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Chapter One

April 1894:

Leah awoke with a start and sat up straight in the cramped train seat. The conductor was ambling down the aisle announcing in his bored, flat voice that they had at long last reached the town with the peculiar name of Horse Flats. She cupped her hands to the rain-spattered window and peered into the murkiness of the early spring evening. All that could be seen was a small, clapboard depot and the blurred movement of a boarding passenger fleeing from the rain.

Leah bent to tug her heavy valise from beneath the seat dislodging her stiff-brimmed hat. Mumbling an unladylike word she had learned while staying with the kindly, but pugnacious Mrs. Cramfy in Ohio, she jerked the ugly black hat into place and stepped into the aisle.

The fat drummer with the greasy smile who had plagued her since he had boarded the train in Omaha leaned back in his seat with a smirk. "Goodbye, dearie. Been nice chattin' with ya."

Leah ignored him as she had for three-fourths the length of Nebraska. The tired young mother from across the aisle nodded, smiling a farewell over the head of the infant sleeping against her shoulder.

Outside, Leah paused on the partially sheltered train steps, a small blond girl in black. Her home-dyed mourning apparel and the hat did not hide the fact she was pretty...unusually pretty. Leah straightened her slim shoulders and breathed deeply of the clean, damp air. Thank heaven the long train ride from Ohio was over. Her whole body felt stiff and cramped. As she stood there, her eyes searching the shadowed platform, she noted a man standing on the lee side of a stack of freight watching her. Just as their eyes met, he moved forward.

He was tall with broad shoulders, perhaps thirty years old, wearing a rain-shined slicker that slapped at the tops of his boots with each stride. Water dripped from the wide brim of his hat that was pulled low to shield his face from the rain.

At the foot of the steps he halted. Sharp blue eyes glinted up at her from a face with a certain lean, craggy handsomeness despite its stern expression. He spoke curtly, "You're Simon Clayborn's niece?"

"Yes. I'm Leah Clayborn. Did my uncle send you?"

"Yes, and no. He's stove up some. Horse fell with him. I was coming in to town so he asked if I'd pick you up."

"Is he badly injured?" Leah gasped.

"Nope. Just cracked a couple of ribs and twisted his knee some. This all you have to load?" He indicated the valise as Leah nodded. A callused hand reached out for the handle and indicated Leah was to follow him. Leah scrambled down the steps to dash after the retreating back.

A team and wagon waited behind the depot. The man was shoving the valise beneath a tarpaulin in the back of the wagon when Leah caught up. From its depth he pulled a slicker similar to the one he wore. "Here, put this on."

Gratefully, Leah wrapped in the bulky raincoat pulling it up over her hat. Without warning the man suddenly reached out, placed a big hand on either side of her waist and lifted her into the wagon. He motioned to the board seat before going to untie the team. "Make sure you keep that slicker between you and the seat or you'll get a wet bottom."

Wet bottom, indeed! Gentlemen didn't say such things to ladies. Not in Havendale, anyway! However, Leah gingerly arranged herself as advised.

In a moment, the man was back and sitting beside her. With quick, sure movements, he swung the team about, and they were headed down what appeared to be the main street of the little town. Shadowed buildings stood huddled, their windows black and glassy like a row of dead eyes. The trace chains jingled accompanying the clump of the horses' hooves on the damp earth.

The horses stepped out with anticipation of going home, chuffing and snorting at the trickle of rain in their nostrils. Midway down the street, a bright patch of light poked out into the dark like a stubby finger, an open door releasing the tinkle of piano music and boisterous voices. A crude sign above the door could be made out, its large letters spelling "SALOON". A man wearing leather chaps and high-heeled boots wobbled out. Why, it's just like in those dime western novels Mama had forbidden her to read, Leah marveled as the unsteady cowboy saw the wagon and called out.

"Lo there, Ty. By goll, it's tryin' ta rain!"

Leah's driver acknowledged the greeting with a wave and called back, "Looks like it, Burny. Sure hope it keeps it up!"

"Ty. Is that your name?" Leah inquired.

"That's it. Guess I forgot to tell you. Ty Worth it is. I've got a little spread, the Rocking T, up north a ways. I join the Bar H and the Diamond." Perhaps realizing how little this green eastern girl might know of cattle ranching, he explained, enunciating his words as though each one cost him money, his listener decided, and that she had the intelligence of a six-year-old child.

"Ranches are known by their brand. That's the mark branded on cattle so you know what outfit they belong to though some folks disregard that. Your uncle's brand is the Diamond C. Most just call his ranch the Diamond."

"Thank you," Leah replied with a touch of acidity tingeing her words. "I will do my best to retain the information."

The wagon swayed and jounced as they huddled in the chilly drizzle, the team no doubt anxious for their oats setting a brisk pace. Leah ventured another question. "How far is the Diamond, Mr. Worth?"

"Ten miles, more or less." There was silence again, then, Ty Worth spoke haltingly. "Simon told me about your troubles. Death's a hard thing."

"Yes. Yes it is," Leah answered with a catch in her voice.

The two slicker-draped passengers then lapsed into another period of silence. The rain stopped, but the wind was chilly. Leah shivered and thought of how her father's death had placed her here on this cold wagon seat riding with a stranger to the home of another stranger. She watched a trickle of moisture wind its way down the rippling muscles on the right hindquarter of the bay in front of her as her mind went back to those dark weeks just past.

No one would ever know if Papa had deliberately walked in front of that heavy dray wagon or if he'd simply not seen it, lost in the private world he'd inhabited since his wife's death last fall. Regardless, the outcome had been the same. Leah had been left alone without a home or funds when the debts and funeral expenses had been paid.

Their neighbors, the Cramfys, had kindly asked Leah to stay with them until Leah could make other arrangements.

"You'd best write that uncle of yours that lives out west. Tell him about his brother and how your house was sold and all," was the advice offered by Mrs. Cramfy.

This uncle of whom Mrs. Cramfy spoke was Leah's only relative other than some second cousins of her mother's who lived in Pennsylvania. Uncle Simon had always been rather a mystery, someone Mama and Papa seldom mentioned. Papa rarely heard from his brother. All Leah had been told was that her uncle had left Havendale as a young man and had never been back except for a brief time when Grandmother Clayborn had died shortly before Leah's birth. Though it was not said, Leah had always suspected this uncle of hers had not fitted into the academic world of her parents. Leah's father had been an English professor at Havendale Academy. Her mother had taught piano there until she became ill with consumption.

