Fiona: Book Two: The Cattleman's Daughter Read online

  Fiona

  Book 2: The Cattleman’s Daughters

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Wrapping her heavy woolen shawl around her shoulders, Fiona gently lowered the lamb back into its box and turned toward the barn door. The jingling sound of harness and the heavy clomp of hooves caught her ear and drew her toward the lowering skies outside. Her father hadn’t said anything about a delivery but the creak of wagon wheels could be heard clearly even from inside the barn. Stepping into the weak light of an autumn sky, she blinked up as large white flakes of the first snow of the year began to fall, and smiled.

  Shielding her eyes with her hand she waited for them to adjust to the brighter shade of gray and searched for the source of the noise. Across the barn yard, standing directly between the barn and the house, were two of the largest horses she’d ever seen.

  They were massive, standing at least six feet at the withers, their burnished coats of red, now speckled with falling snow. Long legs, feathered from knee to fetlock with thick white hair ended in massive hooves the size of dinner plates. Their high, heavily muscled necks were decked in thick braids, and their jet black tails hung nearly to the ground ending in a precise square cut. Behind them a large-wheeled freight cart, painted in garish red, with bright yellow spokes on its iron rimmed wheels creaked gently.

  Her eyes followed the lines of the traces all the way from the horses’ silver bits to the wagon seat where they ended in a man’s gloved hands. Through the softly falling snow she watched the form of a large man unfold himself from the seat, bend nearly double, and climb down on the barn side of the wagon. She wondered why he didn’t go straight to the house. Instead his feet hit the frosty earth and turned back to the wagon seat. He was a big man. Judging by the size of the wagon he was at least six foot five. His thick black winter coat added to his bulk even as it stretched tight against wide, thick shoulders.

  With his arms raised above his head the buttons of his winter gear strained across a barrel chest. This was no small man but one sized to match his team. Fiona looked up to where the man’s large, spade like hands had taken hold of the tiniest, tow-headed boy she had ever seen. If he was even five years old she’d be surprised. A soft gasp escaped her as the tyke, dressed in winter wear and wrapped in a blanket, was lifted into the air onto the man’s shoulders with a giggle. Why in the world would this driver ever bring a child along with him? The weather at this time of year was at best unpredictable and there were no signs of any form of civilization with in a four days ride of the ranch. The big man turned toward the horses and on doing so noticed, for the first time, the young woman standing in the open doorway of the barn.

  Hank Ballard settled his son on his weary shoulders and turned toward his team. He’d pushed through the night to get here before the weather turned bad and he knew the horses were just as tired and sore as he was. He’d just taken a step toward the lead gelding when out of the corner of his eye he spotted a pretty girl standing by the barn, her mouth forming a soft O as she gazed back at them.

  Hank looked around him, and not seeing anyone else, aimed his bulk toward the one and only other living being in sight. As he faced her fully she stepped from the shelter of the door way and began walking briskly toward him through the falling snow. The soft flakes, cascading around her like a blessing, kissed her hair with a brief dusting of white. Her hair was a dark brown with hints of gold around her face. The deep wavy mass struggled to release itself from the pins that held it piled on top of her head, but twisting tendrils fell around her face brushing soft pink frosted cheeks. A straight, even nose and high arched dark brows sketched out her lovely features but his eyes were drawn again to the rose bud mouth that smiled in greeting.

  “Hello,” her voice was soft but husky in a lilting way. “I’m afraid we didn’t know you were coming.” Reaching him she extended her hand, still clutching her shawl with the other. “I’m Fiona, Fiona James.”

  A strong, square fingered hand took Fiona’s, engulfing it completely and imbuing it with warmth that whisked away the chill of the day.

  “Hank Ballard ma’am.” A booming voice rumbled in greeting, but Fiona’s eyes, instead of resting on his weary, stubble decked face, traveled up and up to the tiny form perched on block-like shoulders. The little chin resting on top of the man’s hat, and wide staring blue eyes, blinked back at her.

  “Hello,” she said again softly, smiling up at the boy. He lifted his head slightly and looked back into her hazel green eyes.

  “This is my son Eric.” The rumbling rolled over her again: a gentle buzzing at the bottom of a barrel.

  Fiona’s eyes widened and snapped back to the man’s face. Father? How could this giant of a man be that tiny mite’s father? The question zipped through her head like an icy gust of wind. Then looking him up and down she wondered how in the world she’d ever be able to describe this man to her sisters.

  To say he was large was an understatement. He wasn’t fat, he was just big. His shoulders were at least the span of an ax handle and his wool garb, which did little to disguise the bulging muscles beneath, strained across chest and shoulders but hung loose over flat stomach and narrow hips. Long legs were stuffed into dark trousers snugged at the thigh where heavy ropes of muscles pushed at the fabric, and ended with pants legs stuffed into high brown boots the size of small boats. Fiona took in the man’s appearance with a gasp, then cast her eyes back to his face. For a brief moment a soft twinkle lit his gray eyes.

  “We weren’t expecting anyone,” Fiona began, suddenly realizing that her hand still rested, safe and warm in the man’s grasp. Gently, reluctantly, she pulled it away. “You’d better come up to the house and then we can figure out what to do with you.”

