“I think I’ve almost got it unstuck.” Claire gave a final tug on the blocked cog that she thought was causing the problem, only to be rewarded with a fresh cascade of ink for her trouble. She sat back on her haunches and wiped her hands on her long apron. “Or not,” she muttered, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “When is that new press arriving from St. Louis?” she called out.
Balancing two freshly brewed cups of tea atop his ledger and a half-written editorial on secession and states rights, Matthew McKinstry carefully made his way from the rear of the building which served as his office and living quarters. Depositing his burden on the nearest paper-strewn desk, he waited to make sure it wasn’t about to topple before leaning against the chair and regarding his niece with affection.
Matthew was, to all appearances, the exact opposite of his brother, Claire’s father. Short, thin and soft-spoken, his face wore the wrinkles of years of hard work but his eyes still sparkled with the vitality of youth. His hair, though now grey, had once been the same dazzling copper as Claire’s own. He stroked a finger through his mustache before speaking.
“Leave off the work for a moment Claire,” he urged, his Irish brogue barely noticeable after years in the Americas. “You look quite the sight, my girl! Relax for a moment with a nice cup of tea.”
Claire rose fluidly from the floor and studied herself with a critical eye. Her long printers smock was designed to protect the wearer from stains, but apparently its manufacturers had failed to consider a woman might ever wear it. Her voluminous beige skirt was blotted here and there with dark blue ink splotches, and she knew that the next time she used her blue blouse it would be as a cleaning rag – it was beyond salvation. She absently pushed her bangs out of her eyes, unknowingly adding another blue blotch in her hair as she did so, and eyed the printing press deliberately. Tea sounded good, but…
“Thanks, but I think I’ll fini—“ she began, then broke off as the enticing aroma of the brew reached her. “Strawberry?” she asked incredulously. “Where on earth did you find strawberry tea in Sweetwater?”
“Oh, I happen to know it’s my favourite niece’s favourite blend,” Matthew chuckled as Claire reached for the proffered cup eagerly. “I had Thompkins put in a special order.”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Claire admonished gently even as she took a sip of the lightly flavoured drink. She smiled at her uncle over the lip of the cup. “But I’m glad you did.”
“Consider it payment for all the hard work you’ve done around here the past few months,” Matthew said. “And for the pleasure of your company,” he added before the girl could protest.
Taking up his own cup, Matthew took a hearty sip and wondered how he’d managed at the newspaper before his brother had brought his family to Sweetwater. He and Daniel got on no better now than they had as boys, of course… but Marjorie was quick to invite her brother-in-law to many a family dinner, and Matthew had missed those home-cooked meals since his beloved Elizabeth had passed on. Abigail was as flighty as he remembered her, but he imagined living in the west would sober her up some. And Claire had been more than helpful at the Sentinel offices. Her enthusiasm was infectious and, though Matthew hated to admit it, there were some things he just couldn’t do anymore. He sneered at the various parts and tools spread out on the floor surrounding the partially dismantled printing press. Like crawling around under a 200-pound press looking for a clog that was most likely the size of a pinhead, yet was managing to bring the entire production of the paper to a grinding halt.
“Don’t be silly, Uncle Matthew,” Claire was saying. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Matthew’s face lit in a smile as he teased, “I’m sure if a certain pony express rider walked in the door, you’d drop your ol’ uncle like a hot potato.”
Claire flushed lightly even as her eyes softened at the thought. She glanced up from her tea, unaware that her face had taken on that dreamy, dewy-eyed expression that she used to tease her lovestruck classmates about unmercifully back in her school days. “Buck comes home tonight,” she said softly, almost to herself.
