Come Green Grass

By Maxine Isackson

It is 1894 when orphaned Leah Clayborn journeys from a sedate Ohio college town to the rough, chaotic ranch country in the Sandhills of Nebraska. She is to make her home with an unknown uncle who is not holding forth welcoming arms. Nevertheless, a determined Leah plunges into ranch life, set on earning the respect of her uncle and those who people the ranch. She discovers enemies as well as a following of staunch friends. An unknown killer threatens, as do drought, prairie fires, and rustlers. Can a city girl hold her own in such an environment to build a life in the sandhills? The readers will learn the answer as they follow Leah through not only come green grass but the two books that follow, Prairie Wind and Shifting Sand.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maxine Isackson
• Release date: Feb 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466136045

Maxine Isackson

Maxine Isackson is a retired farm/ranch/wife/grandmother who lives with her husband in Nebraska. Always enthrolled by the stories passed down by those who settled the Sandhills of Nebraska and created their own unique way of life, she has turned their histories into exciting and vivid fiction.

Book preview

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