"More tea, Clifford?"
"Only if you still have some of your daddy's whiskey still hidden around here."
Veronica rolled her eyes, placing the porcelain teapot down on the small side table near her. The fire cast a warm glow over the living room, making Clifford's already rosy cheeks look even rosier. Dressed in his finest suit, it looked as if he was going courting, but Veronica knew that he was probably going straight from her place to the brothel just outside of Longview, in the hopes his ailing mother would think he was still off on legal business when he didn't return.
"Your flask didn't have enough for you?" she remarked, picking up her teacup and lifting it slowly to her lips, a teasing smile spreading along the edge.
"It's a cold night. I had to take a few nips as I rode here."
"Hmmm."
The clock ticked in a gentle rhythm on the mantle, and Veronica settled into the high back of her chair. There was plenty of time before supper to spend some quality moments with the old family friend. "Uncle" Clifford had been her father's best friend since they met nearly twenty years prior and had done right by her father in ways of business and personal matters for that time. Often, Veronica would sit on the top step, listening as her mother, father, and Clifford would laugh into the night, talking about the world, politics, and local gossip Clifford procured from the ladies he enjoyed the company of. When she buried both her husband and father, it was Clifford who stepped up and quietly took care of the wills and estate, ensuring Veronica did not lose their family land on a stupid technicality or some improperly filed paperwork.
"Before we call the hands together to join us at dinner, I would like to talk about the man you hired. I don't know if you are aware, but Mr. Logan Echolls arrived a week early today, taking me completely off guard."
"Oh! He did!" Placing his teacup down, Clifford leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees. "Well, I'm glad he made it here at all. You know, the North West Cattle Company was trying to entice him to work for them at the Bar U Ranch."
"Really? They are a much bigger cattle operation, and he could have made more money. Why did he choose to come here?"
Clifford scratched the top of his balding head, shrugging. "I don't really know. They seem to have wanted him pretty badly, but he was more than willing to sign on with us for the next year."
The log on the fire crackled, calling Veronica's attention to it, and she lingered, watching the bright flames dance. Why would a man who made a career out of working on farms and ranches turn down an opportunity to work for one of the largest cattle companies in the country? An involuntary shiver shook Veronica. From what she knew about men, they had few motivations in life: land, money, and women. If it wasn't money, then what was Mr. Echolls's motivation?
"Interesting."
"Interesting." Clifford laughed. "Interesting. That's all you have to say?"
"What do you want me to say, Clifford? You hired me a man with more than enough experience to help around here, and I thank you for it. Whatever his motivation for taking this position over another is inconsequential."
"You say that…but I know you, Veronica." Shaking his finger at her, Clifford grinned. "You're the little girl that asked Pastor O'Dell a million questions about where he was from when he arrived at the parish. And the girl who followed me around my office for a full day lobbing questions about everything from the chalk to the case files. I'm sure by the time Mr. Echolls is done with his contract in a year, you'll know all about his great-great-grandmother."
"You say that like I'm a crazy spinster who needs to know about everyone's lives." Standing, Veronica smoothed the front of her deep blue silk dress, avoiding Clifford's impish gaze.
"No, you are hardly a spinster, but I know all those books of your mother's have made you a collector of stories. You've always been this way, and you will continue to be so until you die."
Rolling her eyes, she put her hands on her hips, letting out an exasperated gasp. "I'm not a gossip."
"I never said you were. I said you were a collector—keeping those stories hidden in notes and diaries. Your father used to say to me you had one foot in a cow pie, one eye towards the clouds."
"Now you make me sound like an innocent."
"You? No, not an innocent, Veronica. What you are is a smart, funny girl who grew up to be an intelligent, thoughtful woman. Duncan never appreciated that about you—but one day, hopefully, a new husband will see you for who you really are."
