Lauri Robinson – Western Spring Weddings: The City Girl and the Rancher / His Springtime Bride / When a Cowboy Says I Do (страница 13)
“Way more important,” Shorty answered.
“Knock it off!” Gray snapped. “Got fences to mend.”
All four riders spurred their mounts and moved off into the meadow. Shaking his head, Nebraska followed with the wagonload of barbwire. Gray rode on ahead. Losing the number of cows he had this past year was making him plenty nervous. On the drive to Abilene, rustlers had made off with close to seventy head; he couldn’t afford to lose any more.
* * *
That evening the hands were lounging around the bunkhouse after the chores were done when Maria accosted Gray on the front porch.
“Señor Gray, Sunday is May first. We go to picnic, no?”
“No.” Ranch work was more important than picnics.
Maria peered at him. “The girl, Emily, she would like it.”
“Yeah, she probably would, Maria, but we’ve got calves to brand and—”
Maria propped her hands on her hips.
“Señor, is no work on Sunday. Is May Day.”
“Yeah, I know. So what? A ranch doesn’t care what day it is.”
“Señor, you think too much about ranch work. Think of Emily! She knows nothing of ranch work. She is a small child only. She deserves to have fun, is true?”
Gray sighed. In the five years he’d owned the Bar H, he’d never won a single argument with Maria. You’d think he’d have learned that by now. He threw up his hands. “Okay, okay. Make that chocolate cake you’re so famous for, huh?”
“Oh, si, Señor Gray. Gracias.”
* * *
“A picnic!” Emily squealed. “A real picnic with potato salad and everything?”
Gray set his coffee mug down on the supper table. “Yeah, ‘and everything.’ Would you like that?”
“And ice cream?”
Gray had to laugh. “Maybe.”
Clarissa sent him a pensive look. “I don’t have a recipe for potato salad.”
“Nobody has a recipe for potato salad,” he said. “You just boil up some eggs and some potatoes and mix ’em up together with some onion and a chopped pickle or two. And some salt,” he added. He was relieved when she laughed.
Emily patted his arm. “Are you gonna tell me a story tonight?”
“Maybe. Have you been a good girl today?”
“Not ’xactly, but I want a story, anyway.”
“How ’bout if your mama tells you a story tonight?”
“No!” the girl sang. “Mama’s stories aren’t exciting, like yours.”
That caught his interest. “Not exciting?” He caught Clarissa’s gaze. “Living in a big city like Boston isn’t exciting?”
“Not exciting the way things are out here in Smoke River,” Clarissa said. “Life in Boston is more...well, civilized. You know, with libraries and concerts and museums.”
“Man, I never thought of libraries and museums as bein’ exciting!”
Clarissa’s voice rose. “But they are!”
“Can’t wait to get back there, huh?”
Clarissa opened her mouth to reply, but Emily cut her off. “I can wait! I like it out here lots better.”
Gray stuffed down a chuckle. “Clarissa, looks like you’ve been outvoted.”
“About the picnic, yes. About going home to Boston—never. All I need is enough money for a train ticket.”
Gray said nothing. It wasn’t surprising that she wanted to go back to Boston; what was surprising was his reaction. He didn’t want to think about the stab of disappointment that knifed through his chest.
Emily tugged on his sleeve. “Please, Mister Gray, tell me a story about you.”
“Listen, Squirt, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll tell you a story if your mama tells one, too.” He glanced up at Clarissa. “Well, how about it?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do any such thing,” she began.
“Why not? Doesn’t have to be about libraries or museums, does it?”
“Tell about when you an’ Papa were little,” Emily begged.
Gray stood up. “And to sweeten the pot,” he said, gathering up the supper platter, “I’ll wash up the dishes.”
Clarissa bit her lip. “Very well.” She settled Emily on her lap and took a sip from her coffee mug. “When your papa and I were very young, about your age, we got in trouble one afternoon. Your grandfather took us to the park to play. We took off our shoes and socks and ran over the green grass and let it tickle our toes, and then we found a little hill. Anthony, that’s your papa, decided we should lie down and roll all the way to the bottom.”
“Ooh, was it fun?”
Clarissa laughed. “It was fun until Anthony rolled over a big rock. It hurt his back, but he laughed, anyway. However, your grandfather didn’t think it was the least bit funny, so he tipped me over his knee and paddled me good.”
“Did you cry?”
“I tried not to, but I did, a little.”
“Did he buy you ice cream when you cried?”
Clarissa gave a quiet sigh. “Honey, neither Anthony nor I ever tasted ice cream until your grandfather was gone.”
“How come?”
She hesitated. “Our fath—your grandfather didn’t like ice cream. He said it was frivolous and his money would be better spent elsewhere.”
“What’s frivlus mean, Mama?”
“It means something that is silly. Not important.”
“What did grandfather like?”
“He liked money.” Her voice had gone flat.
At the sink, Gray froze. Money? Didn’t he like his son and his daughter? He plunged a plate into the soapy dishpan. Something wasn’t right there. It sounded kinda like the way he had been raised, except that his folks were dirt-poor, and they ignored him because they were too busy drinking and fighting. Clarissa’s pa just didn’t care.
Emily’s little arms stole around Clarissa’s neck. “What about your mama?”
“My mother...” Her arms tightened around her daughter. “My mother did not survive my birth.”
“Like my mama?”
“Yes, honey, like your mama.” Her voice caught.
Gray grabbed the dishtowel and dried his hands. “Okay, Emily girl,” he said quickly, “now it’s my turn for a story. You ready?”
“Yes!” She scrambled off Clarissa, who quickly averted her face. “Can I sit on your lap?”
He got comfortable on the settee and lifted Emily onto his lap. “Okay, Squirt, here we go. Once upon a time—”
“I wanna story about you,” Emily demanded. “About when you ran away.”
“I already told you about runnin’ away, and about the silver mine, didn’t I?”