  Still looking at his face, Fiona noticed emotions skidding across his even features. A straight nose tipped downward to a mouth with wide lips. He looked not only tired, but confused and possibly surprised, but he nodded and turned to follow her. Reaching out a ham-sized hand he thumped the near horse on the neck as they walked around in front of the team and matched his step to the girl at his side.

  As they approached the front stairs Fiona watched the man swing the small boy down from his lofty perch and tuck him into the crook of his arm, each motion smooth and practiced. The actions seemed to require almost no effort and were accomplished with one hand. The boy, Eric, nestled his tussled head against his father’s shoulder with a quiet sigh. The echo of the big man’s boots on the steps resounded under the porch roof as Fiona made her way to the door. Before she had even reached for the screen door, an arm moved around her back and grasped the handle, pulling it wide. Fi smiled and lifted the latch on the front door.

  Hank followed the young woman into the big ranch house. It was much larger than he’d been expecting and already he could see the expertise and craftsmanship that had been put into the structure. The low porch provided protection and shade from the elements even as the weathered wood clapboard wrapping the building insured a snug home.

  Immediately on entering the house he was confronted with a staircase, its bent wood railing leading to the upper floor. At a glance he saw a closed door on his right at the bottom of the stairs and to his left he caught a glimpse of a large parlor, stuffed with heavy furniture centered round a large stone fireplace.

  Treading softly be
hind the young woman, he moved down a narrow hallway past another closed door in the base of the stairway. Hank could hear the rattle and clink of cutlery as well as the muted voices of others.

  At the end of the hall they entered a huge kitchen that spanned nearly the entire back of the house. Across the room set next to a large window, a huge cook stove stood on sturdy claw feet, its pale green enameled exterior radiating heat. Directly in front of it a heavy wood topped work table stood covered in various ingredients to the right of the stove, tucked under the windows, a black stone work surface slanted toward two square galvanized tubs, next to a sturdy hand pump.

  On the other side of the tubs the black stone work surface continued. Tall open fronted shelves graced the wall above and a variety of dishes and other serving wear sat neatly on each. The far wall was one massive cupboard, save for another heavy door embedded next to the wall that supported the stairs above, and on his left two large plank tables, shoved together to let them fit in the room took up the other half of the bright and cheery space.

  A small plump woman, her graying hair loosely wound into a bun was stirring something on the stove, while a skinny man with a long white braid stretched to reach a particularly high up item in the tall pantry.

  As Hank’s heavy boots fell silent on the thick plank floor, the woman glanced over her shoulder, then gasped and turned completely around raising her long wooden spoon like a weapon. Hank pulled his boy closer.

  “Dios Benedetto!” the woman exclaimed.

  Fiona gave a knowing look to her guest.

  “Nona. This is Mr. Ballard, he just arrived. Were we expecting him?” true puzzlement was obvious on her face.

  The other woman gazed at him, her eyes steadily growing larger as she took in his sheer size. “Oh!” she finally gasped.

  Just then the wiry man who had been rummaging in the cupboard turned and looked at him through narrowed eyes. “You here,” he stated in a high heavily accented voice.

  “Yeye?” Fiona asked. “You knew about the arrival?”

  “We no expect him till later. He coming work with Is-O-dor-O.”

  The older woman, finally pulling herself together smiled, her eyes coming to rest on the small form in the big man’s arms.

  “You must be frozen. Heaven, but what time of year is this to travel?” She waved her arms wildly, sending small wet spots flying from her spoon. “Oh!” she chided again, then turned and placed the spoon on the work surface. Her soft eyes looked Hank and Eric over again and with a shake of her head she pointed them in the direction of the big tables on the other side of the room.

  “You sit down and I’ll fix you some coffee. We have some biscuits left from breakfast.” Now that she’d found her words they came spilling out in a rush.

  Hank turned to the younger woman, a question written clear upon his face. Her bright smile and the soft twinkle of humor in her eyes hit him in the gut. Placing a small hand on his arm, she looked up at him.

  “You’ll be fine, don’t worry.” She turned back to the other woman who was looking at them strangely.

  “Nona, you take little Eric here. Mr. Ballard needs to tend his team as the others are all out and about just now. I’ll show him where to put them and you can find something for his son to eat.” Fiona noticed how her grandmother’s eyes widened once more as she looked at the little boy, and nodded. It was funny to see the matronly woman so flustered.

  Hank took his cue from Fiona and walked to the big tables to sit his son in the chair at the top of the table. “You stay here, son,” he said gently, ruffling the sprite’s blond head. “I’ll just see to the horses and be right back; this nice lady will get you something to eat. OK?”

  The boy nodded, turning large sapphire eyes to his father but never saying a word.

  As Fiona led the way back out to the barn, she could hear Nona chattering away to the boy as she quickly began placing biscuits, butter and jam on the table for him. She chuckled, catching the ear of the large man just a step behind her.