The bay switched his tail, erasing the drying rain traces. Leah thought back to the day the battered envelope postmarked, Horse Flats, Nebraska, arrived at the Cramfy home. It had contained no message, just a train ticket. Leah would have appreciated a more gracious invitation, but what choice had she really? Mrs. Cramfy had pointed this fact out earlier. Leah could still recall those well-meant words. "You're not prepared to earn a living, and you are too young." Leah would not turn eighteen until June. "The only work you could get at your age is at the laundry or as a servant." Mrs. Cramfy had choked up and gotten teary. "Your dear mother would turn over in her grave if you was reduced to such as that!"

Leah had realized that her situation would undoubtedly be just as the plain-spoken Mrs. Cramfy predicted if she remained in Havendale. However, her hostess was quite indignant at Simon Clayborn's response, or lack of one.

"He could have at least written a few words of condolence! Something! You'd just better stay on here with us. We'll figure something out. Maybe you could take in sewing or give piano lessons."

This was wishful thinking, Leah knew. She had enjoyed playing the piano that had been auctioned off with the rest of the household items. But, she was not prepared to teach. Though she could sew a straight seam and mend quite neatly, she was not a seamstress. Besides, something had begun to stir in her young breast, a yearning for adventure--a sensation that had had small encouragement within the prim perimeter of Martin and Beth Clayborn's parenting. Leah was actually eager to set forth on this new beginning--way out in Nebraska.

When the rain had stopped, a feeble quarter moon had been revealed to dimly light the trail. The horses had slackened their pace after the first few miles only to perk up now with ears cocked forward. A flicker of light could be made out ahead. There was the sound of a dog barking to be joined by that of another.

The wagon came to a stop beside a two-storied house, a large gray shadow in the night. Lamplight shone from a window on the ground floor. Two big hounds circled the wagon, eagerly yelping and whining as though in anticipation of something. Perhaps of taking a bite of a strange city girl, was Leah's conjecture.

Ty Worth stepped down from the wagon then came around to lift first Leah and then her valise down, giving equal consideration to both.

Leah eyed the tall, long-legged dogs and did not move.

"You're not afraid of dogs, are you?" Ty Worth was clearly amused. Leah ignored the question. Any sensible person would be cautious upon encountering this pair. But...she would show him! She took a step forward, holding her arms tightly to her sides only to have her hands slurped by rough tongues. She gasped as one stopped licking her hand to stand on his hind legs and put his front paws on her chest so that he might lick her startled face.

"Looks like they're taking to you," her escort said with a grin.

The door of the house swung open, and a man's voice yelled, "You dogs shut up and get!"

The hounds got.

A man's stubby form was outlined by the lamplight as Ty Worth carrying the valise, preceded Leah up the plank walk to the stoop.

"Come on in, both of you. I've got supper waiting."

"Thanks, Frog, but I'm bunking at the Bar H tonight. Promised Maude I'd help her sort some cattle tomorrow. She said she'd hold supper for me, but I reckon this youngster is hungry enough to eat some of that grub you turn out."

The comment on the cooking had been spoken jokingly, or Leah assumed it had. At least the man called Frog seemed to take no offense. But then, anyone who accepted such a nickname must not be easily offended. Western humor was going to take a bit of getting used to.

"I thought we were in for a good rain," the cook said, "but it plumb petered out."

"Yep, just can't seem to get a good one this spring," Ty Worth agreed, setting the valise through the door onto the much-worn floor boards. "Well, it might start up and forget to stop one of these days."

Leah's escort took his leave with a quick motion of his hand to his hat brim as he passed her. She heard the team and wagon move off as she entered the house.

She found herself in a large room that obviously served as a kitchen. A wash bench sat beneath a short, curtainless window near the door she had entered. Two similar, though longer windows had been built into the north wall at either end of a bulky cupboard.

The plastered walls of the room must have been white at one time. Now, they were a greasy gray that darkened even more above the big black cook stove hunched against the south wall. A kerosene lamp hung above the long, bare-topped table where a chipped spoon holder and a crock sugar bowl, salt and pepper shakers, a pair of stacked pie tins, the top one holding cigarette stubs and ashes, all formed a cluster in the center of the table. At the far end of the rectangular room, to the left, a door stood open to what appeared to be a pantry or storeroom. A few feet to its right were swinging doors Leah assumed led to another area of the house.

Her eyes came back to the cook. His appearance was as unusual as his name. He had a head as round as a cabbage, a flattish though pleasant face topped by thin, brown hair parted in the middle and slicked down tight to his skull, and a pug nose. A wide, thin-lipped mouth stretched nearly from one small, close-set ear to the other. Wide shoulders narrowed to a scanty hip line, then split into a pair of short, spindly legs. There was little problem in guessing how he had acquired his nickname.

The subject of this contemplation had been grinning happily at Leah since she had stepped into the kitchen and now said, "Welcome, Miss Clayborn. Your uncle is stretched out for a bit to rest that leg of his. He'll be out in a minute or two, I expect, now that you're here. You can hang your things over there." He motioned to an area along the wall near the washbench where a row of nails were already loaded with an assortment of coats, chaps, coiled ropes, leather straps, and items Leah couldn't put a name to.

Somehow, she managed to hook her cape--she had left the slicker in the wagon--on one of the overburdened nails without it falling off, though items on the floor testified to the fact others had failed. Leah hung her hat on the corner of a chair back, then moved over to hold her chilled hands in the heat radiating from the stove. Frog had removed one of its round lids and was adding dried lumps of some type of fuel to the fire. A huge granite coffeepot and a lidded-iron kettle were shoved forward on the stove top where they immediately began to make soft bubbly sounds in response to the more intense heat.

The aroma was gratifying, and Leah's stomach gave an unladylike growl in anticipation.

There was the sound of boots on bare floor from an adjoining room. Then one of the swinging doors at the end of the kitchen swung open. A taller, burlier version of Leah's father strode through. The skin of his face and hands was a dark tan except for the white band on his upper forehead where a hat doubtless had protected it from the elements. As the man stared at her, Leah stared back, noting that this uncle of hers had the brown eyes from the Clayborn side of the family just as she did. Her own father had inherited the light blue eyes of Grandmother Clayborn.

