Dreaming on Daisies (7 page)

This wasn’t going to be easy—in fact, from his expression she almost wished she hadn’t approached him. But in for a penny, in for a pound, as Ma used to say. Her heart constricted at the thought of her mother. If only she were here. Ma always knew how to sweet-talk her father when things weren’t going well.

“I rode out to check on the cattle yesterday, but that’s not what I want to discuss.”

“So spit it out, girl. Don’t stand there wringin’ your hands.”

Why did he have this effect on her? Anyone else, she could stand up to without so much as twitching an eyelid. He always made her feel as though he were waiting for her to do something wrong and that she’d never measure up, no matter what choice she made. In fact, she’d been surprised when he’d said she’d done enough for the day. When he’d been drinking, he didn’t have a problem foisting most of his chores off on her and never thinking about it again.

She dropped her arms to her side and kept them still. “I’m not wringing my hands. Fine, I’ll say what I came to say. We must have more help, and if we’re going to make a profit, we should add a couple of mares to our herd. The cattle are doing well, but it wouldn’t hurt to buy a few young heifers, or at least not sell so many steers this fall and get more fat on them. If we don’t sell them all, we’ll need money to tide us over till next spring. Winter feeding isn’t easy, and we’ll need more hands to share the extra work.”

He swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “Money don’t come easy, Daughter. Not sure what you expect me to do about it. You want me to go work in a mine and try to find some of that gold they’re pullin’ out of the hills?”

“No, Pa. I have another idea. We could get a loan at the bank. I talked to the banker, and he said—”

Her father erupted in a roar and smacked the palms of his hands together, making a crack so loud Leah jumped. “You talked to the banker about my business? You had no right to do that without talkin’ to me first, Leah. No right at all.”

“But I thought you’d be glad I cared enough to come up with an idea to help. All I did was ask if we could borrow a few hundred dollars. They have people coming in all the time asking for loans. I see no disgrace in that.”

“And that’s your problem. You didn’t think, nor did you ask me before you traipsed in there talkin’ about things that don’t concern you. This is my ranch, not yours. I work it, and I pay for everything on it. I make the decisions here, and I don’t appreciate you talkin’ about our business to some banker. Next thing you know, he’ll want to come out here and check everything over to see what we got and don’t got that he can keep for himself, if we don’t pay it all back.” He wagged his head. “No sir, that won’t do a’tall.”

“But, Pa …” She saw a dark cloud pass across his face. “I don’t know how you plan to make this ranch work with the little bit of cash we have, or the lack of help, but I guess that’s your business.”

“You bet it is, and don’t you be forgettin’ it. ’Sides, I got enough cash to take care of what we need, when we need it.”

Hope surged for a second and then faded. This was the same thing she’d heard in the past, but she knew very well where that money went—if he actually had any—and it wasn’t into the ranch. “Millie is running tight on food supplies, and we could use another ranch hand. If you have plenty, how about giving Millie a bigger food allowance and seeing what you can do about hiring more help?”

“I’ll do what I see fit, when I see fit. Now go along and leave me be. You’re always naggin’ me. I’m gettin’ plumb tired of it.” He stomped to the stairs and flung back at her, “And no more sneakin’ off to talk to the banker without my say-so. John Hunt don’t need any more reason to cause me trouble.” Then he clamped his lips together and disappeared.

April 8, 1881

Charlie Pape swung off his horse in front of the saloon and looped his reins over the hitching rail. He placed his hands at the base of his back and stretched, hating it that he couldn’t spend near as much time in the saddle as he’d done as a youngster. Of course, he’d put in nigh on to five hours out on the range, since Leah didn’t seem of a mind to check on the cows after their spat yesterday up in the hayloft.

He turned toward his horse and stroked the gelding’s face. “You’d never turn on me like that, would you, boy? You’re thankful for the feed I give you and never complain. Don’t know what’s gotten into that girl of mine. Used to be she’d never complain. Followed me around like a puppy dog when she was young, always proud of her pa.” He pivoted, then stepped up onto the boardwalk, steeling his thoughts and putting up barriers at the memories that tried to crowd in.

