Love Finds You in Last Chance, California (17 page)

Finally, Alex’s curiosity got the better of her. “So, you and Toby traveled here from Nevada?”

He threw a glance her way. “Yep.”

She averted her gaze and sighed. “What kind of work did you do there?”

He checked his mount at a steep declivity in the trail then eased the horse forward at a slower pace. “Ranch work mostly, with a little carpentry from time to time.”

“Carpentry? You’re handy with tools?”

He shrugged and smiled. “Don’t know how good I am, but I get by.”

“I’ll remember that, if you don’t mind. Papa had a knack for building, but Uncle Joe hates swinging a hammer—unless Martha pushes him hard.”

“Sure. Glad to help,” he drawled and then lapsed into the familiar silence that had accompanied them the first few miles.

Alex knew she’d have to content herself with the little information Justin had chosen to give, as his impassive face didn’t encourage her to ask more. Maybe after he’d been on the ranch for a while, she’d venture a question or two more. She shrugged. Folks round here said all that mattered was what a man was now—not what he’d been. But a small voice still niggled in the back of her mind. She knew Justin had been married, and she couldn’t help wondering what had happened to his wife. Did he lay awake at night missing her?

Alex lassoed her thoughts and drew them close, not willing to travel any further down this imaginary path. Justin Phillips was a stranger who’d more than likely move on before long. He probably needed a grubstake and nothing more. Besides, he’d made it clear that he’d been widowed only a few months. It wouldn’t be very kind of Alex to start asking about his deceased wife.

Justin drew to a stop ahead of Alex and held up his hand. “Horses coming.”

Alex mentally kicked herself for being so deep in thought that she’d missed the approaching riders. It was certainly not the image she wanted to present to the new hand—that he could lead while she spent her time daydreaming. She spurred her horse and trotted up alongside. “Yeah, I hear them. Let’s wait in that meadow.”

They reined their horses onto the grassy patch of land on the right side of the trail but didn’t dismount. A man’s voice shouted something indistinguishable, and then two men driving three horses trotted into view, with a haltered stallion behind.

Alex urged her mount forward and swung in beside the lead mare. She noted Justin doing the same on the far side. With the help of the drovers, they turned the small band into the meadow of lush grass. A black bay mare snorted and rushed past Alex, heading for the open trail and back down the way they’d come. Alex swung her gelding around but then drew to a stop. Justin had spurred his stallion into a run and circled around the mare, turning her back to the stamping, restless band.

He sat back hard in his saddle and slid his horse to a stop beside Alex. “That mare is quick. She’ll produce some fine, fast foals that’ll cover some distance.”

Alex stared at her new hand, amused at the number of words he’d strung together. She grinned. “Yeah. They’re supposed to be in foal to the stallion, and they’re due early next spring. If we like what we see, we’ll stand him to a few dozen of our mares.”

She glanced over at the pawing, snorting stallion straining at the rope. He shone almost black in the sun, but the deep red cast to his coat made him a liver-chestnut, her favorite color of Morgan. The long tail nearly dragged the ground, and his cascading mane fell several inches below his arched neck. A strong head with a large jaw and wide-set, liquid brown eyes topped the massive neck. She noted the well-defined muscles in his hindquarters with pleasure. Morgans were bred to haul heavy loads, and this one didn’t look to be an exception. At four years old, he appeared stronger than any she had at the ranch. Maybe her father hadn’t made a mistake—she’d rarely seen the stallion’s like anywhere in the state.

Justin leaned his gloved hands on the pommel of his saddle and smiled. “You like him.”

She turned to meet his level gaze. “Sure. What’s not to like?” She gestured at the milling group. “But we’d better get them back to the ranch. The drovers look to be tired and they’d probably like this herd off their hands.”

Alex drew alongside the wrangler who appeared to be in charge and extended her hand. “Alex Travers.”

The man’s eyebrows rose in apparent surprise and he glanced from her to Justin. “You’re Alex Travers?” He swept his hat off his sweat-drenched hair and tipped his head.

She pursed her lips, too familiar with his reaction to be amused. “Yes. That’s Justin Phillips, one of my hands. I’m Alexia Travers, the owner of the Circle T.” She swung her gaze to the loose horses then raised her brows at the drover. “The mares aren’t haltered.”

He cocked his shoulders back and raised his chin. “Nope. We drug them behind us for miles and they got plumb tuckered out. Figured this close to town we could turn ’em loose and drive ’em ahead of us with no trouble.”

Alex nodded. “We’re only a few miles from the ranch, and I’m sure our cook would be happy to rustle up some dinner.”

“Much obliged, ma’am. The name is Tom Riley.” He jammed his hat back onto his head and beckoned to his companion. “Daniel, we’re taking the horses on to Miss Travers’s ranch and gettin’ a bite of grub before we hit the trail back to town.”

Daniel swung his lasso and turned a mare back into the meadow. “Sounds good. But I wouldn’t mind stoppin’ at the saloon first, if they have one.”

“They do.” Alex gave a curt nod. “Justin and I can take them the rest of the way to the ranch if you decide to stop in town.” She moved forward. It was time to get home.

Alex glanced back once more at Justin and felt an unwelcome stirring. The man knew his job and sat a saddle better than most men she’d known. Not only sat it better, but looked blamed good in it, too. Those long legs and small hips fit neatly into the saddle leather. His broad shoulders and muscular arms swinging the rope at the flank of a mare were dust-covered but hard and fit.

She spurred her gelding and moved back to the rear of the plunging herd. Time to get back to the business of saving the ranch. From now on, she wouldn’t let anything—or anyone—distract her.

