Emily Carmichael - How To Lasso A Cowboy

Her hand shook slightly as she raised her cup then clanked it against the saucer when she lowered the china back in place.

“Mary.” He waited for her to look at him.

Slowly, her stormy blue eyes met his. They appeared more blue than gray tonight, but no less frightened than before.

He said the first thing that came to mind. “You don’t have to be afraid of me. I swear I mean you no harm.”

She didn’t have to say a word. He knew she didn’t believe him. He racked his brain trying to think of why she would be so scared. He couldn’t remember speaking directly to her before yesterday. The few times he had been in the store it had always been her brother, not her, who waited on him.

“Is it because I fought for the South?” Maybe something had happened in the war that still haunted her.

Mary shook her head.

“Is it because I’m a man? Are you afraid of men in general?”

Again her head moved with the same answer.

Folding his arms across his chest, Cooper leaned back in the chair trying to understand her. Silence thickened between them. Voices drifted from Winnie’s bedroom, but Cooper couldn’t make out what any of them were saying. So, he guessed they probably couldn’t hear Mary and his conversation either. Assuming they were having one, of course.

Her silence wouldn’t have bothered him if he’d just thought her shy. He’d often found shy folks good company. The air didn’t always have to be charged with words. But Mary wasn’t just timid. There was something else. She was truly frightened.

With a thud, he rocked the chair into place and stood. “I want to show you something,” he said, then wished he had moved slower. “Don’t be alarmed. I’m just going to my desk.”

Moving briskly, he pulled open the bottom drawer and grabbed a book, then forced himself to walk back to her slowly. “During the war I tried to always carry a book in my pack. Sometimes I’d read it ten times before another came in the mail. More than once I traded with someone else doing the same.”

He laid a tattered copy of Great Expectations beside her plate. “I could never trade off this one, though. It saved my life.” He leaned lower, wishing she would look at him. “See the bullet hole. Went clean through the cover, but lucky for me it didn’t make it into my back.”

Mary’s finger traced over the pit mark in the upper corner of the book.

“I never told my sisters about the shot. Didn’t want to worry them.” His hand rested a few inches away from hers, but he made no effort to touch her. Somehow by sharing his secret, he had offered his friendship. Now it was up to her.

“Have you read Dickens’s book?”

“No,” she answered. “But I’d like to.”

He’d found the key, he thought. A bridge over the fear.

“I could loan you this book, but you have to promise to bring it back. It’s kind of my good luck piece. No matter how hard things get around here, I can always pull this book out and remember how close I came to not making it back home.”

She raised her head. A smile touched the corners of her mouth. “Thanks. I’d like to read it. I promise I’ll be careful.”

She didn’t look so plain when she smiled, he thought. She might never be his friend, but at least she wouldn’t cringe the next time she saw him.

Cooper heard his sisters returning. He sat back down in his chair and noticed Mary slip the book into her pocket. The book was obviously something neither of them planned to share with anyone else.

WINNIE THANKED WOODBURN one last time from the porch. Her round head, topped with an equally round bun, bobbed up and down as she rattled on about the day. The Yankee, on the other hand, stood straight and tall as if at attention. Neither of them seemed to notice the wind whipping around them, but Mary huddled into her shawl and hurried toward the far side of the buggy.

Cooper hesitated a few seconds before offering to help Mary into the carriage. When she placed her hand in his this time, without his gloves, he felt the gentle warmth of her touch.

“Thanks again for your help.” He wished he had the guts to ask her if she sensed the bond that shot between them when she was so close. He felt as though he walked through his life along a gallery of paintings and suddenly he’d discovered one had a heartbeat.

“Thank you.” She brushed her free hand over the book. Her whisper carried on the wind. “For the loan.”

“Maybe when I come to town again, we can talk about it. I’m not usually around folks who spend time reading.” He didn’t want it to sound like he was asking her to step out so he added, “If you have time between customers at the store, of course.”

“All right.” She smiled again, a little broader this time, then disappeared behind the leather of the buggy.

Cooper realized he held her hand too long, but he didn’t want to let go. The warmth in her fingers made him wish he’d tried before now to be her friend. He couldn’t think of anything to add, so he backed away, letting the breeze rob him of even the fragrance of her.

As he walked around Woodburn’s old rig, he noticed his sisters had already stepped inside. Woodburn meticulously checked the lines of the reins. When Cooper passed by, the Yankee whispered, “Stay away from my sister, Adams. You’re not welcome company.”

The insult stung like a slap. “I could say the same thing to you,” Cooper countered.

“I’ve not sought your sister out, sir.” Woodburn’s words were clipped, irritating in their truth.

“Nor I yours.” Cooper wanted to know where the man stood. If he had an enemy, it was best to know it now. “My presence in your store has always been for business. Nothing more.” How could the Yankee think that he might be courting Mary? All Cooper was trying to do was make her not jump with fear whenever she saw him.

Woodburn nodded once. “Then you’re welcome as long as we understand one another.”

“We understand one another.” Cooper turned and stomped up the steps. He didn’t go inside, but watched the moon glisten off the tattered buggy as it disappeared down the ribbon of road toward town. Anger rushed through his veins like a prairie fire in a draught. He wasn’t some hotheaded youth who needed to be warned to stay away from his sister. Cooper had done nothing improper. Mary was in her midtwenties, an old maid by anyone’s standard. Even if he had been courting, she could speak for herself. She didn’t need a brother riding herd over her.

