Chapter Two
Everything around him felt too small. The brittle feel of Holly Grainger's shoulders under his hands when she'd briefly sagged against him, the tastefully appointed sitting room that ramrod of a housekeeper had steered them into, the china coffee service some fluttering little banty hen of a parlor maid had put in front of him – they all felt far too small.
Sizing up the room, determinedly trying not to pace, he noticed a set of French doors that would open onto a terrace and the gardens beyond. Autumn had already flung a fading carpet of leaves over the walkways and the fountain had been silenced for the season. Still, out there he'd at least have the surety of honest ground under his boots and some piece of sky to fix on while he asked the questions that were needed and heard whichever answers were possible.
"Mrs. Grainger, could we talk outside? I'm feelin' a bit like some clod-footed plow-horse in here and I'm probably about as welcome. I don't think that housekeeper's any too happy with me being anywhere near this fancy furniture," Trampas said, with as much of a smile as he could find to offer. "Not exactly the Shiloh study, is it?"
Reaching for the heavy shawl that lay draped across the back of a nearby chair, she crossed to where he stood and reached up to gently touch his cheek.
"Trampas, how long have we known one another?" she asked, the tiniest of smiles brightening her face.
"Well, now, there's the three years – almost four - that Mr. Grainger and you ran the place," he replied with a questioning frown. "And then, your letters after you left, keeping us all up to date on all your doings. We sure watched for those and Virginian's got them all safe - says they're part of the ranch's history." A stab of pain clouded his eyes and he turned his head, not wanting her to see. "The one about Mr. Grainger and Stacy, it's tucked in that big Shiloh bible, the one with all…" With an effort, he focused on the ticking of the mantel clock before turning back to face her, forcing his expression into something that wouldn't hurt her. "So, I guess I'd like to say it's been nine, maybe ten years."
"And in all that time, have I ever called you Mr. Trampas?" she pressed on.
"Well, no ma'am, but why would you?" he answered. "I was one of your hands – no reason you'd call me Mister. Usually, anybody calls me Mister's lookin' to cause some sorta trouble or pretend they've got something important to say. So, no, just Trampas, always have been…"
"I won't have it all one-sided like that, not anymore," she firmly interrupted. "Trampas, you've been Shiloh's finest and the Virginian's true friend - and ours too, one of our dearest and best. We've always thought the world of you, and now, with all that's happened, I'd like you to call me Holly, not Mrs. or ma'am. Trampas and Holly, old friends, that's what I'd like. Clay and Stacy would have both agreed on that and Elizabeth, she'd absolutely insist if she…"
As swiftly as prairie fire, sorrow and fear suddenly swept across Holly's face.
Bending to retrieve the shawl that had fallen to the floor, Trampas carefully wrapped it around her and turned her towards the doors to the garden.
"Mrs. Gr.. Holly… it's going to be a little cold but let's go outside anyway," he urged. "I need you to tell me the parts that weren't in the newspapers and I want you to be able to cry and cuss and yell if you have to, without anyone minding your business. Come on, now. I don't see any horses around that would suit either of us so we'll have ourselves a walkin' talk… between old friends."