California Romance Read online

  “You will love life on the River Queen,” he assured her over and over. “Can’t you just imagine gliding down the river and watching glorious sunrises and sunsets?”

  Sarah nodded. She could imagine it all right—with horror, not anticipation.

  Tice never let her forget him for more than a short time. He wrote flowery letters when he couldn’t come in person. He brought her nosegays, not wildflowers but expensive bouquets from the best flower sellers in St. Louis. He arranged for the best dressmaker in St. Louis to fashion Sarah’s wedding gown. Raging inside, she passively stood while the woman measured, cut, and draped. She must not arouse suspicion, even though she would rather wear faded calico all her life than spend one minute in the expensive gown Tice had selected.

  He also bought her costly little trinkets. Sarah shrank from accepting anything from her would-be husband but privately gritted her teeth and stashed them away for her journey. Anything small enough to carry that she could sell would help. Between visits, Sarah continued her hard, monotonous tending of the house and trying to manage the children. In spare moments she started gathering the supplies she would need for her trip to California.

  Sarah occasionally felt overwhelmed at the enormity of what she was attempting.

  Nineteen hundred miles lay between St. Louis and the Diamond S Ranch near Madera, California. Nineteen hundred mind-staggering miles filled with unknown dangers. At those times Sarah took comfort in rereading Seth’s letters, which soon became ragged. Countless times she looked at the photograph he’d sent and imagined life in the West. Against her better judgment her imagining always included the dark-haired stranger with Seth. Her brother surely couldn’t be wrong about Matthew Sterling’s character. If only Tice were the man the young rancher appeared to be!

  She laughed bitterly. Despite his suave sophistication, Tice Edwards was no better than Gus Stoddard. Marrying him would be like the old saying, “Leaping out of the frying pan into the fire.”

  “Never,” Sarah vowed again and again, thanking God for her mother’s far-reaching wisdom and attention to her daughter’s need to escape when she was gone.

  During one of the times of fanciful musing and the inevitable comparison between Matt Sterling and Tice Edwards, the children swarmed up the stairs, screaming for Sarah’s attention. A few of Seth’s letters and the photograph scattered to the floor. Sarah hastily gathered them up and shoved them into her reticule.

  Sarah’s precarious tightrope walk between appearing submissive and secretly plotting her escape ended long before she felt ready to steal away.

  Her plans shattered one morning when Gus shuffled into the kitchen. His wide grin and triumphant expression set Sarah’s nerves jangling. Tice was right behind Gus, wearing a look of satisfaction that chilled Sarah to the marrow.

  “By tomorrow night you won’t be doin’ this, missy,” Gus announced with a smirk. “Tice here says he’s waited long enough and done enough courting. You’ll be married tomorrow afternoon. Right, Tice?”

  “Yes.” Twin devils danced in the gambler’s wicked black eyes. “I’ve been pining away for you long enough, Sarah.”

  She dropped a frying pan. It splashed soapy water on her apron and the floor, giving her time to hold her tongue instead of screaming and rushing out the open door. She started cleaning up the mess, desperately searching for words. Psalm 50:15 came to sustain her, as other familiar verses had done in the past few weeks: “Call upon me in the day of trouble: I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me.”

  “Tomorrow? I hardly think that is possible,” she began.

  “It’s your own fault,” Gus growled. “Tice says you won’t even let him kiss you until you’re married.”

  It took every ounce of self-control to keep from shuddering. Kiss Tice Edwards? She’d sooner kiss a copperhead!

  The two men took her silence for consent and strode out, slapping each other on the back and jesting in a crude way.

  But Sarah bit her lip until it bled. Ready or not, she must slip away that night.

  Chapter 9

  From the time he was old enough to straddle a pony, Matthew Sterling’s favorite season on the Diamond S had always been spring. For a short time a green carpet covered the brown and barren hills. The mud and rain took a break. New calves and foals and baby chicks appeared almost overnight. How Matt loved to see the colts and fillies kick up their heels in the pasture then flee to their mamas when startled.

  Spring also had sounds of its own: the peeping of baby chicks, music to a child’s ears. The clang of the triangle outside the cookshack and the stentorian command “Come and git it before I throw it out” that roused grumbling hands from their beds earlier than they had grown accustomed to rise during the slower winter months.

