Love on the Range. Jessica Nelson

“You almost made five minutes again.”

       “The fact that I did not is your fault, you know,” she teased. “I’d really like to hear more about Uncle Lou.”

       “Look, missy, ya gotta meet him to know him.” James cackled. “His stories rival a good Tom Swift tale.”

       “How intriguing.” She smiled. “I enjoy Twain myself. He’s swell.”

       “Silly women,” James muttered.

       She waited for Mr. Cruz to speak, curious. But he didn’t say a word. “Mr. Cruz?”

       “Gracie, I’ve been traveling all day. You’re a nice girl, but I’m tired and I don’t feel like talking.”

       “Oh.” She swallowed. “My apologies.” She arranged the blanket to make a pillow out of it and laid her head down. A nice girl indeed.

       She was more than a girl—she was a woman. A capable, independent woman who didn’t need to rely on her parents or some unwanted fiancé for survival. And she’d prove it. Her fingers found the hidden pocket in her skirt and she squeezed, relief coursing through her when she heard the rustle of papers. She would find Striker and write an amazing article so the Woman’s Liberator would hire her as an investigative reporter. Then she’d tell Striker what she thought of him.

       A man should know when a woman fell madly in love with him.

      * * *

       Gracie coughed. A cloud of tobacco-stained breath wrenched her from sleep, had her rubbing her eyes. She pulled herself to a sitting position and sneezed.

       “We’re here, missy,” James said, straightening away from her. The wagon bounced as he jumped out and rounded to its side.

       She rose, letting him help her from the wagon to the ground. Both Mr. Cruz and James had picked her up easily. Perhaps she wasn’t as heavy as she felt.

       “What you got in that get-up, missy? Felt like I was unloading a sack of potatoes.” James guffawed.

       Gracie shot him a glare and snatched her Dotty bag from his grubby fingers. She glanced around. Mr. Cruz was nowhere to be seen. It was rather rude to not help with the trunk. Then again, he did load it.

       Annoyance passing, she looked around with interest. Her breath caught in her throat.

       Flat land stretched before her, frosted beneath the lunar glow. Dotting the landscape were trees surrounded by a sea of flowing grasses and scrubs made turquoise by the moon. Long-fingered shadows reached toward rugged mountains on the horizon. A soft breeze fluttered through her hair.

       This place felt different than Boston, more arid and vast, yet the pressure in her chest mimicked what she experienced on mornings she dared venture to the harbor. She was overcome with a desire to raise her hands to the heavens and laugh.

       “You gonna stand there all night, missy? Bed’s a-calling.”

       Gracie turned and followed James to the house, noting with a quiet thrill of relief that it appeared large and modern. She’d been secretly afraid her uncle lived in a shack with an outhouse. She didn’t know if they had outhouses in Oregon, but the West was a more primitive place than Boston. One could never know about these things.

       A chill rushed through her and she shivered. “Is it usually this cold in September?”

       “We’re heading into winter soon, maybe an early one.”

       Although shorter than she, James walked faster, even holding her heavy trunk, and she hurried to catch up to him.

       “It’s so dark already. Where’s Mr. Cruz?”

       “Trev gets up early so he’s gone to bed down for the night. Lou’s waiting for you. You both talk more than a roomful of women. You’ll get on real well.”

       “This is a beautiful home.” Gracie stopped to gaze at the splendid pillars that flanked each end of the porch. “You must see all kinds of animals. Do you have bears here?”

       When James snorted loudly, Gracie tamped down her frustration. What a grumpy man.

       They climbed the porch stairs, their steps a hollow clumping on the wood. The door looked to be made of heavy oak, with a diamond-shaped glass placed in the middle. Just like home. A sharp, unexpected pain of homesickness squeezed Gracie’s chest. Drawing a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. She had a plan, and focusing on that was her best course of action.

       She turned to James. “Does Uncle Lou own a telephone?”

       James grunted and pulled the door open.

       “I really need to reach Connie,” she continued, hoping his grunt was not a negative. She absolutely had to obtain those coordinates.

       As they moved into the house, warmth embraced Gracie. James turned on the lights. When her eyes adjusted, she saw a young man standing at the end of the hallway, shaggy blond hair framing a handsome face and eyes like sapphires. He strode toward her, and Gracie realized he was not as young as he appeared from afar. Lines wrinkled around his eyes as his mouth curved into a mischievous smile. A light spray of scars pebbled one cheek, though she might not have noticed if she hadn’t been studying him so hard. He was the spitting image of Father, minus the gray hairs and stately air.

       “Uncle Lou?”

       “You look just like Edith.” He strode forward on long legs, though he stood only an inch or so taller than she, and grasped both her hands. “How was the trip? Not too boring, I hope. And the wagon?”

       “Just fine.” She smiled at him. “No one ever told me I look like my mother. Do you really think so?” It was a compliment indeed to resemble a woman as attractive as Edith.

       “I thought you were her at first.” He shot her a wide grin, exposing straight white teeth. “Let’s go into the sitting room.” He motioned to a door on her left. James, grumbling about being chauffeur, escaped through a door at the far end of the hall.

       Gracie followed her uncle into the sitting room and settled on a couch. She glanced around. Comfort was the first impression she felt, followed by loneliness. The room looked barren of personal mementos. Curiosity stirred.

       “I apologize for the wagon ride,” Uncle Lou said, after a striking Indian woman brought a tray of refreshments. “James refuses to drive my car.”

       Gracie reached for a cookie off the platter. “Quite all right. I’m here now.”

       “It’s a shame about this influenza going around. But don’t worry, my dear girl. You’ll be safe here.” The crackling flames from the fireplace highlighted an impish twinkle in his eyes. “Now let me tell you of my travels….”

       They spent the rest of the evening together, eating as they talked. It didn’t take long for her to realize how alike they were. He talked quite a bit for a man, and she learned he’d owned his ranch for ten years and never intended to live back east again.

       Uncle Lou delighted her. She could not fathom why Mother and Father disapproved of him. He regaled her with remarkably funny jokes and adventurous tales. Despite their camaraderie, she held back on unveiling her plans for finding Striker. When the hour grew late, he promised to continue his stories tomorrow and showed her to her room.

       Weary, Gracie readied for bed. She grabbed the papers from the inner pocket of her soiled suit and set them on the bed. She washed from a small basin on the dresser, and then donned her undergarments. They were silk and, after the grueling day, their smooth coolness was a luxury that made her sigh. After recording the details of her day onto her notepad, she slid into the welcome comfort of bed. She slipped the articles mentioning Striker beneath her pillow.

       Connie thought she was crazy, but Gracie couldn’t help but be intrigued by the elusive government agent. Rumors said he was an older man, and without conscience, but Connie’s cousin reported otherwise. According to her, Striker had rescued her from a band of uncouth