the desk and
attempted to leap to a standing position, but the rickety chair tilted back and
stiff joints caused him to flounder comically for a moment, like an upside-down
turtle trying to work its way back to its feet.

He
grabbed the edge of the desk to finish pulling himself up, flashing Grace a
mouthful of decayed, yellowed teeth, evidently pleased he’d managed to stand.
No small victory, as he was a portly man. Every button on his worn plaid shirt strained
against its hole. “Yes ma’am, what can I do for you?” His eyes roved boldly
over her.

The
light glinted off the star on his chest and her mouth went slack with amazement.
“You’re the sheriff?”

He
puffed up and pushed a greasy strand of hair behind one ear. “Yes, ma’am. For
two years now.”

“Well,”
Grace mumbled, studying the pine floor.
Well, what?
It didn’t matter who
the sheriff was and he struck her as exactly the kind of man Bull would know in
a town like this.
So be it.
She jerked her head up. “My name is Grace
Hendrick. Consider me checked in.” She twirled on her heel and marched out of
the office in a flurry of dusty blue lace.

Why
the heck does Pa keep that worthless shirker around? It just doesn’t make
sense.

Thad
Walker stood in the saloon’s doorway, staring through the meager crowd and thin
haze of smoke at Trampas Cheever. The ranch foreman was leaning on the bar
chatting up a saloon gal instead of doing his job—rounding up horses.

Disgusted,
Thad balled his right hand into a fist and, with his left, slowly pushed
through the door. One of these days, he would catch Trampas doing something
that was, without a doubt, a firing offense—no gray areas—and finally he’d have
his Pa’s okay to give this lickspittle his last payday. Till then . . .

“Trampas.”
The man slid his gaze from the pretty little distraction to Thad. “You were
supposed to have that string of ponies ready to go first thing. You should have
already been back at the ranch with ’em.”

Trampas
turned toward the bar and tossed down his whiskey. “I got thirsty.”

Thad
was in no mood. A hailstorm had knocked down twenty-plus acres of wheat last
night. Some of the calves were showing signs of coccidiosis. Six hands had
ridden out for the gold fields, and now this cocky piece of trash hadn’t even
strung the remuda together. The ranch was in desperate need of those fresh
horses.

Betty
Jean, the sweet little redhead entertaining Trampas, must have seen the
thundercloud forming on Thad’s face. She swallowed and backed a few feet down
the bar.

Striking
like a lightning bolt, Thad grabbed Trampas and spun him around. The man’s
eyebrows shot straight up.

“You
don’t respect me, that’s one thing.” Thad stepped in closer. “But not doing
your job disrespects my father. You and I are going to have to come to an
understanding. Is today the day?”

Trampas
stood up to Thad for a second, then smiled and inched back. “No, sir.” He
grabbed his hat off the bar. “I’ll get right to those horses.”

A
smirk played on the man’s lips as he sidestepped Thad with a nod and departed
the saloon. Thad grit his teeth, wondering when—not if—a fight was coming.
Maybe not today, but Trampas was going to get that smirk knocked right off his
bony face, and Thad had the fist that could do it.

Ignoring
the stunned silence and transfixed stares of saloon patrons, Thad stomped out onto
the boardwalk and paused. To his left, Trampas sauntered off toward the stockyard,
long legs moving at a leisurely pace. The ranch hand’s gangly frame reminded
Thad of a praying mantis.

And
he hated bugs.

Feeling
more than a little surly, he scanned the street in search of his brother, but
found something that lifted his mood right considerable. A pretty little strawberry-blonde
in a powder-blue dress stood outside the bakery. He watched as she tugged on
her shirtwaist, adjusted her fluffy, lacy sleeves, rolled her shoulders, and
then stepped inside.

Lot
of fuss for some bread.

He
couldn’t explain why, but he waited a minute for her to come out. When she did,
the sagging slope of her shoulders told him things hadn’t gone to her liking.
She took a few steps with her head down, but then seemed to think better of it.
She stopped, raised her chin, and marched into the general store.

It
didn’t take a genius to figure she was probably hunting for a job. He rubbed
his neck and gave serious thought to trying to intersect paths with her. But he
didn’t really have time; Buddy at the blacksmith shop was waiting for him.

He
literally wavered as he took a step towards responsibility, and away from her.
His weathered cowboy boots wanted to follow those petite lace-up boots; his
brain wanted to take care of ranching business. Both his brothers would already
be across the street, asking the young lady to join them for ice cream. And
that was exactly why
he
was his father’s right-hand man . . .
or, at least, used to be.

Besides,
Misery was a small town. He would run into her again. He gained enough
willpower from that to set off for the blacksmith shop, but not without one
last glance back at the general store.

The
unpleasant meeting with the sheriff behind her, Grace surveyed the street,
wondering where to start. On pure whim, she marched off to her left and grabbed
the first door knob she came to, but stopped before she burst through it like
some crazy woman. Even though she was dirty, and desperately wanted to wash her
hair, she noticed a few of the men in town had assessed her with appreciative
glances. Thankfully assured she didn’t look like the ragamuffin she felt like,
she straightened her clothing again, tucked and smoothed her hair, and blew out
a hopeful breath.

A
bakery, tailor shop, general store, bank, and a men’s clothing store—she hit
them all in determined succession. The answer was the same at each place: they
weren’t hiring. The older lady at the bakery did, however, suggest that Grace
go to the feed store. That’s where, she said, most job openings were posted.
Grace appreciated the sympathy in the woman’s soft smile, and tried to let it
buoy her flagging spirits.

She
kept her head up and her shoulders squared as she crossed the street on her way
to the feed store, but her journey was wearing on her. A train bench didn’t
make the most comfortable bed, and she hadn’t slept well in days. Worse, she’d
kept her meals small to stretch her money. Consequently, as the boardwalk
angled up a hill, she felt hunger and weakness burn through her core. In
another minute, she was light-headed. With relief, Grace spied a bench just
outside the feed store, and aimed for it. Shaking off some dizziness, she sat
down and closed her eyes.

Oh,
I can’t feel like this
, she scolded, rubbing her temple.
No
one will hire a weak-kneed daisy on the verge of fainting.

“Ma’am,
are you all right?”

Startled,
Grace swung her head up, and found herself staring into the broad, handsome
face of a smooth-shaven cowboy. Blue eyes, framed at the corners with weathered
creases, shimmered with concern. Sprigs of rebellious blonde hair paraded
across his worried brow, sneaking out from beneath a white hat. Practically in
one motion, he snatched the Stetson off his head, ran his hand through his
hair, and sat down beside her.