Dorothy Garlock - [Tucker Family] (3 page)

“Even so, my thinkin’ is that people who spend too much time in one of them iron contraptions,” John said, nodding at the
idling train, “find themselves needing a washbasin and a few hours of shut-eye. Once we’re back on the ranch, you’ll have
a chance to have both.”

When Charlotte’s heavy black trunk in which she’d packed away all of the life she had known was unloaded from the train with
a heavy thud, John and Del each grabbed an end and hoisted it up as if it were lighter than a bale of hay, and headed for
the end of the platform.

Charlotte followed along behind, smiling with every step.

John Grant drove the old truck from the station and headed down Sawyer’s main street with Charlotte in the
passenger’s seat. Del sat in the truck’s bed, riding alongside her baggage. Glancing back, she saw that he seemed content
to travel in the back, one arm resting upon the truck’s railing as the afternoon sun shone brilliantly down.

As they drove, John pointed out all of the sights in town; from the post office, to the grocer’s, and even to the theater,
Charlotte felt dizzy with all of the information that was being sent her way. The streets were lively with people going into
the stores and other places of business. John explained that they were trying to get their business done before the sun got
to be too much to bear.

“Folks in these parts ain’t too complicated, not like in a city,” John explained, giving a wave out the window. “They go to
church, look after their loved ones, and say, ‘Howdy,’ to their neighbors. They like things to be simple, but that doesn’t
mean they’re simple folks, if you know what I mean.”

“I do.” Charlotte nodded. “Sawyer sounds a lot like where I come from.”

“Good folks is good folks, no matter where they call home.”

Occasionally, John would give the truck’s horn a brief tap and yell out the window at someone he knew.

“There’s Carlton Timmons’ barber shop,” John told her, pointing out the business as they passed. “Known Carl ’bout all my
life, and except for one reservation, I can say he’s as fine a man as this town’s ever produced.”

“What’s that one thing?” Charlotte asked.

“He’s one hell of a cheat at cards,” John answered. “You ain’t a fancier of poker, are you?”

“No, I can’t say that I am. Are you?”

“Used to be, but I ain’t no more on account of Carl!” John exclaimed.

Soon, the truck passed by the last business that lined Sawyer’s Main Street and took a gentle turn alongside the dried-up
remnants of a creek’s bed. In an instant, the sights of the town had vanished, replaced by the same kind of scrabbly earth
as she had seen from the train.

“Where’s the school?” Charlotte asked, looking around, wondering just where it was that she would be spending her days.

“Back on the eastern side of town,” John explained, thumbing over his shoulder back toward where they had come. “Since it’s
the opposite direction from the depot, I figured it’d be best to wait until the next visit into town ’fore givin’ you a chance
to become acquainted with it. School won’t be startin’ for a few more weeks, so there’s plenty of time.”

“Is the ranch far from Sawyer?” Even as she asked her questions, Charlotte wondered why she hadn’t bothered to inquire about
where she would be staying in all of the time she’d been corresponding with John Grant.

“Not far,” the rancher answered. “ ’Bout two miles or so.”

When John glanced over at Charlotte, he could clearly see the confusion written plainly across her face. To
soothe her, he explained that although his ranch was a distance from town, he had long been a member of Sawyer’s School Board,
and that after she had agreed to come and teach at the school he had volunteered to provide her with lodging.

“You see, the truth of the matter,” he explained a bit sheepishly, “is that… well, I was hopin’ that maybe you’d be able to
help me with a… a problem I’ve been havin’ on the ranch. My askin’ you to stay with us ain’t without other motives.”

“A problem? What sort of problem?” she asked, her interest rising.

“While I’d be happy to try explainin’ it to you, it’s really the sort of thing that’s best seein’, I reckon. Somehow, I ain’t
just sure that my words would explain.”

For a long moment, Charlotte stared at John Grant as the truck continued on its way. On the one hand, she didn’t like thinking
that she had agreed to come all the way from Minnesota under false pretenses. But on the other hand, something in the old
rancher’s face made her believe she was not being maliciously manipulated.