The past was dead and gone. Better if it stayed that way. What Leah didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. At least he’d been able to keep her from knowing more than she needed to these past years. He grimaced and rubbed a hand across the stubble on his cheeks. His wife was gone, his son had run away, and the girl he’d loved and treated like his own flesh and blood looked to be turning against him. Nothing could change things or make life better.

Or maybe there was something that could help. This one more time, anyway. With a wry smile, he pushed open the batwing doors of the saloon and stepped inside.

Portland, Oregon

April 8, 1881

Tom Pape fingered the steamboat ticket in his pocket, not sure if elation or dread would win the battle. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to go home. Buying passage was probably a waste of his money. He removed the ticket and stared at it. Was it too late to cash it in and cancel the trip?

But Pa owed him, and he couldn’t let any more time go by without claiming what was rightfully his. He’d spent the better part of the last six years nursing anger toward his father for the way he’d treated Ma. As far as Tom was concerned, the man had betrayed them all.

The ranch had never meant as much to Tom as it did to Leah, and he’d happily washed his hands of it all when he’d walked away. But things were different now. Even if he’d only been twelve, he still remembered hearing the arguments between his parents and the nights Ma cried herself to sleep. He’d stuck it out for three long years before he left, resenting his father every minute of every day.

Not once had he planned to return. He had made a life for himself here in Portland, but losing his job a few weeks ago had put him in poor straits. He’d sworn never to write to Pa again—the response he’d gotten the first time was bad enough. But four months ago circumstances beyond his control forced his hand.

He growled deep in his throat and spat, new anger rising to the surface when he remembered the terse reply. His father made it clear he’d shut the door on the past and had no intention of allowing anyone to open it now. Yeah, that had been a wonderful Christmas for sure. But Tom would kick open that door if it was the last thing he did, and make his father take back everything he had said or thought for the past nine years, since his ma …

He returned the ticket to his pocket and strode toward the hovel he called home. Time to pack his bag with the little he owned and make his way east. Baker City. How much had it changed? It had been a quiet town of only a couple hundred people when he’d left, but he imagined much had been altered by the discovery of gold.

Excitement quickened his pace. Gold. Maybe he wouldn’t be forced to work the ranch. If things went as he planned, he might eventually sell the place and use the money to invest in a claim. He hadn’t considered that possibility before. He didn’t try to hold back his grin. Suddenly the future looked downright bright, in spite of the hurdles he’d have to jump across with Pa.

Chapter Seven

Baker City, Oregon

April 8, 1881

Frances Cooper picked her way around a puddle on Front Street and stepped onto the boardwalk leading to Snider’s General Store. The crush of people appeared to be less today and traversing the streets easier than normal, other than the never-ending mud.

She’d wanted to purchase more yarn for her knitting and silk thread for her tatting, but it had rained too much the past few days to venture out. She drew in a deep lungful of air and exhaled slowly, loving the fresh-washed air. It cleared out all the foul odors of beast and man and left it smelling like spring. Well, it was April, after all.

In no time at all Katherine’s baby would arrive. Frances could barely contain her exhilaration at the knowledge she would be by her daughter’s side for this birth and continue helping for as many years as the good Lord gave her.

She had wasted so much precious time while Katherine grew up, as well as when her granddaughter Lucy was young. It was still hard to admit she had been a disgruntled, judgmental woman, but with God, and her friend Wilma’s help, Frances was able to face her shortcomings more every day.

She passed a child clinging to her mother’s hand and glanced over her shoulder at the sweet picture. How lovely it felt to be forgiven and finally have a relationship with her family. It was what she had always wanted but never knew how to attain. Why had she thought that bullying and controlling people would bring them over to her side of the fence? All it had done was chase them farther away.

All but her little Amanda, whose sunny personality and steady, loving acceptance had been a balm to Frances’s soul. But in another couple of years, if she had stayed her course, even her younger granddaughter would have recoiled at her presence.

Wilma would be a treasured friend for the rest of her life. Maybe someday Frances would mature to the point she could set aside her pride and openly admit how much the woman had changed her life. If it had not been for her plain talk and, of course, Lucy’s revulsion at the way Frances had treated Lucy’s mother, Frances would not be enjoying a friendship with Katherine now. Nor be shopping for material that would add to her store of baby clothes.

Frances increased her pace and began to smile as she wove through the milling people on the boardwalk. Just then her smile threatened to break into a grin. It probably wasn’t wise, making outfits for a boy, but somehow she knew this child would be a son.