At a loss for words, Veronica smoothed her hair back into her bun, spinning on her heels towards the kitchen to hide the tears that suddenly crested in her eyes. Clifford was the one who first reported to her father about Duncan's penchant for slipping out to spend the night with the whores, when he was supposedly off at a barn-raising. When she heard, she was aghast, but then quickly realized that if he was touching them, it meant she wouldn't have to let him touch her anymore, and she was ashamed to say that with her husband's needs fulfilled, she could further ignore the fact that each time she suffered through intercourse with him, no children were conceived.
"I think I'm done with husbands for my life, Clifford," she said as she walked over to the kitchen window, grasping the sill and pushing the wooden frame open. "Widow is just fine with me—even if I'm only 28 years old."
Grabbing the long, forged metal rod resting against the wall, she stuck it out the window and into the large triangle of steel hanging outside. Rotating it around, the sharp sound of the dinner bell rang out across the field, echoing against the barn and back into the house. She pulled her arm back in and dropped the stick back against the wall, letting it clatter to the ground before slamming the window shut.
"I'm sorry I said anything, Veronica. It's obvious that I upset you."
"You didn't. I'm fine." With a quick hand, she snatched the apron off the back of the chair and wrapped it around her waist, avoiding Clifford's stare as she tied it behind her back. "Please, take the seat at the head of the table while I serve up the stew. I'm sure the men will be hungry by now."
Lifting the lid of the large porcelain soup tureen, Veronica paused to take in the hearty scent of the stew, watching the white plumes of heat rise in the cool spring air that had crept in the window.
There was a time when there were steaks and roasts, with buttery potatoes and root vegetables. But now, she couldn't bring herself to the expense of butchering and curing a whole steer for just herself and the few men on the ranch. Those days were done. Now it was chickens and eggs, rabbits and wild foul, only indulging in buying back some inexpensive meat from the butcher as needed.
She stirred the stew with the metal ladle, watching the vegetables and meat rise to the top before spooning up the first helping into a wide metal bowl. Although there was an air of formality to tonight's dinner, thanks to her guest, she knew that the men needed more food than the helping mother's tiny china bowls would provide. The bread was keeping warm on the top of the stove, and the fresh churned butter sat out, waiting for the men to dive into. Coffee sat in a large pot on top of the stove, should any of the men wish for something to warm them up. The alcohol was hidden as Veronica had learned from experience that the ranch hands were often not above sneaking into the house after everyone was asleep and helping themselves to a nip.
A short knock at the door preceded Old Van's entrance, followed closely by Eli, and Logan, each one nodding at her as they knocked their boots clean of the dirt and snow from outside before crossing the living room toward the table.
"Miss Veronica." Van nodded, removing his hat and hanging it on the spindle of his chair, just to the left of Clifford.
"Van. How's the grazing over the hills? Has the ground frost melted yet?"
Taking off his shearling coat, the old man scratched his white beard, a slight hemming and hawing noise vibrating in his cheeks. "Some. Depends on where the sun is hitting. But you can see through the ice covering the creek, so it should only be a few days before it opens, and the herd will have some good cold mountain water to drink. That is unless we get another good snow."
Eli nodded as he sat next to Van, his deeply tanned skin and thick black hair the complete opposite of the pasty white of his partner's. "No more snow. I'm sick of the snow, already."
"Then why'd you come up here?" Van snarked, giving the young man next to him an elbow in the ribs. "This is your fourth winter here, and you're still complaining."
Scrunching his face, Eli held his hands over the steam rising from his bowl, still in his thick leather coat. "And I always tell you—it's not my fault. I just followed the prospector caravan saying they had work. I thought we would stop in Montana. But no… here we are."
Veronica giggled. When her father returned from town one day with Eli—lost, hungry, and in need of work—she was fascinated with the man who claimed he walked all the way from California to Canada. Using her mother's books, she set about teaching him English, and he satisfied her curiosity about his life by teaching her some Spanish.
"Sin nieve!"
Eli chuckled, and she knew it was at her lack of accent, inflection, and general mutilating of his beautiful language.
"Sin nieve," he repeated with a smile, his tongue so much more graceful with the words than she could ever be.
