Grace be a Lady (Love & War in Johnson County Book 1) (3 page)

“You
look a little peaked. Is there anything I can do for you, ma’am? You’re new to
Misery, right?”

New
to misery? She could have laughed at the question. No, she was old friends with
misery, but he didn’t need to hear her problems. Still, that gaze, brimming
with compassion, drew her in, made her want to reach out for help.

“Do
you know where I can find a job?”

His
face fell. “No, ma’am, I’m really sorry, I don’t. Even if I did, it’d be ranch
work.” Then he flashed her a sideways smile as he spun his hat in his hands.
“And you’re kind of scrawny for a cowhand.” The young man had a rather
attractive dimple in his cheek, but it disappeared as he turned more serious.
“My name is Thad Walker, ma’am.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m pleased to meet
you.”

She
accepted the shake but without much enthusiasm. “I’m Grace Hendrick.” She didn’t
have time to be distracted by that dimpled smile or those magical, ice-blue
eyes. If he couldn’t help her, it was time to move on. She rose to her feet and
he joined her. She took an instant to notice the way he towered over her, but
the flap and flutter of papers in front of her drew her attention to a board
with notices tacked to it.

He
chucked a thumb at it. “Those are the job listings. I haven’t seen anything,
though, that wasn’t ranch work, like I said.”

She
skimmed over the notices.
Ranch hand wanted. Experienced ranch hands wanted.
Bunkhouse cook
. Intrigued, Grace stepped closer and stopped that notice
from waving in the breeze. “What is a bunkhouse cook?”

Thad
placed his hat back on his head and cleared his throat. “Well, for that one, ma’am,
you’d have to live in the bunkhouse with all the hands.”

She
snatched her hand away. “Oh.” She continued reading, and, with each notice, her
spirits fell a degree more.

“Ma’am?”
Thad put one hand on his gun and leaned slightly towards Grace; enough to let
her know the question was delicate. “I don’t mean to pry, but are you, you
know, all right? I mean, do you have a place to stay and such?”

“Oh,
yes, I’m fine,” she said, consciously lifting her face and forcing warmth into
her expression. “I have plenty of time to find work.”

He
studied her, as if debating the truth of the answer.

“Thad!”

His
eyes shot past her to a man hailing him.

“Your
wagon’s ready. Everything’s loaded.”

Thad
sighed and returned to Grace. He seemed to want to say something, but, after an
awkward silence, tipped his hat. “Good day then, Miss Hendrick. There’s not
much to Misery. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again. At least, I hope so.”

Grace
nodded but didn’t say anything. If Thad Walker couldn’t help her find work, he
was useless and his flattery worthless. In spite of herself, she watched him
walk away. He was handsome, tall, and muscular; his tan corduroys, a bit dirty
but in good shape, slid appealingly over powerful legs. In fact, he was well-dressed
and she assumed then that he was a man of means. Perhaps in Misery he might be
someone good to know . . . eventually.

But,
for the moment, he wasn’t hiring either, which meant she had to keep looking.
Grace closed her eyes, took a breath, and went back to the postings one more
time. “Please, there has to be something here.”
Farrier. Blacksmith apprentice.
Ranch hand for a widow lady . . .

Her
eyes went back to that one.
Ranch hand for a widow lady. Small ranch. Only
100 head and some farm animals. Experience preferred.
Here someone had
squeezed in above that
but will train the right man. Contact Raney Lawson at
the . . .

Grace
scrunched up her face. A symbol of some kind finished the sentence. An “R”
inside a diamond.
The Diamond R?

The
seed of an idea sprouted.

The
man who had hailed Thad Walker walked over to the bulletin board, with a paper
in his hand. “Mornin’, ma’am.”

Grace
nodded a greeting as he shifted notes around to make room for a new notice. “Excuse
me,” she could barely keep the excitement from her voice, “but if I wanted to
find Raney Lawson, how would I go about that?”

The
man jerked a spare thumb tack from the board and pinned up his note. Some
notice about the cattle inspector coming to town. “Well, today’s Monday. She
usually comes in for supplies around noon.” He faced her, twisting his mustache.
“But if you miss her, I could draw you a passable map. Her spread’s about eight
miles west of town on the Crazy Woman.”

Grace
frowned. The Crazy Woman? But more importantly, eight miles? It might as well
be eight-hundred. She had no money for a buggy. But she had a plan and intended
to see it through. “Thank you; I’ll try to catch her at noon.”

Ignoring
the rumbling in her demanding stomach, Grace hurried back down the street.

Thad
snapped the reins and drove the wagon out of the feed store’s warehouse. About
to pull out onto the street, he searched for Grace, hoping to get one more glimpse
of her. No longer sitting on the bench, she was, instead, striding down the
boardwalk. Entranced, he paused the horses, and watched, taking in the sway of
her hips, that tiny waist, bustle swishing back and forth like a hypnotist’s watch.
Yeah, he could make a habit of this.