Matthew chuckled. Since coming to Sweetwater Claire had spent countless hours at The Sentinel, helping with everything from setting copy to proofing articles to the repairs she was working on today. But for the past two weeks, since the Founders Day dance, her time and attention was split between the newspaper and Buck Cross, and he knew that the young rider was never far from her thoughts. He remembered his Elizabeth looking at him with an expression very much like the one Claire wore right now. Watching the look of adoration on her face, Matthew was overcome with a wave of fondness for his niece. Not for the first time, he wished he’d made the long trek to Boston more often in Claire and Abigail’s youth. He’d missed so much of their lives. Oh well, he reflected, at least now he was making up for lost time with Claire. Abigail was another matter entirely. He still hadn’t quite figured out how to connect with his eldest niece.
“Claire,” he said quietly, loath to interrupt her thoughts, “You know my offer still stands.”
Claire roused herself guiltily, aware that she’d been daydreaming. She matched her uncle’s smile. “I’ll let you know,” she answered. “In the meantime,” she continued brightly, “I’ve got work to do. But when IS the new printing press arriving? I’ll be glad to se the last of this monster.” She kicked at one of the parts absently.
“Actually, there’s been a slight change of plans,” Matthew explained. “I’ve had to cancel the order.”
“Why?”
“The usual reason one does not buy something one particularly desires,” Matthew said dryly. “Lack of funding, my dear. The Sentinel just isn’t solvent enough at the moment. Looks like we’ll be making do with this bucket of bolts for a while longer.”
Claire’s face fell. “And I borrowed that money for the riding skirt! Oh Uncle Matthew, I’ll return it tomorrow and then—“
“NOW who’s being silly?” Matthew scolded gently. “I was glad to help you out. And frankly,” he continued, “the amount that I loaned you is but a pittance compared to what I need for the new press. No, I’ll keep on with this one – considering, of course, that you continue to do the repairs,” he added with a grin.
“You know I will,” Claire answered soberly. “But Uncle Matthew, all your plans… all your ideas and dreams…”
“That’s the good thing about dreams,” Matthew answered. “They’re adjustable. They’re flexible. And you can keep on dreaming them until they finally come true.” He kissed his niece’s cheek affectionately. “You know a little about that, don’t you?”
“I guess I do,” Claire replied softly, her mind as ever returning to Buck. Finding a man like him –that was surely a dream. Yet it had happened, for her. Although she sometimes had to pinch herself to make sure it was all real – it had happened. She couldn’t believe how lucky she was…
Claire shook her head ruefully. Daydreaming again. She pointedly ignored her uncle’s bemused expression and turned back to the printing press with a determined scowl. “And this isn’t going to fix itself,” she said gruffly, gathering her skirts under her and scooting partway under the big machine.
“I’ll go back to my editorial,” Matthew announced, his voice echoing down to her. “Give a holler if you need any help.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
Matthew turned toward the new voice, surprised that he hadn’t heard the small bell above the door that usually announced a visitor. Below him, a loud thump and a muffled curse affirmed the fact that Claire had both heard and identified the caller.
“Buck!” Matthew greeted the newcomer warmly, shaking hands with the young express rider. He glanced at the printing press with a grimace. “Just the usual sticks and clogs,” he explained ruefully. “Claire’s helping me out as usual.”
“I figured she’d be here,” Buck replied, leaning over the counter. Yes, he could just see Claire’s skirts peeking out from under the big machine. He arched an eyebrow at her uncle. “Think she’s gonna come outta there?”
Crouched under the press, Claire listened to the exchange in mortification. He couldn’t be here. Not HERE. Not NOW!! He couldn’t see her looking like… like… a ragamuffin! Not normally concerned with her overall appearance, she found her thoughts unusually fixated on it lately – she wanted to look her best. She wanted to look her best for Buck. And now… Hastily she tried to push her hair back in place, unknowingly leaving behind more thin streaks of ink from her hands as she worked. She pulled at her long braid, ensuring that it was still tied securely. With a sigh, she took in her ink-stained skirt and blouse and realized there was nothing she could do about those. Oh, it was no good. He couldn’t see her like this!
