Authors: Ginger Simpson
“You don’t have to worry about me, Pa,” she assured him. “I
can take care of myself. Dude Bryant is not going to win this fight. Not if I
have a say so. I have a surprise for you. Wait right here.”
Ellie jumped up and raced across to the barn. She scrambled
up the ladder to the hayloft and moved bales until she uncovered her hidden
treasure. Quickly, she did a cursory inspection to make sure the gun barrel was
clear of debris,
then
spun the cylinder to assure it
was loaded and ready. As she strapped the leather around her waist, her heart
pounded with excitement. Nervous fingers made securing the rawhide ties to her
leg difficult.
Finally successful, she took a moment to inhale a calming
breath, and then with extreme care, descended each wooden step back to the barn
floor. She had no intention of falling and becoming her own victim.
Ellie paused by the door. The realization of what she was
about to do dropped like dead weight. What if they ridiculed her? A female
toting a gun wasn’t a common site. What if Pa got angry? She’d already put her
foot in her mouth, and he was waiting for the big “surprise”. She released a
pent-up breath. It was a little late to worry about things now. She squared her
shoulders and steeled herself for whatever happened.
Her feet refused to move, feeling as though they were mired
in mud. How did one casually stroll out in front of a waiting audience?
Swaggering flashed through her mind, but that strut was reserved for
experienced gunslingers, and she hated it. Anything cocky repelled her.
Gritting her teeth, she willed herself to move. She walked
out into the sunlight for all to see, one hand awkwardly resting on her gun and
the other swinging at her side like a dead limb in a windstorm.
Her gait felt about as natural as the fake smile she had
plastered on her face. If she could shoot as fast as her heart beat, she could
take down the famed gunfighter, Wild Bill Hickok, a name she’d overheard in
conversations among the men.
“What the?”
Pa jumped up and, in
his stocking feet, padded to the edge of the porch. His eyes were so wide only
a dot of brown showed in a sea of white.
Ellie held up a hand. “Wait a minute before you get all
riled. Let me explain.”
Pa put his hands on his hips. “Well it better be damned
good.”
Ellie glanced at Ty. Was he laughing at her? He was either
massaging his upper lip or trying to hide his amusement. She’d bet on the
latter, but didn’t let his reaction deter her.
“I decided it was high time I learned to defend myself and
Fountainhead, so I bought me a pistol and I’ve been practicing. Even if I do
say so myself, I’m pretty good.”
Pa shook his head. “There is no way any daughter of mine is
going to parade around wearing a gun and invitin’ trouble. You take it off this
minute, young lady. My granddaddy used to tell me all the time, ‘don’t borrow
trouble,’ and Roselle, you have no idea how much you’re borrowin’ if you aim to
match your talents against the likes of the Bryants. There ain’t
no
land on God’s green earth worth losing you.”
“But, but Pa…”
“No buts about it, Roselle, I mean what I say.”
Any time he called her by her given name, he meant business.
She glanced around at the hired hands, most hanging their heads and acting
disinterested, but she knew better. They were all laughing at her. She dropped
her head, humiliation burning in her cheeks at being publicly scolded, like a
naughty child taking a cookie without permission. She prayed for Ty to come to
her defense. Surely he understood. She cast a pleading look in his direction.
When he finally opened his mouth, she held her breath.
“Ellie, I agree with your pa. Leave the defendin’ to the
men. You’ll get yourself hurt.”
Her mouth gaped. Ty’s words dashed her hopes. So, he still
thought of her as a helpless little girl. Her temper flared. She stomped out
into the middle of the yard. “You all may think I’m a child,” she blared like a
preacher addressing his congregation, “but while you weren’t looking, I grew
up. If you all think this is funny, go ahead and laugh. It won’t bother me
none. I’ll wager I can match any of you shot for shot. My mother is buried on
this land and it’s my legacy. I aim to run this ranch some day so I’m going to
defend what belongs to my family and there’s nothing anyone of you can do about
it.”
She locked eyes with her father. “Pa, I know you always
wanted a son, but you got me instead. I realize I’ve been a big disappointment,
and that’s why Ty is so special to you. I’m through being jealous and trying to
compete for your attention and approval. I don’t need it anymore. I’m old
enough to take care of myself and that’s what I aim to do.”