Grace
Hendrick was just about the prettiest thing Thad had ever seen in his life.
From across the street he had been impressed, but, up close, his knees had darn
near buckled when she hit him with those eyes. Deep and round, they were the
bright green of a high country pasture in June. They were wrapped up in a nice
package too. She was a petite thing, with delicate features, a sweet, full
mouth, and hair the color of strawberry jam in the morning sun. It was too easy
to wonder what it might be like to release all those silky locks and get a
taste of her soft, pink lips.

Thad
swiped a hand over his stubbly cheeks and brought his head down from the
clouds. Yes, sir, he believed he could see some courting coming up in the very
near future. The thought brought out an uncharacteristic humming of “Buffalo
Gals”.

He
cut the music short, though, when Grace crossed the street, passed the bakery
and, instead, entered Mr. Brittle’s clothing store. A
men’s
clothing
store. That could only mean one thing, and Thad sighed, trying to expel his
disappointment.

Well,
it stood to reason. A pretty gal like that couldn’t be unhitched. He wondered
who the lucky devil was.

Lost
in thought, he rubbed his thumb back and forth on the reins in his hand. Maybe
everybody was right. Maybe it was time to step up, or out, and find a wife.
Since nobody in Misery was pulling his trigger, he supposed he should take his
brothers’ advice and start visiting Sheridan more often, maybe even Cheyenne.
Nick and Adam had been bugging him forever to attend the galas at the Stock
Growers’ Association. Thad just wasn’t much for crowds, but he wasn’t much keen
on the idea of turning twenty-seven and gettin’ beat to the altar by his
brothers, older
or
younger.

That
possibility hadn’t concerned him much, until this moment. Losing out on Miss
Grace Hendrick had changed this horse race. Snoozing at the gate wasn’t going
to cut it. Otherwise, he might miss out again.

And
he sure hated that he’d missed out on her.

Busy
with such silly thoughts, it took a minute for his brother’s voice to register.
“Thad,” Adam hollered from the street. “Thad! Hey, quit your day dreaming.”

Thad
swiveled his head and saw his younger brother trotting towards him. He shrugged
a shoulder in embarrassment and waved back. “Yeah, kind of got lost there for a
second.”

Adam,
gangly, and sporting shaggy golden hair, was the spittin’ image of Thad when he
was fifteen. His little brother shook his head in mock disgust as he brought
his horse up to the wagon. “Must be that new gal in town got your head all
twisted around.”

“You’ve
seen her?” Thad hadn’t meant to sound so interested.

Adam
chuckled. “From every angle and the view was quite pleasant.”

Thad
wanted to agree, but he also wanted to change the subject. He was vaguely
uncomfortable listening to his teenage brother talk about Grace like that. “You
speak to the sheriff?”

Disgust
clouded Adam’s face as he turned an antsy horse in circles. “He’s too danged
old to do this town any good anymore. When’s he gonna retire? He doesn’t have
the first clue where Bill’s cattle went. He hasn’t even been out looking. At
least he did say the Stock Growers Association is sending another inspector.”

“Brave
man, considering the last one got shot.” Thad glanced down the street at the
sheriff’s office. Phillips did seem a might long in the tooth for his job. Last
time he and his brothers had joined a posse with the sheriff, the old man had
spent two days
solid
complaining of his gout. Not to mention, he didn’t
want rustlers shooting at him. “Maybe this inspector will last longer and shed
some light on the rustling.” Thad’s gaze roved back to Brittle’s store. A young
boy emerged, a paper bag tucked under his arm. He crossed the street and headed
back towards them. Thad didn’t recognize him.
Another stranger in town?
With
all the reported cattle rustling, maybe he should pay attention. On second
thought, though, this kid was so skinny, Thad doubted he could rustle up a
scrambled egg. “All right, let’s get on home. We’ll probably catch up with
Trampas. He didn’t get the new horses for the remuda straight off like I told
him. I found him in the Number Nine.”

Adam
snorted. “Is he worthless, or what?”

“Yeah,
well, we’ll just have to keep a closer eye on him.” Thad was convinced Trampas
was fudging the numbers of the herd—specifically, inflating them to hide his
skimming. He’d argued with Pa about firing the bum, but the lack of proof
bought the foreman one more chance . . . again. “Eventually he’s
going to mess up, and we’ll be there to catch him.”

Thad
snapped the reins again and steered the horses out onto the street. He pointed
the team towards the Walker ranch, and settled in for the twelve-mile ride
home.

Grace
clutched the stuffed paper bag under her arm, slipped quietly from Brittle’s Men’s
Clothing Emporium, and hurried back towards the feed store. She widened her
stride as she marched, attempting to affect a manly gate.
God, I promise, if
you’ll help me get this job, I’ll tell this Raney woman the truth as soon as
poss—

The
prayer stopped her in her tracks. She’d given up on God long ago, about the
hundredth time Bull hit her. Her cup running over with hate, she figured that
didn’t leave any room for God. Surviving this situation and getting back to
Hardy was up to her. God could go jump off a celestial cliff.