Simon Clayborn was clad in a flannel shirt, leather vest, corduroy trousers and western boots. A wrinkled bandanna was knotted beneath his square chin. A stubby, unlit cigar protruded from below the graying bush of a moustache. He had halted just inside the doors, the cigar stub bobbing as he regarded Leah. A voice that sounded as though it were being forced up through a gravel chute, spoke. "So you came. Any trouble getting here?"

"No, sir. No problems." Leah attempted to match the unemotional welcome though facing this rough hewn image of a parent who had died so recently was unnerving to say the least. "I appreciate your sending for me, and..."

Her uncle waved her thanks aside with a quick gesture of one large work-scarred hand. "There wasn't anything else to do. You're blood. Was my place to have you." With this, he moved toward the table, favoring his left leg, but attempting to hide the fact. He indicated a chair to Leah and pulled one out for himself. "Sit down and eat. Frog's been keeping the grub warm for us."

Leah tugged one of the heavy wooden chairs out and sat down. Evidently, Uncle Simon was not accustomed to the courtesy of seating a lady. Or...perhaps, like Mr. Worth, he considered her too young for such amenities.

Frog, protecting his hand with the folded corner of the flour sack he wore as an apron, sat the hot kettle onto the table where the scorched, scarred surface testified this to be common practice. He went back to the stove to return with a pan of biscuits from the warming oven.

"You two dig in," Frog commanded. "They tell me my stew's not half bad, Miss Clayborn. These biscuits might have dried out some, waiting, but you just soak them in the stew. You won't notice it much if you do." Frog headed back to the stove for the coffeepot.

Leah had never been allowed coffee at home. Tea was more appropriate, Mama had always said. Leah resolutely lifted her cup for Frog to fill with the jet-black brew. After all, she was in the west now!

Simon Clayborn dipped a huge ladle of steaming stew onto Leah's plate and then one onto his. Frog was back with a pan of biscuits that he set on the table between them. There was no butter or jam. Leah would learn that stew, gravies, or syrup was the common substitutes in this ranch household, for Simon Clayborn kept no milk cow or hens.

The biscuits proved to be light and flaky. After a bite or two of both the savory stew and the biscuits, Leah raised her eyes and caught Frog watching for her reaction. "These are delicious, Frog. I've never tasted better," Leah told him with a smile that gained a staunch ally.

Her uncle, having laid his cigar on the edge of the table, crumbled two biscuits into his stew, took a bite, chewed, then had a swallow of coffee. He took another bite, chewed awhile then asked abruptly, "You think you'll like living here? I'm not set up with all the folderol you've been used to."

"Folderol! Papa was a teacher. As you must know his salary did not provide for ‘folderol' as you put it!"

"That may be, but I'll bet a wooden nickel your mama saw you got them, one way or another."

"She was a very good manager. She saw to it that we had a gracious, comfortable home if that's what you mean!" Leah answered indignantly.

Her uncle gave a grating chuckle. "You got a temper don't you? You got that from Lizzy. Martin was above losing his."

Leah bit back another sharp reply. After all, what Uncle Simon said was true. She attempted to answer civilly. "I realize this is not Havendale. I don't expect it to be. I will try not to be more of a burden than necessary. I know how to work, and I'm not afraid to do so."

"I'm not worried about your keep, don't expect you to work for it. I'm not a poor man. Leastwise, I won't be unless we get a string of dry years. I'm respected here...earned it. A niece of mine will get respect, too. See it stays that way."

The meal continued in silence for a few minutes. Frog refilled Simon's cup. Leah declined. One cup of the powerful brew was all she could manage at one sitting.

"Did you bake those dried apple pies the men were asking for?"

Simon directed this to Frog who was drinking coffee at the far end of the table.

"Sure did! They'd of cleaned me out at supper if I hadn't a put one back special for you folks." Frog went to the cupboard to return with a pie to place before them. Its edges were crimped as expertly as any Leah had ever seen and the crust was browned to perfection. He cut large wedges, and as an after thought, went for two clean plates to place them on.

Leah took a bite of pie and smiled in appreciation.

"Did the men say if they had any trouble getting those horses moved in?" Simon asked Frog.

"Didn't hear they did."

Horses having been mentioned, Leah paused in her enjoyment of the pie. She loved horses, had always been fascinated by them. As a houseguest at a friend's country home, Leah had occasionally ridden. And she had often exasperated her mother by stopping to pet some old nag hitched to a produce cart or delivery rig along the street.

"Uncle Simon, do you have a horse I might ride?"

Simon Clayborn halted, a fork full of pie halfway to its destination. "Don't have any horses gentle enough for a girl to ride, nor a woman's saddle for that matter." Simon took up his cigar stub, shoved back his chair and stood up. He paused as though studying the tabletop then said to Frog, "I suppose the eating arrangements will have to change. Wouldn't be right having the girl eating in here with the men. You can feed her in the other room." He paused again. "I reckon I'll start taking supper in there, too." He nodded toward the swinging doors.

After finding her way by lantern light to the little privy, Leah was taken through the dining room and up the stairs to what was to be her room. Frog set the lantern on the floor just inside the room and dug in his pocket for a match. He lit the lamp standing on the dresser against the near wall. The combined light of the lamp and the lantern revealed the room all too well. Frog shrugged speaking apologetically. "It's not much, but then Mr. Clayborn don't go in for fancy."

The room certainly testified to this. The floor was bare with a border of old varnish around the edge showing that it had had a carpet at some time in its past life. The walls were covered with faded wallpaper that was coming loose in the corners near the ceiling. The furnishings were meager; the aged dresser, a bed with an iron bedstead, a wardrobe with a broken hinge, and a battered rocking chair. Limp curtains, yellowed and hems drooping, hung at the windows.

Frog glanced at Leah uncertainly. "Well, anyway...make yourself to home." And he went out closing the door behind him.

What a dismal room! Leah swatted at a cobweb as she hung her cape on one of the hooks protruding from the back of the door. Frog's talents evidently did not cover housekeeping. The dresser top was dusty as were the empty pitcher and washbowl sitting there. There was the smell of mice and mustiness. She went to the nearest window and found its catch stiff with rust. She hammered against the top of the lower frame until it gave way and slid upward with a screech. Rain-sweetened air rushed in. Leah took a deep breath. At least the air was clean.