She stormed by her father and went inside. Tears streamed
down her face as she ran to her room and slammed the door.
Was she angry or hurt? These days it was hard to tell. Her
emotions were a mess and took over at will. She looked in the mirror and
blotted her eyes.
The end result was the same whether she was mad or had
bruised feelings. Right now she hated anything male. Her good intentions had
been discredited, and she felt belittled by the two who meant most to her. How
could they do that to her? Pa was probably fuming right now. She’d never really
sassed him before, but maybe it was time she did.
She filled the basin and washed her face. Some gun-slinging
tough girl she’d turned out to be. At least she didn’t fall apart until she got
into the house. Despite the tears, she felt proud at speaking her mind in front
of all the men.
But, was she as good a shot as she believed? She took her
gun from its holster and studied it. Maybe buying it had been a bad idea to
begin with; so far it had been nothing but a source of frustration.
Still, there was something energizing about holding the cold
metal in her hands that made her feel stronger and more determined.
Using her shirtsleeve, she wiped the wetness from her
face,
and still peering into the mirror, held her head high
and re-holstered her weapon.
“I’m not going to let them get to me, and these girlish
outbursts
be
damned. I’m probably as good a shot as
most of these ranch hands. Pa says I can’t wear my gun around here. Fine! But
what I do when I’m not on Fountainhead is my own business.” She liked the
determined look reflecting back at her.
Ellie opened her armoire, removed her weapon, and stashed it
way back in the corner with her old shotgun. This hadn’t turned out exactly as
she had hoped.
Why didn’t that surprise her?
Chapter Nine
Ellie awoke to a rooster crowing right outside her window.
Bright sunshine creeping into the room made it hard to focus her sleep-heavy
eyes. She frowned and pulled the pillow over her head, hoping to muffle the
annoying noise, but it was no use.
God, how she wanted to
shoot that bird.
Her mind immediately flashed back to how horrible yesterday
had been. The chorus of laughter still echoed in her head and tugged her lips
into a frown.
She sat up and stretched into a big yawn, but the cold air
sent her nestling back down under the covers. It was far too early, and she
wasn’t anxious to face the morning or the men.
She preferred languishing beneath the warmth of her quilt to
listening to snickers. While watching dancing sunrays stretch across the
ceiling, she thought about the upcoming social.
“Dang you, Tyler Bishop,” she mumbled, picturing his mocking
face. Her teeth clenched in anger. How could she possibly go with him when she
was back to hating him?
Her growling stomach momentarily waylaid her anger. She
massaged her belly to quell the rumble. In her fit of rage last evening she’d
refused supper, choosing instead to stay in her room and pout.
Like anyone cared.
There she went again, acting like the child she kept
insisting she wasn’t. At least she didn’t shoot anyone, although she’d been mad
enough to.
The fragrant aroma of frying bacon seeped beneath her door
and beckoned her. Maybe if she went to the kitchen now she could steal a bite
before the ranch hands came in to eat. Sure, she couldn’t avoid them forever,
but her embarrassment was too fresh in her mind.
Ellie scrambled out of bed, shivering as her bare feet
touched the cold floor. Her nipples pebbled as she reached for the wrapper
hanging on the bedpost. She tied the gingham sash around her waist, licked her
lips in anticipation of breakfast, and shuffled down the hallway.
How strange that Pa’s door was still closed. He was always
up before that annoying rooster. Maybe all those orders he barked yesterday
wore him out. She shrugged, chuckling at her own humor, but daring not to stick
her head inside the door. If her face still felt hot from shame, his temper
must be no less cool.
Cook hovered over the stove, flipping eggs and turning pork.
Ellie greeted her with a smile and hungrily surveyed the pans. She inhaled.
“Breakfast sure smells tasty.”
“Well, good morning to you. I’m not surprised you’re up
early, and starving,” the plump gray-haired matron chided. “Growing gals
shouldn’t go to bed without eating.”
“I know. I just…”
Cook winked and handed her a plate. “You had a bad day
didn’t you, sweetie? I heard bits and pieces over supper.”