He smiled, realizing he’d been even more absurd than the shop owner suggesting there might be any hint of a flirtation between Woodburn and Winnie. She would be forty her next birthday. Even in her youth, Winnie had never been the kind to draw a man’s eye.

By the time he went back in the house, the sisters had retired to their rooms, like birds nesting for the night. He poured himself the last of the coffee and sat down at his desk. He intended to work, but couldn’t resist opening the bottom drawer. There, hidden away from the world, was his collection of books. Dickens, Poe, Thoreau, and a dozen others.

Not many, he thought, compared to the private libraries in homes back east, but more books than most had this far west. His parents had settled this land with one book, the Bible. They hadn’t thought reading or writing very useful skills but Cooper’s mother taught Johanna, then Johanna taught Emma, then Emma taught Winnie. Then of course, Winnie taught him.

Cooper grinned. His schooling was not only sparse, it had been filtered down to the point he should be surprised to recognize his own name.

He picked up Kingsley’s Westward Ho. A year, maybe longer, had passed since he’d held a book in his hand, but the welcome feeling was still there, inviting him in, engaging him to stay. He told himself there was never enough time to read anymore, but he knew it was more than that. Cooper no longer believed in dreams. Somehow, one has to be able to dream to be lost in a story. And of late, just making it through each day had become his only goal.

Leaning back, with the book in his hand, Cooper looked around his home, really seeing it for the first time since he’d built it. After the war, when he came back to the ranch his father had homesteaded, he could not wait to increase the herd, build this house, and start a family. He had it all planned out, wanting to forget the fighting and the time he lost. He wanted to start living.

But the war wouldn’t stay over. Everywhere, even on the frontier, there were reminders of the open wound that remained after the fighting stopped.

The battles returned when he tried to sleep. Sometimes he woke in the middle of the night and rushed to the washstand, trying desperately to rub away the smell of blood that still lingered on his hands. He would see a part of a uniform, blue or gray, and the bitterness he had lived with for two and a half long years stung his tongue once more. Turning from a boy to a man on the battlefields, he’d managed to survive, but a price was paid with nightmares.

Closing his eyes, Cooper swore he would never tell anyone about the ghosts that haunted him. They’d think him crazy, and he had too much responsibility to let that happen. He’d seen the ones ghosts had claimed in towns across the South, men who never came home in their minds. Men who wandered, still seeing battles, still crying for their lost brothers, still hearing bugles long silent.

Cooper gripped the book with a determined hold, refusing to reach for the bottle he kept in his right drawer. Tonight, he would read. He’d force himself into a story until exhaustion lulled him to sleep.

Somehow, knowing Mary was also reading made it easier. Cooper concentrated on each word, thinking that, if their paths crossed again, he’d give her this book also. If he did, he might need to remember the story so he could talk to her about it. Maybe one day they could visit without fear shimmering in her eyes.

“Follow the bridge,” he mumbled to himself. The books were all he had that linked them. He was afraid to question why he needed this bond with a woman he hardly knew, for if he reflected too closely he might find the whole of him packed with loneliness.

Two hours melted away before he looked up. Laying the book down, he stretched, his muscles relaxing. Tonight he might be able to sleep.

As he stood, he noticed the thin slice of light beneath Winnie’s door. On impulse, he crossed to her room and tapped, fearing she might have gone to sleep with the lamp still burning.

“Yes,” she answered too quickly to have been asleep.

Cooper opened the door. “You all right?”

Winnie put down her sewing. “I’m fine. I was just doing some mending and got carried away.” She lifted her watch pin from the nightstand. “I didn’t realize it was so late. It’s been such a delightful day, I guess I didn’t want it to end.”

Cooper smiled. Only Winnie would lose track of time while mending or think getting caught in the rain was delightful. “Well, good night.” He started to close the door then paused. “Promise me the next time you need to go to town, you’ll let Duly or me hitch up a wagon for you. One of us is usually around.”

“I promise.” She returned to her mending. “By the time I realized what a walk it was, I was already over halfway there. Thank goodness Miles could bring me home.”

“Miles?”

“Mr. Woodburn.” Winnie blushed.

“Yes, thank goodness for Miles.” He closed the door before she saw his frown. He didn’t like his sister calling the Yankee “Miles.” He didn’t like it one bit.

Three days passed with Winnie still talking about Mr. Woodburn, and every word stuck in Cooper’s craw.

No one in town liked the man. Surely Winnie could see that. Oh, they might go in his store from time to time, mainly because he took trade for supplies. Most in the South were money poor, though rich in land and cattle. The cattle drives and settlers traveling through used him because he’d deliver out to their campsite. Debord gladly gave Woodburn that business. It wasn’t practical to lose half a day’s work delivering supplies then try to get back to town before some downonhisluck cowboy robbed him.

But with Winnie, it was Mr. Woodburn this and Mr. Woodburn that, like he only spouted universal truths. She must have repeated his every word at least ten times.

Cooper wondered how the man had had time to say so much in the course of one afternoon.

Johanna and Emma had long since grown bored with her chatter about the Woodburns and the chair she was redoing. They talked over her as if she were little more than a babbling child making noise in the corner.

Cooper couldn’t bring himself to do that. After all, Winnie had been the one who taught him to read and write, and to imagine what might be in the world. She had played games with him when there were no children near his age and made dragons of the clouds in the lazy summer days before he became a man and gave up such things. So now he listened to her, again and again, without commenting.