As Leah readied for bed she contemplated her situation. She had reached her destination, but had it been a mistake? Clearly, Uncle Simon was not overjoyed to have her here. In her nightgown, Leah tugged open the blankets covering her bed. Though there were no sheets, she was relieved to find the blankets had been freshly laundered. She blew out the lamp. Perhaps things would seem better in the morning she comforted herself as she crawled into the surprisingly soft bed.

The eerie howl of an animal drifted in through the open window, and the dogs answered with deep-throated bays. Somehow, Leah found these sounds soothing. Growing warm beneath the covers, she relaxed and drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Two

Morning came with the clatter of stove lids and the bang of the kitchen door. It was cold in the bedroom. The curtains shivered in the breeze from the open window. Leah stretched beneath the cozy blankets then sat up on the edge of the bed as another muffled clatter came from the kitchen.

She quickly closed the window then dressed in the chill putting on her "everyday black". In front of the dresser, Leah gave her hair a few swift strokes with her brush, her mind already escaping the faded walls, bounding out to meet the day and those who might people it. She gave scant thought to the image reflecting from the dust-blurred mirror. Given this quick shift were a pair of wide-set brown eyes above a small, straight nose. A soft generous mouth was enhanced by a dimple at its left corner that had worked its magic on more than one young admirer back in Havendale.

Tying a narrow black ribbon around her honey-blond hair to hold it snugly at the nape of her slender neck, she gave a firm tug to the bow then moved to the window. Leah pushed the curtain to one side then once again opened the window to lift as high as it would go. She placed her hands on the sill still damp from last evening's shower, then leaned out for her first real view of what was now "home".

The ranch buildings appeared to sit in a broad valley surrounded by a vast army of sandy hills stretching as far as the eye could see. A small lake glittered under the rays of the sun shouldering its way up into a teal-blue sky, gilding the landscape with an indiscriminate brush.

Wild ducks bobbed on the tiny gold-crusted waves of the lake ignoring the antics of young calves scampering down to its sandy shore. The little calves would cavort for a bit, then dash back to their shaggy-coated mothers grazing nearby. Further back, scattered over the hills, livestock, both horses and cattle, could be seen foraging for what Leah assumed to be the last of the winter grasses, seeking out the minute, green shoots of spring.

Fence lines, wires gleaming in the sun, marched in to a cluster of pole and wire corrals skirting a large frame barn painted red, the ranch brand painted in white on the barn loft door. There were numerous other buildings, two of which looked to be dwellings. The largest of these must house the ranch crew, she decided, for as she watched, a man entered its door carrying a bucket, and two other men emerged. She decided someone must also live in the smaller one, for a rope clothesline stretched out from one corner with a pair of long underwear and a checkered shirt dangling from its length.

Closer to the main house was a tall windmill the base of its wooden tower enclosed, forming a small, square room of some sort. Further over, a cowboy was pitching hay over a corral fence to a half dozen horses penned there. A tall gray laid back his ears and chased a couple of others away from the pile of hay he had claimed. The voice of the cowboy carried clearly to the window. "Badger, you old bugger. You think you rule the roost, don't ya?"

The voice had a youthful, cocky ring to it, and the cowboy, when he turned, looked to be no more than a year or two older than Leah. He was wiry built, and as he shoved his hat back a crop of brown curls was displayed. Rather nice looking, Leah decided if his mouth didn't twist into that foxy sneer.

The object of this scrutiny now rocked on his boot heels, whistling tunelessly as he slowly surveyed the cattle and buildings, his eyes coming to rest on the house. It was then he spotted Leah at the window. He made no acknowledgement other than to stare with cold, sullen eyes for a few moments. Then, jerking his hat into place, he strode off.

Watching his retreating back, Leah felt an indefinable chill creeping up along her spine that had nothing to do with the crispness of the morning. For some reason that young man disliked her. Why?

Leah left the room, carrying the water pitcher. The doorways of the other rooms on the upper story had been pointed out to her the night before and identified. There was a spare room next to hers and one across the hall next to her uncle's. These spare rooms were used for storage, Frog had explained.

The stairs made a turn at a landing with a small diamond-shaped window facing north, then dropped down to a dining room that was furnished with heavy dark-varnished pieces strewn with male paraphernalia: bottles of gun oil, lariats, and a spur with a broken strap dangling over the edge of a shelf in a dish cupboard bereft of dishes. An aged clock above the sideboard bonged grumpily as Leah left the stairs to hesitate at the swinging doors leading to the kitchen. The smell of frying food filtered around the doors, as did the sound of chairs scraping on the bare floor and the bantering of male voices.

"Morning,' Frog. Ya got fresh coffee this mornin', or are ya still usin' what ya brewed last week?"

Good-natured laughter followed a chuckled reply. "My coffee's always fresh. It's just the grounds get old."

Another scrape of a chair followed by the gravelly voice of her uncle. "Frog, don't you pay them any mind. They all know it's your coffee puts hair on their chests." More laughter. Plates and cutlery rattled as the morning meal progressed.

The house surely had another exit beside the one in the kitchen, Leah concluded. She slid back one of a pair of heavy sliding doors in the dining room's south wall and stepped through. She was in what appeared to be a combination office and sitting room. Stale cigar smoke, more dark varnish, an iron heating stove, its nickel plated knobs and foot rails badly in need of polishing, stood cold and uninviting. A bucket filled with the odd fuel she had seen used in the kitchen the night before and a scattering of ashes testified that it was used, perhaps in the evenings. There was a worn leather couch and a Morris chair with its back tilted at a comfortable angle. A battered desk was cluttered with magazines, newspapers, and an assortment of oddments. A gun rack, some animal horns, and what she guessed to be an elk's head, decorated the walls. Another set of sliding doors when slid open a few inches, revealed a room devoid of all furniture except for a cast iron heating stove standing cold and dejected, its dusty pipe dangling cobwebs. Only the faded, embossed paper on the walls proclaimed this room to have once been a front parlor.