Buck looked enquiringly at Matthew. No response from under the printing press. He leaned over the counter again. “Umm… Claire?” he called out.
Claire turned red as Buck left off chatting with her uncle and addressed her directly. Surely he must know that she couldn’t face him right now? “Yes?” she answered quietly, trying her best to sound nonchalant.
Buck turned a perplexed grin to Matthew. Yes? Who did she think he was here for? “Uh… Are you going to come out and talk to me?”
Claire nearly groaned aloud. He wasn’t going away. No two ways about it, he wasn’t going away. Resigned to facing him, she hesitantly answered, “Al… all right. But… NO comments!”
“All right,” Buck agreed readily if uncertainly, looking at Matthew for a hint about Claire’s odd behaviour. Matthew wisely cleared his throat and, with an excuse about fixing more tea, left the room as quickly as he could, hoping that his laughter wouldn’t be audible from the kitchen.
Pulling herself from beneath the old press, Claire reluctantly stood and faced the rider, eyes downcast. Buck’s eyes may have widened slightly and his smile may have gotten a little broader, but he sensibly kept all remarks about Claire’s appearance to himself. He wasn’t sure if he was glad that she’d warned him or not. He liked to think he’d have had the presence of mind not to comment, but with the state of her… well, sometimes his mouth worked faster than his brain.
Buck ducked his head, trying to see into her eyes. “Claire?”
“Hi,” she said shyly, her voice barely audible. “I didn’t think you were getting back home till tonight.” She continued to study the floorboards intently.
“I made good time from Fort Laramie,” Buck explained. He saw no need to mention that he hadn’t slept for 2 days, or that his last four meals had been hardtack, eaten quickly while riding or changing horses at the way stations. Every minute spent away from Sweetwater and Claire had been a minute too long. Even Warrior, the first and last horse ridden on every run, had seemed to sense his owner’s urgency and had appeared to fly across the last twenty miles. Buck had set a new record in Russell, Majors and Waddell history with his time for this Sweetwater – Dempster’s Creek – Sweetwater run, though he wasn’t aware of it. He’d asked Ike to take care of his horse – only the latest in a list of favours that he needed to repay his best friend – and had taken time only to shower at the house before heading straight to town, and Claire.
“I didn’t…” Claire brushed at her cheek absently, leaving a pale blue smear behind. “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” she said quietly.
With a start, Buck realized that she was truly upset, possibly even near tears. Long as he lived, he would never understand women.
He leaned forward and cupped her chin in his hand, forcing her eyes to meet his. “Why?” he asked warmly. “I’ve never seen you look more beautiful.” Playfully, he swiped his forefinger across her nose and wiggled the now-ink-stained digit in front of her.
Claire’s hands flew up to her cheeks in embarrassment. “Oh lord,” she muttered from behind her hands. It was worse than she thought. It was SO much worse than she thought.
Buck couldn’t help but chuckle as he carefully removed her hands, freeing her face from its hiding place. He ran a hand slowly along her cheek. “I mean it,” he whispered, leaning forward again to capture her lips in a soft kiss.
Like their first kiss – like all their kisses – Claire felt the now-familiar tingling sensation as his lips brushed gently against her own. Closing her eyes, she lost herself in the moment, all thoughts of printing presses and ink gone from her mind. When Buck finally pulled away – too soon! Her body protested – she merely smiled happily and said, “I’m glad you came home early.”
“Me too.” Buck pressed another quick kiss to her lips before resting his elbows against the counter and pulling her down to join him. “I did stop by for a reason though,” he continued.
“Seeing me looking like this isn’t reason enough?” Claire laughed, her unease and embarrassment forgotten in the aftermath of his kiss. A kiss that more than reaffirmed his depth of feeling for her. Ink blotches or not.
“I’ll certainly never forget it!” Buck joined in the laughter, happy to see her eyes sparkling again. Eyes that he’d spent the last two weeks dreaming about. “But I also wanted to know if you’d like another riding lesson tomorrow afternoon.”
