Chapter Twenty-Five

Getting out of bed the next morning was torture. With the little sleep she’d managed, Ashley’s eyes felt bloodshot and her head woozy. Still, noises and aromas from the kitchen taunted her. Mother was up, working, putting kettles on to boil. Without further ado, Ashley pulled herself from her soft mattress, briskly washed her face, brushed her teeth, and absentmindedly ran a brush through her thick hair, not bothering to do more than plait the mass down her back. Dressed in her overalls and apron, Ashley laced her battered black boots and tromped into the kitchen.

“Good morning, lazybones,” her mother greeted with a smile. “Ready for your breakfast?”

She was and then some. She nodded.

“Good. Everything is ready and warming in the oven. We have a good day’s work ahead of us, and I didn’t want to waste any time with extra cooking. I made yours and Blanche’s when I made mine.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Shame filled her at her mother’s weary countenance. “I could’ve made breakfast.”

“I didn’t have the heart. I peeked in and you were sound asleep. A summer grippe is going around, and I don’t want you to get sick. The next week of harvesting is crucial. Last year when we lost half our apples to frost was hard enough. I don’t want to suffer through another winter with so little.”

“I’m teaching now, Mama. Things will never get that bad again.”

Her mother turned to face her, her eyes serious. “I hope you’re right, God willing.” Her mother went to the oven and, with a thick folded cloth, withdrew a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast.

The two strips of bacon stacked over the eggs smelled delicious. Blanche’s staying with them was a bit of a hardship, but they didn’t mind. As long as they didn’t run out of supplies, they were both happy to share.

Ashley ate everything on her plate, knowing hours would pass before she’d get another chance. The day would be exhausting. The early summer apples that had ripened over the week needed to be harvested quickly. Leaving them on the branches for long risked losing them to the birds and squirrels. “There, I’m finished.” She stood, went to the sink, and was just putting down her plate when a knock sounded on the front door. She looked at her mother. “I’m not expecting anyone. Are you?”

Her mother’s posture tensed. “No, I’m not.”

“It’s eight in the morning. Who would come calling this early? Maybe Sheriff Jones or his deputy have more questions for Blanche.” She hurried into the living room, trying to get there before whoever was there knocked again. She pulled open the door.

Francis. His hat dangled in his fingertips. His hair had been combed back, and he held a small bouquet of the tiny yellow buttercups that grew wild along the road. The width of his shoulders made his slim hips and strong legs all the more noticeable. His face brightened when he saw her.

She gaped down at her overalls, scandalized to be caught wearing men’s clothes. What would he think?

“Morning,” he said politely. “I hope I’m not stoppin’ by too early. Been up for hours and sort of just forgot about the time.” As he spoke, a red line crept up his face. He held out the flowers.

She gently took them from his hand. “Thank you for these.” She briefly held them to her nose.

“They were everywhere. Just thought you might like some.”

“Who’s there, Ashley?” Her mother came into the room, drying her hands.

Ashley stepped back, a silent invitation for him to come inside. “Mother, this is Francis. He’s one of the men from the ranch in Y Knot. Francis, this is my mother, Angelia Adair.”

Her mother’s gaze went from Francis’s face to the flowers in her hand and then back again. “I see. What does he want?”

Warmth crept up into her face when she realized he hadn’t even said. Surely his motive must have something to do with Blanche. He wouldn’t be here for any other reason. She looked up into his face, seeking answers as the little buttercups bobbed in her hand.

“I’ve come to see if Mrs. Van Gleek feels strong enough to speak with Mr. Guthrie sometime today. Since the town has no lawyer for Luke to hire, our foreman is taking on that job. He’s real smart and would like to hear from her how the murder happened.”

“Hasn’t Sheriff Jones spoken with you?” Mrs. Adair asked. “Told you the details?”

Francis nodded, followed by a long, drawn-out sigh.

Ashley had the urge to reach up and brush away the stray lock that had fallen forward onto his forehead and flirted with his left eyelashes.