“Will it interfere with my job at the school?” she asked.

“If it does, then I won’t fault you for stoppin’.”

Charlotte thought it over for a moment longer before saying, “I’m not agreeing to anything without knowing what it is exactly
that you want me to do, but I’ll do my best to go into it with an open mind. If it’s something I feel
I can do without harming the reason I was brought here, then we might be able to manage to work something out.”

“I couldn’t expect you to be agreein’ to more.”

“But if I’m going to be living out on the ranch, how will I be getting back and forth to the school?”

“You mean to say you can’t drive a truck?”

“Do you expect me to drive
this
every day?” Charlotte exclaimed, more than a bit surprised.

“Hell, ole Betsy here don’t much like
me
drivin’ her.” John chuckled, patting the seat between them. “Some days gettin’ her started is tougher then coaxin’ a stubborn
horse out of its stall, sometimes the damn steerin’ wheel jerks to the left so hard it feels like it’s tryin’ to escape right
on out the window, and I don’t even want to warn you ’bout drivin’ her in the rain.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Just an old rancher’s sense of humor, is all.”

“I can’t say that I found it particularly funny,” she admitted.

“Most folks don’t,” John snorted. “The truth is that one of the fellas that’s workin’ for me on the ranch heads into town
pert near every day for some errand or other and I reckon catchin’ a ride with him’ll get you anywhere you’d want to go. Even
if it’s rainin’, blowin’ to beat the band, or even snowin’, we’ll manage to get you wherever it is you’d need to be.”

“So this employee of yours has managed to tame Betsy,”
Charlotte teased, clearly liking the fact that John Grant was so quick to humor.

“This truck ain’t all that different from the horses we got back on the ranch.” He smiled knowingly. “With the really wild
ones, the ones that would just as soon stomp you into a mud hole as let you put a saddle on ’em, you don’t ever really break
what spirit they got, not really. ’Bout as easy to tame as a spring storm that come rollin’ in across the prairie. In the
end, you just hope and pray that you ain’t the one that ends up broken.”

John Grant’s horse ranch lay just across a worn and rickety bridge that spanned a wildflower-strewn creek; unlike the dried-up
streambed that lay just outside of Sawyer, its rushing water gurgled across rocks below their passing wheels. An enormous
pair of trees, sun dappling their breeze-blown leaves and branches, stood silent watch as the truck drove beneath.

“We’re here,” John said, nodding toward the house.

“It’s… it’s…” she began, but her words failed her.

The ranch house was much more than Charlotte had expected; two stories tall with a pair of porches on each floor that ran
the length of the front of the building, decorated with four columns, the house showed that John Grant’s enterprise had been
successful. Painted a crisp white, it shone as majestically in the sunlight as a jewel. Surrounded by a white fence, the property
was dotted with
young trees. High above them, a windmill churned lazily in the soft breeze.

Farther back on the property, numerous small buildings lined a path that led from the ranch house to the holding pens at the
rear. A couple of larger barns, painted dull red with white trim, had their doors flung open, and men milled about, working
on various chores. Laughter and the sounds of labor, steel hammers colliding with anvils, even the sawing of wood, rose above
the sounds of the truck.
There’s so much activity!
Charlotte was even pleasantly surprised to see a couple of men cultivating a garden.

But what really caught her attention were the horses; those who ran wildly about the pens, and others who milled about next
to the water trough, or were ridden by men herding a small group of steers. All were captivating to Charlotte: white, black,
brown, and spotted colors in between. With their upraised ears, large and expressive eyes, and strong musculature, they were
beautiful.

“Do you ride?” John asked.

Charlotte shook her head.

“That is somethin’ we’re gonna have to change,” he declared.

He drove the truck up the drive, shouting a bit of encouragement to a pair of men who were working with an unruly black and
white stallion in a nearby corral. Turning toward the house, he slowed the pickup directly before a side door. Del leaped
from the back of the truck before the
vehicle came to a full stop, his boots crunching loudly on the hardscrabble ground when he landed.