  The crunch of boots on crisp earth drew the attention of the horses who, now dusted with snow, patiently waited in the yard a low nicker from each of them. “Whoa, Scott. Whoa Jack.” The rumbling voice echoed around the quiet yard, as the horses jangled their bits in greeting. Fiona watched as he gently took hold of a bridle then looked to her.

  “You can park the wagon there between the smithy and the barn.” She pointed to the spot with a slender finger. “Then bring them into the barn. I’ll see which stalls are empty.”

  Hank nodded at the pretty girl, then walked back to the wagon, climbed up to the high seat, unlatched the break and called to his team. “Git-up” he clicked and the animals moved out in step as he turned them toward the smithy that sat quiet and cold in the gray light. Making a wide circuit of the forge he drove the horses into a straight line parallel to the barn wall then pulled them to a stop with a light tug on the reins.

  Hank clambered down from the seat of the red wagon, reached under the tarp that covered his few possessions and pulled out a heavy carpet bag, then began unhitching the team. Pausing in his work. he took a moment to look around the ranch. The ranch yard? The ranch is too big to be seen.

  It was a big place, sprawling in the midst of a fenced perimeter. The large barn, two stories tall, was snug and well made. The foundry stood next to it, far enough away not to be a hazard but close enough to have some shelter from the larger structure. A chicken coop sat behind the forge and he could hear chickens clucking contentedly on snug perches.

  What must have been a bunk house took up the far corner of the lot. Its low dark brooding walls crafted to keep out the cold. Set at a ninety-degree angle to the side of the bunk house was another building, its purpose as of yet unclear to him, then just past it the large gray structure of the ranch house itself rose into the winter white sky. Lifting the harness chains, Hank hooked the straps to the heavy black leather that crisscrossed the horse’s backs.

  Resting a hand on a warm haunch he leaned his weary body against the comforting bulk and wondered if he’d made the right decision in coming here. At the time it seemed like a gift from heaven but what if he’d made a mistake? His mind roved back nearly three months to where it all started.

  Chicago, Illinois August 1888

  The heavy team plodded through the dirty streets of the city following a route they’d covered a hundred times. The creaking wheels of the lumbering wagon sighed and groaned under its burden of barrels. Holding the reins in one hand Hank rubbed his stubbled face with the other. Curled up on the wagon seat beside him, Eric slept as a hot dawn spilled across the town they called home. He could no longer afford to pay Mrs. Peaks to watch the child so was forced to bring the little guy with him on his deliveries.

  Feeling much older than his twenty-four years Hank, wondered how he’d ended up like this. As a young man he’d been apprenticed to a furniture builder. He’d learned his craft well. He’d even married his boss’s daughter. A sad smile flitted across his face. They’d been happy, at least until Eric was born. Sarah had always been frail. She was a tiny woman; she didn’t have the strength to be a mother.

  He gazed at his wee son. A soft breeze ruffled the locks of nearly white hair. He was so like her. Tiny, sprite like. He thanked the good Lord every day for the small blessing that slept, innocent of the woes of this town, beside him. It wasn’t long after her death that Sarah’s father had fallen ill and passed away, leaving Hank on his own to care for an infant son.

  Hank had always thought the old man was doing well, his business seemed booming. They lived in a small but nice house with a sturdy wood shop behind it. The team he drove now had belonged to the man and they were all that was left of the business. Apparently his father-in-law had incurred a great deal of debt, borrowing against his business and everything but the team was taken by the bank. Hank, with little to his name, began working for a cooper, making barrels to store the brewery’s product. A profession that was in constant demand. Then to sup
plement his income he used the team to deliver the same product throughout the town. Where did the wagon come from?

  The team, coming to a stop at the back of a large saloon, snapped him out of his dark musings. Setting the brake, he climbed stiffly down from the seat and unlatched the high back gate of the wagon. One by one he rolled the barrels down a wooden ramp, turning them as they came to the paving and standing them upright.

  “Howdy, son.” A cheerful voice called as the proprietor stepped from the dark doorway, drying his hands on a stiff white apron. “Looks like you’re right on time.”

  “Mr. James.” Hank said in way of greeting.

  “What you got up there on the seat with you?” the other man said craning his neck to see as Eric stirred and sat up blinking around him.

  “Pa?” the little boy’s sleepy voice called.

  “Right here, son,” Hank called back, stepping around the barrels to reach for his boy.

  The proprietor jerked in surprise as he took in the scene. “I’m surprised to see you bringin’ your son along on deliveries,” Mr. James said, watching as the massive man face darkened.

  “I have no choice,” Hank said tersely, gray eyes flashing.

  “Whoa. Easy son. I didn’t mean no offense.” The barkeep raised his hands as if to ward off the other man’s wrath. Then he watched as the heavy shoulders seemed to deflate.

  “That bad, is it?” the older man asked, rubbing a hand over his chin.

  Hank just looked at him. All of the worries, disappointments, and anger of the past few years weighed him down. With fierce gentleness, he snuggled his son to him. He was fed up with life in this city.

  Each day was a struggle to keep himself and his son out of the poor house and the squalor of the transport capital of the U.S.A. It was an industrious city, but one plagued by corruption, greed, and indifference. Not only had he lost his wife and then his father-in-law, he’d lost his means of supporting himself.