She pulled up short; she had walked too far. How had she missed the general store? She should have asked Wilma to accompany her, but her friend spent so much time with her new husband nowadays. Of course, who could fault her? If Frances had a handsome, congenial man who doted on her the way Caleb Marshall doted on Wilma, she probably would not leave his side either.

A foul odor permeated the air, and Frances wrinkled her nose. She hated the smell of spirits, whether it was rot-gut whiskey, beer, wine, or any other form of alcohol. Her first husband had occasionally imbibed, and it disgusted her then, the same as it did now. Somehow she had walked right past the saloon without even noticing.

The door burst open, and a man stumbled onto the boardwalk. Or had someone given him a not-so-gentle push? He landed on his knees but managed to grab a post to keep from sliding the rest of the way onto his belly. It was only two in the afternoon. Surely he couldn’t be tipsy this early?

She stood riveted to the spot and stared as he struggled to his feet. Something about the man, taller than her by a head, lean, and dressed like a rancher, was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him. However, she didn’t know any out-of-town men—in fact, knew very few men outside of the boardinghouse—so she must be mistaken.

She would have to cross the street to avoid passing the saloon door and that odious man. A glance at the street pulled her up short. Mud patches lined the broad expanse from one side to the other, and the wheels of heavily laden wagons had cut deep ruts in the road.

Heaving a sigh, she started back the way she had come. If the man tried to waylay her, she would simply put him in his place. She gripped the handle of her parasol, grinning as she remembered the way Wilma had clobbered that annoying man who had stooped to accost Beth in the café prior to her marriage. After that episode, Frances had taken to carrying a parasol as well.

Lifting her chin, she stepped around the man. He jerked forward and almost fell into her arms.

Frances shuddered and darted to the side.

The repulsive man weaved in the same direction and bumped into her, grasping her arm. “Sorry, ma’am. My eyes seem to be a mite on the blurry side, and I didn’t see you.”

She shook off his grip, which, surprisingly, was quite strong—not the mushy touch she would have expected from someone in his obvious condition. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir.”

He drew himself up. Sweeping off his hat and revealing a ring of gray hair around a bald top, he gave an awkward bow. Golden-brown eyes twinkled with merriment, and his finely chiseled mouth tipped up in a smile. “And why would that be, ma’am? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“You did not, but you certainly could have. But that is not the question you should be asking.”

His brows scrunched together as though his addled brain was working hard to decipher her words. “Huh?”

She tapped her foot. It was most assuredly her Christian duty to set this man on the straight and narrow and help him see the error of his ways. “What is your name, sir?”

He blinked a couple of times. “Why, do you want to ask me to dinner? Sorry, I don’t got no fancy callin’ card, ma’am.” He smirked. “But I live outside of town on a big ranch if you care to find me. I always did enjoy spendin’ a little time with a fine lady.”

A grin stretched the corners of his mouth. “Pleased to meet you. Name’s Pape. Charles Pape, but most everyone calls me Charlie.”

“Well, Mr. Charles Pape, it would seem you could use a woman to whip you into shape, but it certainly will
not
be me.”

She crossed her arms and scowled. “In fact, in your present condition I cannot imagine any woman in her right mind who would endeavor to undertake that abhorrent chore. What would prompt a man who appears sound of body, even if not of mind, to stagger along the boardwalk in a drunken state at this hour of the day? Or any hour, for that matter?”

His grin faded, and he threw back his shoulders. “That is none of your business, ma’am. And I’ve had about enough of dad-blamed women buttin’ into my business and tellin’ me what I oughta do. My daughter, Leah, is always yammerin’ about me not gettin’ my chores done, or grumblin’ about the time and money I spend in town. It ain’t her never-mind, and it ain’t yours, neither.”

“Your English is as atrocious as your manners, Mr. Pape.” She narrowed her eyes as his words sank in. Could that be
her
Leah from the quilting group? It wasn’t a common name, at least not that she’d heard in these parts. Come to think of it, the girl had asked for prayer for her father not terribly long ago. If this man was that father, Frances could see the poor girl had a difficult cross to bear. “I believe I am acquainted with your daughter, and I can unequivocally state that you do not deserve her.”

