CHAPTER SIX
Blake wandered down the street he knew like the back of his hand but barely saw a thing. As much as John had wanted his girls to return to Eden, Blake never once thought they actually would. Too many years had passed. Mixed feelings swirled inside, causing his gut to twist like a wet rope. Truth was, without John, Blake didn’t fit anywhere anymore. Sure, he had the ranch, and the ranch hands were loyal, but John had been his family. Without him, Blake was alone, as if he were standing in the middle of the desert, without a direction to go.
He turned into an alleyway alongside Poor Fred’s Saloon to escape all the curious stares from the townsfolk. Had word already gotten out that he’d been included in the reading of John’s will?
Leaning on the cool board siding of the saloon, he lifted one boot and placed it against the wall as he pushed up his hat and ran his palm over his forehead, thinking of Ann. How he wished his wife were still alive. They’d met the night of the harvest social, and it had been her laugh that had first captured his heart. After her death, her father and sister moved on, looking for work down south. Ann had been a good listener who gave his concerns deep thought. His time with her had been too short. As well as loving her deeply, he’d valued her opinion like gold.
What would she advise me today? And Marcia? Thinking about his infant daughter was too painful to even try. Frustrated, Blake pushed those memories away . . .
What will the Brinkman sisters decide? Taking the payout would leave the ranch strapped. There wouldn’t be money for any new heifers next year, or the purchase of the chunk of land John and I had been eyeballing, saving any extra cash like misers. That opportunity will disappear in the blink of any eye if the sisters return to Philadelphia.
His face heated. He had no real right to feel angry, but he did anyway.
Suppose if I work like a dog, I’ll be able to hold the ranch steady and see it back to the present holdings in a few hundred years.
As much as he hated to forfeit such a huge chunk of money, the Brinkmans’ staying in town might prove even more problematic. What if, after six months, they sold out to the Diamond J, the spread he and John had been fighting for years for trying to dam the river?
Be a partner with the snake who owned the Diamond J? Nope, won’t do it. At least if the Brinkmans take the money now, I’ll be holding the reins. I’d have to let a few men go. None of ’em would be happy.
John had been so proud when they’d had to enlarge the bunkhouse. It was a sign the ranch was profitable, really making money. But there was no help for what he’d have to do.
“Blake?”
Turning, he saw Clint Dawson leading his horse up the alley.
“You okay?”
Blake didn’t miss the concern written in the sheriff’s eyes. Everyone knew Clint had taken John’s passing hard as well.
“How’d it go today?”
“Me and the Brinkmans are partners in the ranch, split fifty-fifty.” He hadn’t meant to blurt it out, but he was still astonished at the outcome.
Clint gave a long whistle. “Congratulations. That’s a windfall. John always did think of you as a son.”
A lump of regret pushed up Blake’s throat. Everyone will think the same thing, and why not? It’s true.
But the money wasn’t why he’d stayed so long at the ranch. The land, the dilapidated house, even the five little girls, had felt like home since the day he’d set foot on the property. He nodded, unable to dispel the uncertainty hanging over his head.
“Too bad I don’t have something substantial to hand on to my son, when my day arrives,” Clint said. “I’m sure Cash would be mighty grateful if he didn’t have to clean stalls for the rest of his life.” He closed his mouth. “Sorry, pal, didn’t mean to make you feel bad.” Clint stepped close to clasp Blake’s shoulder. “We all miss John. Nobody’s going to be forgettin’ him anytime soon.”
Blake hefted a sigh. “To top things off, we’re having supper together tonight at Mademoiselle de Sells to get to know one another.” He glanced away, feeling mulish. “I’d rather not go.”
The tall Coloradan chuckled. “Can’t say as I’m not more than a bit jealous. Spending time with not one, but five, beautiful, rich women? What more could a man want?” He shook his head. “Imagine John leaving you all that.”
“Truth be told, hearing I’m now a well-off landowner does have my brain in a fog. When Henry summoned me to the reading, I figured John had left me a token of his friendship. Like a watch or rifle. Maybe a few acres. Not half the ranch.”
“And you’re complaining about an evening of fine wine, steak, and conversation. You should be horsewhipped. How about I take your place? I doubt those women will even notice the switch. I remember those little tykes well enough,” he said, with a thoughtful nod of his head. “The oldest one was bossy.”
“You remember Mavis? She’s now Mrs. Applebee.”
Clint hooked a thumb in his belt, his lips curled up in amusement. “I sure do. Like it was yesterday. I was somewhere around sixteen or seventeen, I think. John hired me to do chores out at the ranch. Mrs. Brinkman was doing the washing, so John had the little ones with him in the barn. Let’s see, I don’t believe the youngest had been born, so there were just four of ’em, but that was enough little-girl madness to spin my head around. Couldn’t get a thing done with watchin’ ’em.” He gave another hearty laugh. “Worse than a gaggle of geese—and Mavis dogged my heels all morning, telling me this and that. It’ll be interesting to see how they turned out. Did Mavis’s husband come as well? Is she still roundish?”
“She’s widowed. And no, tall and slim. Pretty too. They all are.”
Clint thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “What do you make of ’em?”
“They’re nice enough,” Blake hedged. If you don’t get too close. “I’ll find out more after supper.”
“They staying on? Eden could use a few single women prettying up the town.”
Blake couldn’t blame the man for being excited. Most women there were either grandmothers or already married with a passel of kids hanging on their skirts. He thought how bravely Belle Brinkman had looked him in the eye, a silent challenge written on her face.
She’s no shrinking violet. No way, not by a long shot. “Don’t know yet.”
“By the way, heads up to possible trouble,” Clint said, gathering his reins. “I ran into Moses and a couple of your hands today. Having to report to a buncha petticoats isn’t sitting very well with ’em. There’s been talk around the bunkhouse of quitting.”
“Moses?” Blake couldn’t believe it. The ranch hand had saved Blake’s life during the Civil War, when Blake was just a kid secretly tagging along with his older brother. His chest tightened. If Moses hadn’t stitched up the wound that gave Blake the scar, Blake would have died. He was eight years older than Blake, and the two had always been close.
“No, not Moses. Mostly Praig.”
Blake shook his head. “That doesn’t surprise me in the least. Praig is happiest when he’s picking a fight about something. I’m amazed Moses was even riding with him. The two don’t usually mix. I’ve had to step between them more than once.”
Clint shrugged, and Blake turned to walk with him toward the livery. He had hours before supper. He’d saddle up and head back to the ranch. Check on the men. With what Clint had told him, leaving the men alone longer than necessary didn’t feel prudent. With the arrival of the Brinkmans’ stagecoach, everyone seemed as spooky as yearlings. Him included.