“Don’t you worry yourself none ’bout your belongin’s,” John explained. “Del’ll have one of the other fellas help him haul
’em up in a bit. In the meanwhile, why don’t you let me show you your room.”

Charlotte followed the rancher as he led the way through the side door, passed through the mudroom, and into a small foyer.
Beside them, an entryway led into the kitchen, but she didn’t get more than a quick look before John began to climb a nearby
staircase toward the upper floor.

All along the length of the tall stairway were framed photographs, some so old that they were brown and mottled. Some were
posed, bearded gentlemen with their impassively unsmiling wives standing beside them. But there were other images that were
more captivating; one photograph was more than two feet wide, a panoramic view of the breadth of the ranch.

“That photo is from my pa’s time,” John explained, coming back down the steps to where Charlotte stood. “That’s him standin’
there at the front of the house,” he said, pointing a worn finger to the small figure visible at the head of the walk, his
thumbs hooked into his vest.

“He looks like a proud man,” Charlotte remarked.

“As a peacock,” John stated. “He was rightfully pleased with what he and his father before him built.”

“Where are you in this picture?”

“More likely than not, I was runnin’ around in my short pants as blind to what was happenin’ as a baby bird just out its shell.”
He chuckled. “You know, for the longest time, I thought these pictures was nothin’ but a waste of time, memories best forgotten,
but now that I’m older, it’s nice to be able to look back to what come before.”

“I wish I had photographs to look back on in my family,” Charlotte answered wistfully, “but most all of my family’s history
was lost in a fire when I was a little girl.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Charlotte followed John up the remaining steps and down a darkened hallway to the last room on the right. After opening the
door, he stood to the side, encouraging her to enter.

“It probably ain’t what you’re used to,” he said, “but I hope that it’ll do.”

Sunlight streamed through the southern window, illuminating a room without much furniture. Beside the single bed, there was
only the nightstand near the door and the dresser against the opposite wall. Light fell upon the washbasin atop the dresser,
sending shimmering reflections dancing across the ceiling.

“It’s perfect,” she said.

“I’m happy you think so,” he answered, “but if there’s anything you need that you don’t have, let us know.”

“I will.”

“You get yourself a bit of rest ’fore dinner and don’t worry ’bout missin’ it, ’cause there’ll be more noise than if
the circus come to town. A mess of hungry cowboys make more than a fair share of racket!”

As John shut the door behind him, Charlotte twirled about the room, so excited about her new life she had to release some
energy. Still, John’s advice was no doubt sound, and she lay back on the bed. It was hard to believe she was so far from Minnesota.

Closing her eyes, Charlotte found sleep as easily as if she had reached out and grabbed it.

B
Y THE TIME
C
HARLOTTE
awakened, the sound of boisterous voices was rising up from the bottom of the stairs. Peeking out into the hall, she saw
that Del had brought her belongings. After refreshing herself at the washbasin, she selected a fresh blouse, tied back her
blond hair, and took a long look at herself in the mirror above the dresser.

Charlotte pulled at the thin chain around her neck and freed the locket that had been given to her by her father soon after
his return to her life. Popping open the clasp that held it shut, she looked down upon the tiny photograph of her mother that
had accompanied Mason Tucker across the battlefields of France. Though less faded and far better traveled than the images
John Grant had hung along the stairway, the image of her mother, a woman she had never known, was her greatest treasure.

With a smile, she closed the locket, slid it safely back inside her blouse, and made her way down the stairs.

The dining room at the Grant Ranch was bustling with rowdy men who were finally finished with a long day’s work. Their raucous,
noisy laughter occasionally was punctuated by a shout and good-natured ribbing. To Charlotte, everything was a bit disorienting.
She smiled and nodded here and there as she wove her way through the throng and over to where John waved at her, every step
allowing her to hear snippets of the many conversations going on around her.

“—that dang bull is a heller, fer sure.”

“—if’n we don’t get rain soon, we’re gonna get blowed clear down to Texas.”

“—the way that son of a bitch was buckin’ I thought I might get throwed all the way to the pearly gates.”

“That’s about the only way you’ll get there!”