“Oh, those men make me so darn mad,” Ellie said, stamping
her foot.
“Even Pa.
Why can’t people under-stand I’m
not a child anymore?”
Cook ran a smoothing hand down Ellie’s long tresses. “Well
you’re always gonna be my little darlin’.” She turned back to the stove. “Do
you want milk or coffee this morning?”
Cook’s eyes always sparkled with warmth. There wasn’t a time
when the house wasn’t filled with delicious aromas, or blinding white laundry
hung drying on the clothesline outside.
She was a short and rotund woman whose cheeks stayed a rosy
shade of pink that matched her disposition, but only until one of the hands
tracked mud onto her clean floors. Recollections of the day she took a broom
after Pete for not cleaning his boots brought a smile to Ellie’s face.
Ellie reached for a piece of bacon and smacked her lips at
the salty taste.
Somehow Cook was very distantly related to Pa, but Ellie
never heard her called by a name other than the one describing her main role in
the household.
Cook had come to live on Fountainhead after her husband
passed. She never spoke of him, and out of respect, Ellie never asked
questions.
Cook wasn’t overly affectionate, but Ellie had experienced
her motherly compassion first hand. There had been many times throughout the
years that Cook had cleaned Ellie’s skinned knees and dried her tears.
Everything Ellie knew about chores, she learned from Cook. Had Ellie not been a
tomboy she probably could have garnered a lot more knowledge.
“I said, do you want milk or coffee with your breakfast,”
Cook repeated, drawing Ellie from her thoughts.
Ellie pondered her choices. Milk was for children. “Coffee
please, and I’ll be taking my food to my room. I have no intention of sharing
my meal with a bunch of polecats.”
Cook laughed as she poured a cup full of steaming black
liquid and handed it to Ellie. “I can’t say as I blame you. Men can be a
troublesome lot sometimes, but if you don’t take that scowl off your face, your
brow is gonna end up as creased as mine.”
Ellie smiled, but gave her brow a quick rub. The furrow
relaxed, but only until Ty’s attempt to shield his laughter came to mind.
“You best be getting your mother’s wooden tray,” Cook said,
adding bacon to Ellie’s eggs. “It’s in the pantry, behind the flour barrel.”
After fetching it, Ellie dusted off the treasured oak piece,
noting the flowers etched deep in the grain. “Did Ma use this much?”
Cook placed the heaped plate in the middle of it. “Oh yes.
She loved to have tea in the living room, and when she got so sick, I served…”
Tears pooled in Cook’s eyes. She dabbed at the wetness with the corner of her
apron. “Your mother was a special lady. She would have been very proud of you,
Ellie dear.” Emotion choked her voice.
Would her mother really be pleased? Ellie wanted to ask the
question aloud, but purposely avoided the touchy subject. There was little use
in crying over a mother she didn’t remember. Besides, she’d done enough sobbing
last night.
After giving Cook a quick hug, Ellie grabbed a biscuit from
the oven. “My eggs are getting cold,” she said, carefully balancing the tray
and starting down the hallway. Her door had barely closed when she heard the
men coming in from the bunkhouse.
Ellie leaned against her headboard and took a drink of
coffee, then puckered at the bitter taste. She sat the cup down, wishing she
had chosen milk instead. Maybe associating it with children was silly. The
ranch hands drank it all the time, although most preferred that disgusting
buttermilk. Ugh! Just the way it left the empty glass looking was reason enough
not to drink it.
She finished the last bite of her egg and leaned forward to
place the tray at the foot of the bed. Her bouncy movement sloshed unfinished
coffee out of her cup and into a puddle on her mother’s treasured piece. To
keep it from staining the beautiful veneer, Ellie quickly blotted the moisture
with her napkin. She fingered the outline of a perfectly rendered rose and lost
herself in thought.
Memories of her mother other than photographic images failed
to materialize. Why couldn’t Ellie remember Ma’s touches, her kisses, or her
laughter? Despite an earlier vow not to cry, Ellie swiped away a tear and gazed
at the tray. Maybe someday, she’d hand it down to her own daughter, along with
a few other mementos she had tucked away. She raised her eyes to heaven and
prayed if she had a daughter, they’d have the opportunity to know one another.