Wolf mentally ran through the work orders waiting on his workbench in town. He had new ones coming in daily. If he stayed here on the ranch more than a day or two, he’d have to bring his tools and supplies here.
“Hmph,” Otis said when Wolf didn’t answer immediately. “Well, whether you stay or go, it’s up to you. All I can say is it’s a dang good thing we had a wet spring. The garden’s producin’ a sight more’n I need what with the comin’ of the fall roundup. There’ll be a rack of bellies gathered at the table with or without you, though I doubt Mrs. Stewart eats much at all compared to the hands.”
Wolf turned a deaf ear. He’d heard Otis’s caterwauling ever since he was small and knew the man meant little by it. After years of soldiering with Doug’s father, Otis had arrived with him and worked as a ranch hand at whatever needed doing. He’d handled the cattle until his old war injury had gotten the best of him. Since then he had settled into a job that he truly enjoyed. Guess he was more a farmer and cook by nature than a cowboy.
“If I stay, I’ll bring in a turkey.”
“It’ll only set Barker off—you being in the bunkhouse again.”
A smile tugged at Wolf’s mouth. Didn’t bother him a bit. “Barker doesn’t own the ranch.”
Concern clouded the old man’s eyes. “Not yet anyway.”
So Otis had concerns about Barker too. That look sealed Wolf’s decision. He’d take the rig back to the livery, let his folks know he’d be gone awhile, grab his tools, saddle his own horse and be back. And he would stay as long as it took to see which way the wind blew.
Cassandra climbed the stairs to the second floor. Four doors—two facing two—lined the short hallway, which was awash in light from a window at the opposite end. The upstairs smelled musty, as if the place needed to be aired out.
She knocked lightly on the first door that she came to. Hearing nothing from within, she swung it open. A small bedroom greeted her—one that hadn’t been used in quite some time, considering the dust on the bureau. She walked across the wood flooring, the heels of her shoes making a sharp sound with each step, and cracked open the window.
The next door revealed a man’s room in total disarray. Toiletries and two whiskey bottles littered the small table near the four-poster. A sweat-stained shirt hung from the tall column at the corner of the bed. Crumbs sprinkled across the tousled sheets. A layer of dust coated the lampshade on the table beside the bed. And the odor—oh, my!—like dirty socks.
A framed painting hung on the wall at the head of the bed. She recognized the subject immediately. Douglas as a young boy. He’d said that his mother painted. The thought brought the sting of tears to her eyes. This must have been his room.
Boots sounded on the stairs. She turned as Mr. Barker approached. “Who is staying here?”
“I moved a few things in. It made it easier to do the ledgers late at night in the study.” He looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “Guess it could use a good cleaning.”
The thought of him sharing the house with her was unnerving. Even with the more relaxed standards in the West compared to the East, surely it was not acceptable. It certainly was not acceptable to her. “Your work habits are commendable, but surely you can see my dilemma. I thought I’d be alone in the house.”
His bushy brows shot up. “It’s a mighty big house for just one person.”
Did he think this was his house? He certainly acted that way. Perhaps it was because he was Douglas’s relation. “Did my husband ask you to stay here, in what was his room?”
He hesitated.
It was just long enough that she knew Doug had done no such thing. “Really. You must move your things to your regular accommodations while I’m here.”
“Are you sure? You might feel safer with a man in the house.”
Did he know nothing of propriety? “It isn’t...proper.”
He frowned. “Guess I could move back to the foreman’s room for the time you are here.”
“Thank you,” she said tightly. “By nightfall, if you don’t mind.” Sure that the entire room would need to be scrubbed, she was about to ask who cleaned at the house when the front door slammed open.
“Cleve?” a woman called out in a singsong voice.
Cleve sighed. “Be right back. Something I got to take care of. Go ahead and look around.”
He strode down the stairs. “Where you been, Gertie?” he demanded. “You were supposed to clean up the place.”
A woman? Here at the ranch? Curiosity got the better of Cassandra, and she tiptoed to the top of the stairs. From her vantage point she could see the sliver of a woman through the stairwell. Her dark brown hair was pinned up in a loose knot, with strands falling down her face and sticking to her flushed cheeks. Her dress was simple, but it was the cut and the way she wore it that was quite suggestive.
“Just walking. What else is there to do on this ranch while everybody works and you ignore me? It’s plain boring around here.”
He lowered his voice. “I told you when Mrs. Stewart came, you had to head back to town. She’s here now. Upstairs.”
Gertie glanced up the stairs.
Quickly, Cassandra pulled back from view.
“So you are throwin’ me out just like that? What about my things?”
Cleve leaned in and whispered something in her ear.
The woman pulled back, giggling behind her hand. “All right then. See that you do. I could use a new hat too.”
“Catch a ride with Wolf. He’s taking the buggy out front back to the livery.”
Her eyes lit up. “Wolf! Oh, now, there’s a grand idea.”
Cleve pushed her gently but firmly toward the door. It closed, and Cassandra stepped back from the stairwell. A doxy! The man had entertained a prostitute right here in Douglas’s house. Probably even in his bed.
A moment later, Cleve came to the top of the stairs. He paused when he saw her standing there in the small hallway. His eyes hardened slightly. “I’ll get my things now.” He walked into the room he’d been using and began gathering up his clothing.
She stared after him, more than grateful now that Mr. Barker was moving back to the bunkhouse and Gertie was leaving. She didn’t want to contemplate whether he would have had the gall to entertain Gertie while she was here. She certainly hoped not.
For all his talk about spending all of his time preparing for her arrival since receiving her letter, she had yet to see even a fragment of that preparation.
Finally, she turned to look at the last two rooms. The first, a smaller room, appeared to have been a lady’s sitting room, or perhaps at one time a nursery. Light streamed through the south-facing window, and needlepoint covered the cushions on the chairs. The last room, attached by an adjoining door to the sitting room, opened into a large bedroom. Feminine doilies covered the small bureau and the back of a chair. A pretty pink, white and green braided rug looked as if it had barely been stepped on. A big four-poster stood with the head of the bed against one wall. The colorful quilt covering was a bright Flying Geese design in shades of pinks and greens that matched the rug.
She let out a sigh. What a comfortable, spacious room. This had to be the bedroom used by Douglas’s parents. Here, she felt a welcome that had heretofore eluded her. She could be at ease here. This is the room she would use during her visit.
She walked through the room