His jaw sagged. “Un-e—what? I got no idea what you said, lady. I don’t use fancy words or talk so highfalutin’ as you, but I got my dignity and pride. I won’t be talked down to, no matter if you use the King’s English or speak Latin. I ain’t drunk, and I’ll have you know I
am
a gentleman.”

He squared his shoulders. “I worked since early morning, then stopped here and had me a couple of drinks. There’s no law against a man whettin’ his whistle when it’s dry, or stoppin’ to chew the fat with the fellas at the bar.”

“There might not be a law against it, but that does not make you a gentleman. You chose to imbibe in the middle of the day—and to make a spectacle of yourself in the process.” She did not know why she persisted in conversing with this uncouth man. But she did not intend to give up, if for no other reason than for Leah’s sake. Poor Leah. If she could talk some sense into the girl’s father or try to help him see the error of his ways, it might ease the young woman’s pain.

“And what you said about my daughter, that I don’t deserve her?” He grimaced. “That ain’t nothin’ I don’t already know.” The words were low, barely above a whisper.

Frances held her breath. Had she heard him correctly? That smacked of contrition, not pride, and certainly was not what she had expected to hear. There was no sense in allowing a good opportunity to slip away. Jump on it while it was fresh, or whatever that saying might be. Regardless, she must push ahead. “If you believe that, Mr. Pape, why not change it?”

He turned sorrowful eyes in her direction. “What’s that? Do what? Guess I missed what you said, ma’am.”

She hesitated, suddenly unsure if it was wise to press the matter. Maybe taking a step back would be more productive. “Nothing important. But I think I might take you up on your offer one of these days, Mr. Pape.”

He stared. “Sorry. I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about. Again.”

“You told me you live on the edge of town on a ranch, and I might come calling someday. I will consider doing so—soon.”

He grinned. “And when you come callin’, who should I expect?”

She raised one brow and held it for several long seconds. “I do not have a calling card to give you, either, but I will tell you my name. Mrs. Cooper. Mrs. Frances Cooper, to be exact. It would do well for you to remember it, Mr. Pape, for when I call at your ranch. Not that I have much faith you will remember, in your current state of inebriation.”

“Now, ma’am.” He held up his hand, panic widening his eyes. “I was only teasin’. You don’t want to be seen visitin’ the likes of me. Why, you got your reputation to consider, right?”

Frances gave him a mirthless smile. “My reputation will remain quite intact, thank you. It is yours we need to consider, Mr. Pape, and that of your daughter. Now, have a good day until we meet again—or until I choose to call at your home.” She swept past him with a flourish, his expression of abject terror filling her with a deep satisfaction.

Charlie watched the woman stride along the boardwalk, her parasol swinging. What ailed her, anyway? The last thing he needed was another woman meddling in his life. The poor man who was married to
that
woman. If he were saddled with the likes of her, he’d hide in the saloon every day from sunrise to sunset.

If her husband was still alive, that is. She hadn’t said she was Mrs. Horace Cooper, or some such, but Mrs. Frances Cooper. Probably killed the poor galoot by nagging him to death.

He stepped down onto the street next to the hitching rail, then aimed a fleeting look in her direction as she swung off at a brisk pace, skirts swishing around her ankles. She was a right pert gal, if he was pressed to speak his mind. Smart, sassy, and not bad looking for someone who must be riding high up into her fifties or even topping sixty. ’Course, he wasn’t no spring chicken his own self, but he still had eyes and could appreciate a fine-looking woman when one came along.

He chuckled as he untied his gelding. Not that he expected she’d do what she said and show up at his ranch. No, sir, women like her stayed as far away from him as they could, and usually pulled their skirts back when they were forced to walk past—at least women who thought themselves too high and mighty to get their hands dirty or disdained a man having a nip now and then.

He mounted and settled onto the saddle with a groan. The ground looked as though it might rise up to meet him, and his head swam. Maybe that Mrs. Cooper was right. He’d had one or two drinks more than he ought. Sorrow trickled through his body like mud oozing off a pig. Maybe he’d hide out in the barn when he got home so Leah wouldn’t see him. Having one woman chew him out was all he could handle in a day. Besides, he couldn’t tolerate the disappointment that he knew would dim Leah’s eyes when she saw him.