Logan stood behind Clifford's chair, hat in hand, glancing around the table. He absently ran his hand through his hair, momentarily exposing his scar before the thick twist of his locks dropped naturally over it again. Veronica caught his eye as she moved around, still serving the soup, and pulled back a chair across from Eli.
"Please, you can sit here, Mr. Echolls."
"Thank you, Miss Veronica." He nodded and came around the table, passing behind her as she crossed in front, continuing to ready the meal.
Pulling the cloth off the loaves of bread, she transferred them to the table, then moved the coffee pot as well before coming to her place, noting as each man rose slightly in his seat as she sat down. Pressing her hand to Clifford's, she smiled.
"Clifford, will you please say Grace?"
He nodded, and they all bowed their heads, closing their eyes as Clifford spoke. "O Father, we give thanks for the food before us. Guide us in your will and make us mindful of your work in our lives through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."
Opening her eyes, Veronica smiled, searching the faces of the men at the table. She was by no means as devout as some in her appreciation of God—a trait she picked up from both her mother and father's waning devotion over the years—but it was sometimes simple traditions like the saying of Grace that made her feel more connected to her father, and she hoped that if there was a heaven, he was there now, watching over her with her mother and an infant brother. Duncan, she knew, was indeed in hell, and she held no wish to communicate with him at all.
"Thank you, Clifford, that was lovely." With a subtle nod, she picked up her spoon, and the men followed suit. "So, Mr. Echolls, how do you find your accommodations?"
"Very nice, thank you," he replied, reaching for two slices of warm bread. "Much nicer than my last contract. They had me in a stall next to the rest of the horses for the first three months."
"And that was in Saskatchewan?"
"Yes, ma'am—just a little outside Saskatoon. When spring came, we built ourselves a shack for the hired men just next to the barn so we could work with the herd but not smell like them."
Veronica snickered, trying to keep the stew in her mouth. "Yes, well, my father had the idea to connect the two, just so the men didn't have to cross the cold prairie in the middle of the night, should a calf need care."
"Miss Veronica fixed it up pretty nice for us in there," Van stated softly, his old eyes looking across the table with sympathy.
Her heart paused as she thought back to the time she spent staying in the worker's quarters just a few months ago. When Duncan and Keith took ill, she was told by the doctor to leave the house immediately. In the dead of winter, unwilling to abandon her family or the farm, the farm hands moved themselves up into the barn's loft, giving her the bunkhouse to stay in. In her fits of sleeplessness, she set upon cleaning and tidying the neglected space—going so far as to purchase new quilts from the ladies in town to keep the bunks warm. But in the end, she was relegated back to the house of sickness, once Keith and Duncan had passed, to scrub every corner clean of illness in the hopes she wouldn't contract the deadly polio that took her family.
"Well, it shows," Logan continued. "I'm told that you've been quite involved with the ranch operations, Miss Veronica."
"Yes. I hope that won't be a problem," she replied, squaring her shoulders and fixing her eyes firmly on the new man. "I grew up on this land—I know it better than anyone. I'm sure Mr. McCormack informed you when you took this position that this is my land now, and no man will be taking it or, running me off of it. I have no children—no other family. This is mine and mine alone."
An uneasy silence fell, and for a second, Veronica momentarily regretted her direct approach to educating the stranger of her motives. The awkwardness was broken by Logan coughing, turning slightly in his chair to meet her gaze.
"Ma'am, I don't know what kind of men you've had around you until now, but I have no intentions about your land or your stock. I'm here to do a job—a good job—and finish saving for my own slice of land somewhere in these foothills. Now, I've known many good, strong farm women in my life, and I am sure that you are well on your way to being one of them. All I want to do is help you keep this place going, collect my pay, and move on my way in a year. That's all."
Arching her eyebrow at him, a slow grin spread across Veronica's face. "Well then, Mr. Echolls. Welcome to my ranch. I hope we have an excellent year."
Raising his empty metal coffee mug towards her, a crooked smile curled on Logan's lips. "To a very productive year, Miss Veronica."
She lifted her empty cup and knocked it against his as all eyes at the table firmly set on the two. "To a very productive year, Mr. Echolls."