Christy Grey stepped down off her horse and groaned. Her body ached from the thirteen long miles over some of the roughest canyon country she’d ever traversed. Why Sanders hadn’t let her come the long way around on a wagon, she couldn’t fathom. The stagecoach from Auburn to Foresthill had been bearable, but the mule train across the final miles of toll road was downright terrifying.

She reached up for the small bag tied behind her saddle and surveyed her surroundings. Last Chance was a fitting name for this place. The little clapboard town at the end of the road didn’t appear to have much to offer. From her place in front of the Last Chance Hotel, she could see a saloon, a candy store, a barber, and a butcher shop. She turned her gaze away from the saloon. Her occupation would take her to that place of business soon enough.

What appeared to be a blacksmith shop sat on the edge of a meadow with a scattering of cedar and pine trees separating it from the road. On the ride through the short street, she’d counted fifteen homes dotted haphazardly among a few straggling trees. Judging from the abundance of stumps lining the hillside, it appeared that someone with an axe had mowed down anything with timber value.

A sudden high-pitched whine sounded on a hill above the town. She’d heard that noise before—the buzz of a large circle saw cutting through logs to feed the ever-growing need for lumber.

She sighed, picked up her satchel, and stepped up onto the nearby boardwalk. Turning to the man holding the lead pack mule, she asked, “Can you take my trunk off the mule and place it against the wall?”

The burly driver leered at her curly auburn hair and allowed his gaze to slide over her shoulders and hips to the tips of her dust-covered boots, which peeked out from under the hem of a deep green traveling gown. “Sure thing, ma’am. But your boss said you’d want them dropped off at the saloon.”

She stared back at him, holding his gaze until red crept up his neck and he dropped his eyes. “Here will be fine.” She turned on her heel and kept her back to the man, stepping aside as he tossed her trunk against the nearby wall with a grunt. A few moments later, she heard the creak of the boardwalk as his massive weight stepped off the planking in front of the hotel. The crack of the whip and the sound of plodding hooves attested to the team’s retreat. The only passenger on this trip, she’d been forced to rebuff the driver’s advances ever since their stop in Deadwood.

She shivered and pulled her bag close to her side. Sometimes she hated her life and all it entailed. This town wouldn’t be any different from the rest. The townspeople—particularly the upstanding women—would shun her as soon as they found out what she was. Dance hall girls weren’t looked on with kindness, even by those claiming to practice Christian charity. In fact, the religious folk often treated her the worst.

There were many times when she longed for something different, longed for a chance to start over, but she knew no other life. No, she’d do what she’d been told to do and then move on somewhere else.

She’d need to avoid Phillips for a few days until she got established. Her orders had been clear, and she dared not disobey. Too much was at stake.

A young boy thumped down the boardwalk, kicking a pebble before him. Christy held out her hand as he drew near. “Can you help me?”

The boy skidded to a halt and turned wide eyes to meet hers. “Sure. Whatcha need, lady?” He appeared to be about nine years old and not husky enough to carry her trunk.

Maybe she should’ve accepted the mule driver’s offer to drop it at the saloon, but she couldn’t abide the man a minute longer. She’d left more than one saloon whose owner had pushed her to “fraternize” with the patrons. She’d serve drinks, dance with the miners or cowboys, even sing a song when requested, but she’d never allowed a man to take her to his room. Her sister had made that mistake, and she didn’t intend to end up like Molly.

“If I give you two bits, can you find someone to take my trunk to the saloon?”

He stared at her modest traveling dress. “You goin’ to work there? You don’t look like no dance hall girl. You got awful pretty red hair, though.”

She smiled, not minding the compliment from this young admirer. “Yes, I’ll be working there.”

He nodded. “You bet.” He spun on his toe, dashed up the street, and disappeared into what appeared to be the livery stable. A couple of minutes later he reappeared with a huge man in tow.

“This here’s Ralph Peters. He’ll tote your trunk.” The boy held out a grubby hand. Christy placed a silver quarter into it and pressed his fingers around the coin.

“Thank you. May I ask your name?”

“Johnny. I run errands for people. You ever need anything, just holler. I’ll help you out.” He puffed up his small chest and grinned.

“Why, thank you, Johnny. I’ll be sure to do that.” She turned to the big man standing quietly beside the boy. “You’re Mr. Peters?”

A flush crept up the big man’s neck and stained his cheeks. He dropped his eyes and twisted the hat clutched in his large hands. “Yes, ma’am, but just Ralph is fine.”

She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Men were such strange creatures. So often they were bold when they discovered where she worked, but occasionally she’d find a shy one like this. Most of them took one look at her and fell over themselves to please her. She wasn’t vain, but she’d been around too many men to be naive about her appearance. “If you take my trunk to the saloon, I’d be happy to pay for your trouble.”

Ralph picked up the heavy trunk, hoisting it easily and carrying it like a child would cradle a favorite toy. “No trouble, ma’am. My pleasure.” He gave her a quick glance out of intelligent, soft gray eyes that shone with a gentle light, and then he turned away.

“I’ll be along soon. If you could please tell the owner that the trunk belongs to Christy Grey. He’s expecting me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ralph called over his shoulder.

She sighed, uncertain of her next move. Would Sanders approach her? Or was she to find him? She had no idea where she’d look. She shrugged.

A tantalizing odor drifted out of a nearby hotel, and her stomach rumbled. A bowl of soup and a biscuit sounded tempting. She drew her valise close to her side and stepped off the boardwalk. Might as well enjoy a few minutes of living like a respectable woman—it wouldn’t be long before word spread that a new saloon girl had arrived.