Each of these rooms had an outside door. Leah tugged at the one opening from the furnished room. When opened, she found its sill dust-caked and the screen door's rusty hook difficult to lift. Leah stepped out onto a wide porch that ran the full length of the south side of the house. An old set of woven reed furniture, coated with gritty dust, was stacked against the house wall. Sand had shifted across the porch floor to form a ripply carpet. A tumbleweed had caught itself on a projecting furniture leg, and old mud nests swallows had built in past seasons hung along the eaves.

It was good to escape the gray chill of the house and walk in the sunshine. Leah made her visit to the little building in back where the dried stalks of last summer's hollyhocks guarded the door. A path led around the north side of the house to the windmill, its wheel turning steadily in the wind. Leah opened the door of the wellhouse to look inside. Water being pumped from the well was gushing from a pipe into one end of a waist high cement trough. The bottom of the trough had been constructed in such a way that one end was shallow and one deeper allowing various sizes of container to be kept cool in the flowing water. Another pipe at the other end of the trough carried the water to a larger cement horse tank outside.

Leah was intrigued by this ingenious method of cooling. Why, a person could keep butter and milk cool with such a system, though not a sign of such items could be seen among the crocks and jars floating in the water. She dipped water into a washpan and washed her face and hands, drying them on the hem of her petticoat. She washed the pitcher, discovering a pretty floral design beneath its dust. When the pitcher was full she lifted it for a drink of the cold water. My, but it was good. The water almost had a sweet taste to it. Leah had never tasted any she liked better. The dogs appeared at the door and begged for attention. Leah went out pulling the door closed and sat the full pitcher on a shelf built on the wall of the wellhouse.

Leah began talking and petting the eager dogs. Abruptly, their attention was diverted when the kitchen door opened to emit her uncle and the men who had been breakfasting inside. Simon Clayborn had been grinning and joshing over his shoulder as he'd taken a limping step off the stoop. Upon seeing his niece, however, the grin was wiped away and replaced with a pained expression as though he suddenly suffered from sour stomach. As he limped past, he muttered, "This here is my niece, Miss Leah Clayborn." The surly young cowboy Leah had observed from her window kept at her uncle's heels, giving only a furtive glance in her direction. Next came a dour looking older man, thin shoulders beginning to stoop, and whom she would later learn to be Henry Seigel and father of the youthful cowboy. Frog, for that is who would fill her in, also would tell her that the black man in his early twenties, with the gentle, dark eyes beneath the brim of his aged hat was called, Peaches. Peaches came from a settlement of black homesteaders that lay off to the southeast several miles. The two men just behind Peaches were a few years older than he and had been sidekicks since they were boys growing up in Texas. The tall one had a loose-hinged gait, a slow grin, and was called, Moon. The short, stocky one, who displayed a missing tooth when he grinned, and would prove to be both quick of foot and tongue, was called, Buck.

The little group of men filed by, spurs jingling, as Leah smiled self-consciously and acknowledged their nods and shy, Good mornin's.

Frog came to the door, or perhaps he'd been standing there watching. He called, "Why don't you come on in and have yourself some breakfast?"

The kitchen was warm and hazy with smoke from the pancake griddle. There was the smell of coffee and fried meat mixed with that of tobacco and oiled leather. It was certainly different from the fragrance of buttered toast, boiled eggs, and window geraniums Leah had known during her growing up years. But...she didn't mind. In fact, she found she rather liked it--the scent of strength and action.

Leah set her filled pitcher on the corner of the washbench and shed the cape she'd worn outdoors.

Frog, busy at the stove, said he doubted the boss would object if she ate in the kitchen when no one else was around if she had a mind to. His mouth stretched to its amphibious length as he smiled kindly at her. And Leah, picturing the dismal room that was the dining room, silently agreed.

"Have you eaten?" Leah inquired as she sat about stacking dirty plates and clearing the table despite Frog's protest.

"I'll clean the table just as soon as I get these pancakes done," he said. "That's my job, you know."

"I don't like to just sit," Leah answered and went on with cleaning off the table.

As the puddles of batter sizzled on the griddle, Frog admitted he was kept busy while the men were eating so he usually ate later. With this information, Leah set two clean plates at one end of the table she had wiped with a dishcloth, then went to the drawer Frog indicated for knives and forks.

"Have you lived in Nebraska long?" Leah asked as she placed two of the heavy cups by the plates.

"Been working here for a couple of years. I was on my way up to the Dakotas, reached Horse Flats, heard they needed a cook on a ranch out north of town." Frog shrugged. "Thought I'd take a stab at it. I'd done a little cooking here and there. Was going to move on after a month or two, but haven't gotten around to it yet." He flipped a pancake with the twist of his wrist.

Leah wondered what it must be like to come and go on a whim. To just decide to stay or go. Try a job or move on. She had never known anyone with such a philosophy.

Frog brought a platter with a stack of cakes on it and another with steak and fried potatoes heaped high. When seated, he passed the food to Leah including a small crock warm from the iron shelf of the range. "Like I said last night, we don't have butter. But some of us like these meat drippings on our cakes."

Leah took only small portions of the heavy food, but discovered the meat drippings to be quite tasty on one of the tender pancakes. She found herself taking another helping of the succulent steak to eat along with a second pancake. There was something about all this fresh air that gave one an appetite, Leah concluded.

Remembering her manners, she complimented Frog on his cooking. Her praise brought an even wider grin to the cook's face, and a precedent was set. Leah would breakfast in the kitchen from then on.

As they ate that first morning, Frog filled Leah in on the other members of the ranch crew.

"The old-timer on the ranch is Henry Seigel. An odd sort. Worked here even before your uncle bought the place, the way I understand it. Then there is Henry's boy, Jake." Frog hesitated and glanced over at Leah. "Jake is kind of hard to understand at times, but the boss seems to get along with him. Jake sets a lot of store on Mr. Clayborn, more so than he does his dad, seems like. Jake was brought up here on the place. They say Henry waited until he was pushing forty before he fell for a gal and got married. She'd come to Horse Flats to work at the hotel along with another girl. The Hannons, that's the folks sold the Diamond to your uncle about eight, maybe ten years ago, built Henry that little house out there by the bunkhouse." He gestured toward the window. "You can see it out the window there. Henry and Jake still live in it."

Frog took a swig of coffee and continued. "Jake must have been not much more than a baby when his mother took off with another man. Jake's roughed it with the men since then. They say that when Mr. Clayborn bought the place, Jake took to him and old Henry seemed relieved, encouraged it in fact." Frog poked his fork into his last bite of pancake, wiped at a dab of meat juice with it then lifted the morsel to his mouth. "A strange upbringing for a kid. Maybe twist his thinking some."