“Another?” Claire protested with a grin. “I still don’t think I’ve had a first one yet!”
Once the dust over the Kathleen Affair – as she had begun to mentally call their potential breakup of several weeks before – had settled, Buck had offered to teach her to ride. Full of eagerness and anticipation, she had purchased a riding skirt and shown up at the ranch at the proper time, excited at the thought of actually riding one of the gorgeous and spirited way station horses. She could already picture herself atop Lightning or Destiny, hair streaming back as she galloped across the plains, Buck astride Warrior at her side.
The reality was a lot different than the daydream, she’d quickly discovered. Warrior remained tethered in his stall as Buck led a small grey mare to the corral. When she had wondered aloud at never having seen this particular express pony before, Buck had explained that ‘Sunflower’ was only used to pull the buckboard! Her first riding lesson, therefore, had consisted of being led around the corral at a walk. Claire – and Sunflower too, she reckoned – had been profoundly unimpressed.
“I told you—“
“I know, I know,” Claire interrupted. “’That’s the way you learn to ride. Get the feel of the horse. Match your body movements to hers’.” She repeated his words, recited ad nauseum that day, back to him with a laugh. “I didn’t even get to put my feet in the stirrups!”
“Well, you’ll get to this time,” he grinned.
Claire’s eyes lit up. “It’ll be a real lesson?” she asked eagerly. “Away from the corral?”
“Yup. Figured we could ride the trail by the old Scotsman’s place. Land’s real gentle there. You did real well at your first lesson; you should be able to handle it. Tomorrow at noon, by the creek?”
“On a real horse?” she inquired skeptically.
Buck arched an eyebrow. “What do you think Sunflower is, a mule?” When she didn’t respond, he laughed. “Yes, on a ‘real’ horse. Happy?”
“Happy,” Claire confirmed with a grin. “Tomorrow at noon.”
Still holding her hands, Buck tensed unknowingly as he prepared to ask the next question. The question he almost didn’t want an answer to. Still, if Claire had bad news, surely he would have been able to tell? She wore her emotions on her sleeve… it was one of the many things he loved about her.
Taking a deep breath, he asked, “Did you talk to your father yet?”
Even though Claire was determined that she would date whomever she pleased, Buck was equally determined that her father should be aware of just whom was courting his daughter, even if Daniel McKinstry’s racial prejudice would make things harder on the young couple instead of easier. The heated debate between them on this very subject had resulted in a compromise: rather than Buck making his intentions known, Claire would first broach the subject with her father.
Claire’s eyes flicked away briefly, then returned to meet his. “He’s still in St. Joe,” she answered. “Mother thinks he’s looking for a homestead.”
Buck let that information sink in for a moment. A homestead. In St. Joe. Miles away from Sweetwater. Claire, miles away from Sweetwater. His head hurt. “And what do you think?”
Her father had taken the last of their savings 10 days ago and lit out for another town. A town with plenty of saloons and gamblers, loose women and con-men eager to convince another patsy that they have a ‘sure thing’. She shook her head.
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied, gazing deeply into his eyes. “I’ve talked to Uncle Matthew. I’m staying right here.”
“Here?” Buck gulped, unable to believe his good fortune.
“Here,” Claire repeated. “If my father gets a place up in St. Joe, OR if he has a… bad reaction to the news that we’re seeing each other. Uncle Matthew says I’m welcome to live with him.” She reached up to tug impishly at his hair. “So… you’re not going to be able to get rid of me!”
“Never,” he answered softly, leaning forward to brush his lips against hers once again. The thought of returning to her gentle embrace had been foremost in his mind as he spurred his horse across the prairies, eager to taste those lips again. His hand rose to her hair, caressing the softness of her long braid.
“Ahem!!”