So,
maybe this wasn’t the best or wisest plan, but she was so hungry, and Hardy was
waiting on her. To attack either problem, she had to get a job. Everything
hinged on that. Desperation over the gravity of her situation clawed at her
brain. The feeling frightened her. She cast a quick, sideways glance at the
little saloon in town—The Number Nine—and winced.

No,
no, no! Mrs. Lawson, you’re going to hire me.

Grace
approached the man at the feed store as he stacked fifty-pound bags of oats on
the loading dock. “Excuse me,” she said, lowering her voice to sound more
masculine. “You seen a Mrs. Raney Lawson yet today?”

The
man raised up, twisted his mustache quizzically for a moment as he appraised Grace,
then nodded. “She just came in to pick up her supplies. Said she’d be back in
about fifteen minutes.”

“Well,
I reckon I’ll wait.” Grace hitched up her pants, thinking it a manly gesture,
and ambled over to her bench. Brows still expressing his consternation, the
feed store fellow rubbed his neck then went back to setting items on the
loading dock.

A
few minutes later, after he’d set out everything from bags of oats to rolls of
barbed wire, he walked over to Grace. “You ain’t waiting to see Raney about a
job by any chance, are you?”

Grace
nodded.

“Well,
you sure are a little fella, but seein’ as how Raney ain’t exactly been overrun
with applicants, may be you’ll have half a chance.”

Grace
sucked in a breath. Might she really? Her heart raced at the thought.

“Least
ways,” the gentleman nodded toward the street, “you’ll know soon enough. Here
she comes.”

Grace
twisted on the bench to see behind her. An older woman with ramrod-straight
posture drove a wagon towards them. A cigarette drooped from her lips as she
tossed a wave to the man behind Grace. She was tanned, weathered, lean like an
old chicken, and probably as tough as one. Her brown hair, streaked with gray
and pulled back into a no-nonsense bun, and the deep lines in her face said the
woman had seen a lot of hard times. Grace thought she saw something kind and
patient in those lines, as well.

Taking
a deep breath, she rose to meet Raney’s wagon.

“Raney,
this here boy wants to talk to you about a job.”

Grace
cut her eyes to the man, annoyed with him for jumping in like that. She didn’t
appreciate his use of the word
boy
either, but she didn’t give him a
second chance to speak for her.
“Yes
,
ma'am, Mrs. Lawson.
I see you're looking for a ranch hand.”

Raney
pulled the wagon to a stop, plucked the cigarette from her mouth and regarded
Grace with a dubious expression. “You can’t be much over sixteen and probably
weigh about as much as a wet hen.”

Grace
had bought a simple flannel shirt, a pair of dungarees, brown leather boots,
and a canvas jacket, all slightly over-sized to hide her curves.
She’d
torn a strip from her petticoat to bind her breasts. Finally,
she'd cut her hair
with a pair of dull scissors. Yes, she probably was the picture of a
scraggy, young,
unkempt hooligan
not worthy of a job
.

Raney
took another puff, put one foot up on the kickboard and rested an elbow on her
knee, as if the position helped her think. “You got any ranching experience?”

“Yes
ma’am, but I was raised on a farm.”

“That
mean you can ride or just feed ducks?”

Grace
stepped forward, her enthusiasm getting the better of her. “I can ride as good
as any man.” She stumbled over that, but then hurried on. “I’m strong for my
size, tough, and I’ll work sunup to sundown without a break.”

Raney
chuckled. “I’m not running a prison camp.” She tilted her head, a skeptic V in
her brow. “Whatta you think, Sam?”

The
fellow from the feed store twisted his mustache and grinned. “Unless he’s
running from the law, I think you better snap him up. Maybe you get him out to
that ranch of yours, he won’t hear any talk of the gold strike.”

Raney
frowned at the joke and then wrinkled her face up at Grace. “You’re not, are
you?”

Grace
blinked. “Pardon? Not what?”

“Running
from the law?”

“Oh,
no, ma’am,” she answered with an almost too-exuberant shake of her head. “Never.”
Just my thug of a husband.

Raney
took another drag from her cigarette. Her silence stretched out to the point
Grace wanted to beg the woman to speak. Finally, she did. “I’m small. My ranch
barely feeds me. But I can’t run it alone. I pay $15 a month, room and board.
You don’t by any chance have your own horse?” Grace shook her head. “Yep, I
figured as much. All right then,” Raney heaved a great sigh. “Reckon I’ll try
you out for a few weeks.”

Grace
had to control herself. A girlish squeal had come within a hair of slipping out
of her. Remembering who she was, or, rather, who she was pretending to be, she
hooked her thumb through her belt loop. “Thank you, ma’am. You’ll be glad you
hired me.”

“Well,
I reckon that’s one possibility.” Raney puffed once more then tossed the little
stub into the street. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Gra
–” She bit that off and tried again. “Greg. My name is Greg Hen . . . derson.”

“Well,
Mr. Henderson,” Raney said, locking the brake, “let’s get this wagon loaded.”