He got up and went to get the coffeepot. "Want your coffee warmed up?" Leah quickly declined. Mama had always said coffee was bad for the skin. If that were the case, this bitter brew could turn a girl into an old hag overnight.

Leah offered to help with the dishes, but Frog shook his head and stated firmly, "Thanks, but the kitchen is my territory. You'll find plenty of other things need doing, I expect."

There was no arguing that point from what Leah had seen of the house. She asked if Frog could equip her with pails, cloths, and a broom.

Frog was rummaging about in the pantry for these items when boots thudded on the kitchen stoop. The black cowboy, Peaches, burst into the kitchen. "Frog, could ya give me some flour? That Morgan mare the boss bought off Ty Worth has ripped herself on somethin' and is a bleedin' bad!"

The cook dropped the broom he had located and quickly went to the flour bin to lift out a sifter of flour. This was dumped into a pan as was another then handed to the worried cowboy. "Here you are, Peaches. I hope it works."

"Frog, could you come help? Everybody, even Mr. Clayborn, took off for the hills 'ceptin' me."

Frog nodded, tossed his dishtowel apron aside and followed the cowboy out the door. Leah, after only a slight pause, did likewise.

The dainty chestnut mare was just inside the huge barn, her halter rope tied to a post along the alleyway. Her right front leg was spattered by blood flowing from a jagged tear above the fetlock. The mare, agitated by pain and the smell of blood, was jerking on her halter, rolling her eyes in fear.

"Hold her steady while I pack this here flour on the cut," Peaches instructed.

Frog moved toward the nervous animal, his face set, and a hand extended stiffly, ready to grasp the rope. The mare attempted to pull back even farther and snorted. Frog stopped. It was plain that though willing, fear was getting the better of him. Leah stepped between Frog and the trembling mare, reaching out slowly for the halter rope. She had had precious little experience of this type. But, she had quieted the Crampy's buggy horse while Mr. Cramfy had extracted its hoof after the animal had gotten it wedged between the manger and the wall of the stall.

Leah moved carefully as Frog stepped back, working her hands up the halter rope. "There, girl. There. No one is going to hurt you." The mare gradually relaxed the tension on the rope as Leah gently urged her forward a step. Taking a firm grip on the noseband with a hand on either side, she continued to talk softly to the mare.

Giving an approving nod, Peaches squatted down by the injured leg and taking a heaping handful of the flour pressed it firmly into the open wound. The mare reacted, threatening to pull away from Leah. Leah's soothing voice calmed her once more. Another handful of flour stuck to what hadn't washed away of the first. Gradually, the blood began to clot. Soon, only a trickle came from the now clogged wound.

Peaches grinned up at Leah. "We got'er!" he whispered jubilantly. Leah noted the "we" and appreciated it.

Peaches settled back on his heels to look up at Leah. "I'd a never took ya for a horsewoman, ya all bein' a city gal."

Leah smiled back, not disputing the term "horsewoman". She liked the sound of it. And even if the title was a bit exaggerated, she'd shown she was not afraid. She'd known almost instinctively what to do, hadn't she?

"You did a fine job," an obviously relieved Frog chimed in. "I was always better with a skillet than a horse, myself."

The praise was not to be unanimous, however. That evening as Leah waited in the dining room for her uncle to join her, she heard Peaches, out in the kitchen, giving his account of the episode. "That little ol' gal just took that mare and gentled her down good as ya could want."

If her uncle took any pride in his niece's unexpected ability, he suppressed it well. "That mare never was all that wild," was his reply.

When he entered the dining room shortly, bringing the aroma of tobacco and horse with him, he did little more than grumble. "You shouldn't have gone traipsing down to the barn. Could have got yourself hurt. Barn's no place for a woman."

Leah was disappointed at her uncle's reaction, but not surprised. She did not argue the point, but when her brown eyes met his, they did not waver. She made no apology nor did she promise to stay away from the barn.

Chapter Three

Leah busied herself with housecleaning. She spent the next few days scrubbing and polishing the old house. Windows sparkled anew. Walls were swept down and where paper had loosened, flour and water paste was used to reattach it. Mended curtains soon hung clean and stiff with starch. The hinge on the wardrobe in Leah's room was repaired. The smell of wax and furniture polish--Leah had unearthed a bottle in the pantry--began to replace that of stale cigar smoke, leather and gun oil.

It was while Leah was at work on the second floor that she discovered the contents of the spare rooms.

"Well...I never!" she had declared aloud having opened the door of the first room and then rushed to open the second. "Imagine having these things and not using them! Furniture, rugs...everything!"

Frog said that the way he understood it, these items had come with the house when the ranch was purchased. Simon Clayborn had banished whatever he considered more trouble than they were worth, such as the carpets and the nice parlor set Leah would learn had been ordered from Chicago by the Hannons one fall when steer prices had been high. A trunk containing sheets and linens Mrs. Hannon had thoughtfully left behind for the new bachelor-owner had gone unused as well.

Leah broached the subject that very night at supper, asking if the contents of the storage rooms might be brought out and used. Simon shrugged his thick shoulders and warned, "Go ahead if you want that stuff down here, but don't expect me or the men to have time to help. Maybe you can talk Frog into it." And Frog, who had just brought in dishes of tapioca and raisin pudding for dessert, said he'd be glad to.

It was a struggle to drag the heavy rolled carpets down stairs as well as the maroon brocade settee with its matching chair and other pieces to furnish the parlor. Frog's good nature never faltered, however. Once, with the settee wedged at the turn of the stairs, and Leah trapped in the angle, he'd quipped, "Some folks will try anything to get out of a job. It won't work. Just you climb over the top and get to pushing on your end, little lady."

Laughing, Leah had complied. They'd bumped and hoisted until the fine old settee was in the place Leah had chosen along the west wall of the parlor between the two west windows.

When at last, carpets were covering the floors of the dining room and parlor (Leah had wisely left her uncle's bedroom and office undisturbed), and the furniture all polished and in place, the old house began to regain its lost dignity.