Claire and Buck pulled away from each other abruptly, both inwardly cursing the lack of forewarning that The Sentinel had another visitor. Claire glanced up at the door. Yes, the little bell was still there – it was even still gently rocking. She supposed they’d just been too engrossed to hear it. The knowledge caused her flush to deepen even as she turned to the new arrival.
Abigail stood just inside the doorway, hands crossed across her chest and foot tapping impatiently. “You’re late,” Abigail announced imperiously. “Mother’s had dinner waiting for an hour. And LOOK at the state of you! What have you been doing? As if that’s not OBVIOUS.”
“We… I mean, I… I’ve…” Claire stammered. She stammered in front of Abigail! While part of her was still trying to explain her actions, the bigger part was merely stunned that she was actually cowed by her sister. There’s a first time for everything, she thought ruefully.
“I’ve got to be going anyway,” Buck put in quickly, eyes darting between the two sisters, so different in both appearance and outlook. “Gotta get some sleep. See you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” Claire promised, throwing him a grateful look. With a nod to Abigail, Buck made his exit. The door was barely shut behind him before Abigail began.
“WHAT do you think you’re DOING?” she shouted. “Does father know about this?”
“Father’s in St. Joe—“ Claire began.
“I KNOW where father is!” Abigail interrupted. “And father is going to KILL you when he finds out about this. Or kill that half-breed, more like!”
Claire turned spiteful eyes on her sister. “Don’t call him that!”
“Why not?” Abigail replied haughtily. “That’s what he IS. Oh Claire, what are you THINKING? He’s an Indian!”
“He’s a man,” Claire retorted softly. “The best man I’ve ever known.”
“He’s a heathen,” Abigail corrected as she crossed the distance between them. “He probably kills chickens by the light of the moon and sacrifices them to his spirits!”
“He does no such thing!”
“Oh,” she sniffed. “Does he believe in God then? Does he go to church? Does he follow the Ten Commandments?” She waited a moment until she was certain that Claire wasn’t going to answer. “I didn’t think so.”
“YOU don’t go to church,” Claire finally responded, ashamed at the sliver of doubt that had wormed its way into her mind courtesy of her sister.
“We’re not talking about me.” Abigail took her sister’s hands, determined to make her see the light. Somebody had to pound some sense into her brain. And isn’t that what big sisters were for? “Oh Claire, don’t you see? You need someone who can take care of you. Somebody who has enough money and influence to give you a good life. Not some worthless half-breed like Buck Cross, who’ll never amount to anything!” She tightened her grasp on her younger sister, preventing her from pulling away. “Listen to me! You need someone like Marcus Sewell. He’s –“
Violently, Claire pushed away from Abigail. “I don’t want to HEAR about Marcus Sewell!” she raged. “Don’t TALK to me about Marcus Sewell!”
“Marcus is a good man,” Abigail continued relentlessly. “Maybe not the most intellectual, but he’s got money and power; his family has—“
“No,” Claire turned back to her sister, grabbing her by the shoulders, eyes blazing. “Now YOU listen to ME. I don’t want to hear about Marcus Sewell. I don’t want to hear about money or power or influence. I don’t want to hear about farms or family business or anything else. I don’t WANT Marcus Sewell. I already know who I want.”
“Father’s going to kill you,” Abigail repeated ominously.
“That’s MY concern,” Claire responded harshly. “I’ll deal with father when he gets back.”
She turned away from her sister, suddenly weary of the entire argument. And this was just a prelude to what she could expect from their father. Abigail was nothing if not her father’s daughter. Claire was more grateful for Matthew’s offer of shelter each moment. She didn’t know if she could handle a continual onslaught from both Daniel AND Abigail. Lord knows her mother would be no help, accustomed as she was to bowing to Daniel’s will on every subject.
She tried to hold her shoulders high as she walked slowly to the back room to change. Her father wasn’t home, she considered, so that confrontation would be delayed at least another day. And tomorrow she was going riding with the man she loved. Almost to her surprise, she found a smile playing across her features. After all, what was there NOT to be happy about?