“He has. Just the barest details. Jack can be stubborn. And Clark is no help.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other while his fingers worked the edge of his hat brim. “When a man is accused of murder, Miss Adair, Mrs. Adair, a good man, a man who is clearly innocent, we”—he placed his palm on his chest, making his brown plaid shirt flatten against his body—“his friends, his family, take the accusation seriously. Luke’s been locked up now for eight days. The longer this draws out, the more people’s minds close down. He’s a convenient solution for Jones. We aim to make things more difficult for whoever actually committed the crime.”

His tone was sincere and low, and she was glad. After last night, the sight of Blanche standing in the dark still had her agitated. Her friend would be up soon enough. Why begin the day on a stressful note?

Her mother came closer, her mouth pinched in opposition. “Isn’t your boss an Indian?”

“Half Cheyenne, ma’am,” Francis replied, squaring his shoulders.

“A wild, no-good half-breed.” Mrs. Adair’s eyes had narrowed. “Just like the man who scalped my husband. Ashley’s father. But only after he’d had a drink from our well at my invitation. When killing’s in their blood like that and the mood strikes them, they can’t stop themselves. Nature takes over.”

Francis blinked several times. “That’s foolishness.”

“The scalping didn’t happen here,” Ashley said quickly, needing to explain. Mother held on to that ten-year-old memory and blamed all Indians for her father’s death. Ashley wished that wasn’t the case, at least for a day or two. Mother was eaten up with hate. Ashley had been so young, the memory had softened over the years. “At the time, we lived much farther north, in Canada. Mother and I moved here to escape the memories.”

Francis looked at her mother from under a lined forehead. “Luke’s blood don’t have a thing to do with this, ma’am. Not one thing. You can’t lump all men together because of the color of their skin.”

Her mother’s chin tipped up. “I can. And I do.”

Mother would be so much happier if she’d let go of the past. It’s sad, really.

Francis looked down and softly cleared his throat. “I guess we best get back to the reason I’m here. That talk with Mrs. Van Gleek. Is she around?”

Ashley nodded. “She has yet to awaken.”

He rubbed his chin and glanced out the still-open door at his horse tied to the front tree. “It’s getting on in the morning, and I’m sure she’ll be up soon. Do you mind if I wait until she is? The men and Roady are waiting on her answer. I hate to go back and disappoint them.”

Ashley felt her mother bristle without having to see her expression.

Mrs. Adair returned to the kitchen without another word.

Francis’s dark, sensitive eyes were on her face again, making her stomach roll in a pleasant way.

“Yes, you may wait. But I have to warn you.” She gestured to her overalls. “I was just on my way out back to our orchard.”

His face brightened. “Are you harvesting?”

“Yes. If you’re willing, I may put you to work.” She felt her lips twitch and then pull up at the corners. “I can’t imagine how fast the chore will go with a man’s help.”

A full-blown smile grew across his face, revealing a row of straight, white teeth. “It would be my pleasure to help you, Miss Adair. I’m at your service.”

She clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. I told Christine last week I’d soon have apples, as well as some baked things, for her to sell—and then Benson was murdered, and everything went awry. He was our freighter who took our harvest all over the territory. I’m not quite sure yet what we’ll do now. But one bridge crossed at a time.” She led the way into the kitchen, where her mother was carefully dropping apples into a stewing pot of hot water to make into applesauce and apple butter. “Mother, Francis has agreed to help for a few hours. Isn’t that nice?”

Her mother nodded but didn’t manage her normal smile. “If you say so. The baskets are out back and waiting to be filled.”

Ashley preceded him through the back kitchen door, smiling over her shoulder at her tall, handsome visitor. How blessed they were he’d shown up today. A job that normally took days would be cut in half. But that’s not the only reason you feel like you’re walking on air, she scolded herself. You like Francis. You may as well admit the fact. He makes a bevy of butterflies flutter in your stomach each time he glances your way.