Leah's trunk had arrived and was brought out from town when a ranch wagon went in for a load of fence posts. With familiar books on a table beside her bed, family photographs on the dresser, a crocheted bed coverlet in place, and the absent carpet restored to the floor, even Leah's room took on a homey appearance.

Once these busy days ended, Leah found herself with little to occupy her time. An hour or two at the most kept the house in order. There was little laundry to do for the major portion was taken periodically to a homestead woman.

On one particularly dull morning, Leah was wandering about the house, straightening a doily here, picking up a thread from the carpet, and wishing she at least had something new to read. Her own books, like old familiar friends, were known through and through. In her uncle's office, she restacked some magazines, searching hopefully for something of interest she'd missed before. Leah had read most of Simon Clayborn's "library" that consisted of one volume pertaining to veterinary science, two on animal husbandry, and numerous stacks of "Breeder's Gazette".

"You would think someone would come to call," Leah complained to the glass-eyed elk head balefully gazing down at her from the wall.

Other than those on the ranch, Leah had seen no one since her arrival except for an occasional cowboy passing through and the boy who periodically delivered a load of cowchips, thus keeping them supplied with that unusual fuel used in the cook stove. (Leah could well imagine what her mother's reaction would have been to the use of dried animal offal for cooking.) Of course there was the mailman, a Mr. Casper, an odd little fellow with a lengthy beard he tied with a leather thong that in turn was tied to his trouser belt. He came three days a week on his route. He usually stopped for a quick cup of coffee and a bite to eat. He was a poor conversationalist though at times he grunted out a bit of information. "Met the doc on the way out. Somebody sick, I reckon." Or he might inform them, "Them people settled clear off to hell and gone think their mail ought to be brought out to ‘um. They found out different."

As Leah glared up at the elk head she continued to speculate on her non-existent social life. There had to be neighbors of some sort, why else the mail route? "Enough of this!" she told the elk. "I'm not going to live like a hermit even if Uncle Simon expects me to!"

She found Frog kneading a batch of bread dough at the kitchen table on a patch of sifted flour. "What's on your mind, little lady?" Frog nearly always called her that as though he wasn't at ease using her first name as she had suggested he do. "You look like you have a bone to pick with somebody."

Leah slid out a chair and sat down across from Frog and his bread dough. "Doesn't anyone ever come visiting out here?" She sat with elbows on the table, resting her chin in her cupped hands. "I haven't seen a woman since I arrived. Aren't there any living around here?"

Frog thumped the dough into a large, greased crock. "Sure there's womenfolk out here. Lots of them. You'll meet them in time. Spring's a busy time of year, plus Mr. Clayborn isn't one to entertain much." Frog spread a clean flour sack over the crock and set it on the lid of the warming oven for the dough to rise. "Judge Hanks comes out for dinner once in awhile on a Sunday. He's a friend of your uncle. Then there's cattle buyers, folks stopping off on their way to town, the usual string of cowhands down on their luck needing a meal and a place to bunk overnight. There're plenty of folks around. You'll meet them, sooner or later."

If Frog had known Leah better he would have known patience was not one of her virtues. Later that day found Leah wearing an old hat confiscated from those in the kitchen, pulling dry weeds along the edge of the big side porch. A few scraggly plants,--daisies Leah thought--and a patch of iris were struggling through the mass of weeds in what appeared to have been a flower border in the distant past. Her hands industriously occupied, Leah's mind was busily planning what would ultimately set in motion even more changes in her life and that of Simon Clayborn.

A trickle of sweat ran from beneath the old hat to be swiped at by a small, dirty hand. I've fixed the house up so it is at least presentable. I've proved to myself and to at least some of the crew that I'm not afraid of horses. In fact, I may even have some ability in that direction. Uncle Simon is going to take more convincing, but somehow I'll do it. The day is going to come when I've proved to him just how capable I can be!

The little voice that so often pricked Leah's balloons of fantasy began pricking. What makes you think you'll ever change, Uncle Simon? He took you in out of a sense of duty and grudgingly at that. He has made it quite clear that females are to be tolerated nowhere on the Diamond except the house.

"I will show him! I will!" Leah muttered as she jerked at a particularly stubborn weed as though it might have been one of the obstacles blocking her plans and was gratified to feel its roots give way. Tossing the weed onto the pile she was making, she glanced up and noticed a lone rider coming from the west. At first, she thought it was a small, middle-aged man, but as the rider drew rein and spoke, she realized her mistake. A woman had come to call! A woman with graying hair tucked up under a man's felt hat, wearing shirt and trousers...but a woman!

The visitor, seeing the energetic, young person pulling away at the dry weed stalks, golden hair streaming out from beneath the old hat, smiled and spoke from her seat in the saddle. "Hello, Leah. I'm Maude Henderson. Live over west a ways. Thought I might ride over and say howdy. I'd of come sooner, but been kept hopping with new calves coming and the like." So saying, she swung a booted leg over her saddle and stepped to the ground.

Leah, taking note that all females did not ride sidesaddle, wondered briefly how the woman in the mannish garb knew her name. Not that it mattered. Leah was just glad she did and was there. It would be much later before Leah realized Simon Clayborn shared a great many things with the widow of his old sidekick, Cecil Henderson, which no doubt included the name of his eastern niece.

"Just tie your horse to that rail." Leah indicated the weathered pole nailed to two sturdy cedar posts a few yards from the front porch. Then waiting while this was accomplished, Leah informed her visitor, "You're my very first caller, and you can't know how welcome you are!"

The woman smiled, the smile reaching gray eyes where crowfeet wrinkles fanned out onto weathered cheeks. "Yes, honey. I expect I do."

Maude Henderson was ushered in through the front door opening into the newly refurbished parlor. Here the old iron stove gleamed with its coat of blackening, and the well-brushed and polished furniture sat in tasteful arrangement on a carpet of maroon and gray swirls. The Clayborn bible that had made the trip to Nebraska in Leah's trunk along with the photograph album, regally rested on the doilied top of a spindle-legged table at one end of the settee, the album on the bottom shelf. A large, framed, rather ugly still life depicting assorted fruits hung above it.

"My! Oh, my! But you have fixed this room up pretty!" Maude gave her enthusiastic approval. "Simon's been living here all these years like he was camping out. Takes a female to give comfort and shine to a house."

"Things did need a bit of shaping up," Leah admitted modestly.

Sitting on the straight-backed settee upholstered in its stiff maroon plush, Maude crossed her trouser-clad legs. "Well, you've done a fine job, looks like. Now, tell me about yourself."

Leah did--tell her quite a lot of it anyway, while Frog stirred up a batch of biscuits in the kitchen to serve the company.

As they enjoyed the biscuits and coffee seated at the dining room table, Leah asked Maude (she had been instructed to address her caller by her first name) to tell her about the people who lived in the area.

"Well, there's my place just five miles from here. I'm the closest." Maude accepted another hot biscuit from the plate Leah offered and split it open with her knife in readiness for some of the plum jam she had thoughtfully brought, the jar tucked in a jacket pocket, and one of butter in another. Let's see. There are the Jacobs...nice folks. Ed Jacob owns the Circle J Ranch about ten miles southwest of here. He and Melba, that's his wife, have a good-sized family"

Maude took a bite of biscuit and chewed thoughtfully. "The oldest girl, her name is Evangeline, but they call her ‘Evie', must be around your age, there abouts. The years do slide by." Maude shook her head at the truth of her statement and took another bite, paused, then said, "They have several younger ones, never can keep the names straight. Melba is Ed's second wife. The oldest girl's from the first wife...little and orange-haired like her ma was."

Listening, Leah voiced her disappointment at the distance that separated her from this interesting family. "Ten miles! That hardly seems like neighbors!"

Maude leaned over with a chuckle and patted Leah's slender shoulder. "It'll take some getting used to, coming from where folks live in each other's pockets...so to speak.

In time you'll come to like all this distance. It grows on you," she spoke with assurance. "Why, when Cecil and I, Cecil was my husband, first came out here, I thought I'd go crazy sometimes with him off working days on end. Wasn't hardly anybody living in this area back then. The Stauffers, they were a big English-owned cattle outfit that your Uncle Simon and my Cecil rode for until they'd saved up enough to get started in the business themselves. The Stauffer outfit had control of most of the grass for miles and miles. Only a few others ranched out here north of Horse Flats--the Hannons on the Diamond and one or two others that are gone now, too. Poor management and some bad winters discouraged the English investors so the Stauffer outfit pulled out. Gave Cecil and Simon, and others a chance to get a foothold."

Maude grinned as she sipped her coffee. "That's enough talk about the old days. It's now-a-days you want to hear about."

At Leah's protest that she was interested in the history of the area, Maude replied. "Oh, we'll get back to it from time to time, but let me tell you about the rest of your neighbors. You've met Ty Worth. He was the one brought you out from town. Now, he only lives a few miles north of me."

Leah nodded. "Yes. I met Mr. Worth. A rather abrupt sort, I thought."

"Oh, that's just Ty's way." Maude chuckled. "He's a good man. Worked for me when he first came, while he was looking around to find a place to get started on his own. He's built up a little ranch, getting it paid off and building up a fine band of Morgan mares...some cattle, too."

Maude paused to think a moment. "There's the Krupers south of here, but you won't be having anything to do with that bunch. There's homesteaders scattered about, mostly north and west of me. That's where they've got a school started. There's the Murphy's, and the Workman's and others. Nice enough, most of them, but don't have a chance of making a living farming this sandy country. 'Course some of them are trying to raise cattle. It's a bad time for that, dry as it is and folks short on grass in the first place. The competition for what open range is left gets tighter every year. And now, we've got a big outfit moved up from Texas bringing a couple thousand head, they say. Sheritan is their name. They must have money because they've started, or so folks say, to build a regular mansion way off to the northeast.

Maude dipped the last dab of plum jam from her plate and popped the bite of biscuit into her mouth. "The Schultz family, they're homesteaders, but unlike most of them have a little money. They filed on hay flats Simon used to stack timothy on. And the McDermonts are south of the school." She took a swallow of cooled coffee. "And of course, there's all those who live in and around town. You'll get acquainted."

"Do they have any parties or church meetings, things like that?" Leah asked hopefully.

"Oh, sure they do. They have doings of one kind or another in town or over at the schoolhouse. Once in awhile, the preacher from town comes out on a Sunday afternoon to hold service at the school."

Frog came in with the coffeepot. "Can I warm up your coffee?" he wanted to know.

"Thank you, Frog." Maude offered her cup. "I've made a regular pig of myself on those biscuits of yours."

Frog beamed. "Just stirred them up quick. It's a wonder they were fit to eat." He moved around to Leah's side of the table. "How about you, Miss Clayborn? No, I suppose not. You sure aren't much of a coffee drinker."

When Frog had disappeared through the swinging doors, Maude sat sipping her coffee, studying Leah with a wistfulness that caused Leah to inquire. "Do you have any children, Maude?"

"No, sorry to say. Cecil and I had a baby boy, only lived three days. Like to broke our hearts when he died, and the good Lord never seen fit to send another."

There was a lull in the conversation following this information until Maude perked herself up to ask, "Say, would you like to hear about the time a skunk got under the schoolhouse when the preacher was holding service?" Duly encouraged, Maude launched into a story that soon had Leah shaking with laughter.

Far too soon, Maude gathered up her hat and announced she'd better be heading home.

Leah asked if Maude wouldn't care for another cup of coffee, but with a conspiratorial wink, Maude shook her head and glanced toward the kitchen then spoke softly. "I doubt if I'll be able to sleep for a week as it is, and besides, I've got my chores waiting."

Maude walked to the door, hesitated as though undecided about something then turned back. "The school is having their last day of school picnic on Sunday. I don't generally go, but you might want to." The sudden glow in her listener's eyes verified this assumption. "What say I fry up some chicken and you come over to my place about eleven o'clock on Sunday? We'll drive over together."

"Oh, I'd love to go, if you're sure you wouldn't mind."

"No, it will do us both good to get out and visit with the neighbors."

The two went out to where Maude's gray had waited patiently. Leah patted the animal's nose and rubbed her hand down the neck of the gentle gelding. The gray rubbed his forehead against her shoulder in appreciation. Leah chuckled. "You like attention don't you?"

Watching, the older woman remarked, "You like horses, I can see that. Well, there are plenty of them around here."

Maude gave Leah a warm hug before mounting, then looking down at her, she prophesied, "We're going to get along just fine, you and I. And having you here is going to do Simon a world of good."

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