  Whenever young Matt could escape his parents’watchful eyes, he delighted in sneaking out in his nightshirt to eat breakfast with the cowboys. He later laughed at the childhood glee he had felt at outwitting his parents. He hadn’t found out until he was ten years old that he hadn’t put anything over on them. William and Rebecca Sterling had recognized their son’s need for independence even at that early age. Besides, no harm would come to Matt in either the cookshack or the bunkhouse. The hands adored the plucky little boy who manfully tried to ride everything that moved, including uncooperative cows, squealing pigs, and even a turkey whose tail came off in Matt’s futile grab to keep from sliding off. If a laughing, hip-slapping cowboy hadn’t rescued the youngster, Matt would have been in danger of being seriously pecked by the irate, partially denuded fowl. With Matt’s penchant for mischief, it wasn’t the last time a ranch hand came to his rescue.

  The Sterlings’ carefree life ended with the death of Matt’s mother when he was only fifteen. Yet God had not forgotten the family, which had grown to include Robert and Dolores. In the midst of their sorrow, God sent Solita, whose name meant little sun. The round-faced Mexican housekeeper and cook more than lived up to her name. She not only brought sunlight back into the grieving family’s dark world, but she also became a substitute mother. She spoiled the children rotten, especially “Matelito.” But when Matt took his position as head of the family after his father’s death, he became Senor Mateo to Solita, and she became his confidante and guiding light. Matt loved her dearly and was never too proud to seek and heed her advice.

  The second spring after Seth Anderson came to the Diamond S meant that Matt, Seth, and the rest of the hands spent every waking moment outdoors as the ranch swung into full operation. This particular year, the amount of work was heavier than ever. A deep frown creased foreman Brett Owen’s leathery face when he approached Matt and Seth, who were leaning on the corral fence, watching a frisky colt.

  “This spring is fixin’ to be the driest in years,” Brett predicted. “How about drivin’ the herd up to the high country early this year?”

  “Good idea,” Matt agreed. “The grazing down here is already getting mighty poor.”

  “Yippee-ki-ay. Up to the high country!” Seth leaped into the air, clicked his heels together, then reddened and looked sheepish. “Sorry, Boss. Sometimes I forget I’m not still a kid.”

  Brett shook his finger at Seth. “You ain’t so all-fired old,” he admonished. “And you’ll live to be a lot older if you don’t tangle with rustlers or all the other confounded trouble a feller meets while herdin’ ornery cows.” He turned on his heel and stomped off, but a loud haw haw floated back to the corral.

  “He’s right,” Matt said quietly. “A man mean enough to steal another man’s stock is either a coward or crazy. Either can be dangerous in the right circumstances.” He lightly punched Seth’s shoulder. “Let’s go tell Solita we’re going on a roundup.” He grinned, knowing it was all Seth could do to restrain himself from yippee-ki-yaying again. For the hundredth—no, the thousandth—time, Matt thanked God for sending the young man so like Robbie to fill the empty spot in his life. Seth was totally absorbed in what he considered the best profession on earth: ranching. He was
also loyal and true, a boy after Matt’s own heart.

  Seth had only one fault: the desire to draw Matt into the social doings of Madera. Although Matt enjoyed socializing with the townsfolk, he drew the line at getting involved with the fairer sex. He steadfastly declined Seth’s invitations to any entertainment that would force him into their presence and compromise his stance.

  “Why?” Seth wanted to know.

  One day, Matt, in a fit of exasperation, blurted out, “When I was about your age, I met a girl I thought was an angel straight from heaven. She wasn’t.”

  “Oh?” Seth cocked an eyebrow, obviously waiting for Matt to continue.

  He didn’t. Instead he walked off, feeling Seth’s gaze bore into his back. But those few words opened a floodgate of memories that began five years earlier, memories Matt had thought were banished forever….

  Lydia Hensley was the daughter of the supervisor for the California Lumber Company from Chicago, sent out west to prepare for laying out the new town of Madera and the sale of the lots. Lydia was lonely, so far from home, so Matt received permission from her father to escort her to social engagements in Fresno—twenty-two miles south.

  Lydia hit the San Joaquin Valley like a tornado. She created havoc among the young men and heartburn among the girls. Matt fell head over heels for the young miss the first time he saw her—a vision in a soft pink gown, white skin shaded by a ruffled pink parasol. She was the prettiest and brightest girl Matt had ever met. Time after time he wondered why he had been so fortunate to be chosen as her escort from the dozens of swains who flocked to her doorstep. Lydia’s green eyes flashed with mischief or softened into languishing glances, depending on her mood. Not a single ash-blond hair ever seemed to be out of place.

  The smitten Matt escorted Lydia to parties and dances all spring and summer. He sat by her in church. He took her on picnics, little realizing he’d been chosen to be the favored one not only for his good looks but because he owned the Diamond S and was considered a catch.

  Lydia led Matt on, driving him to distraction. He lost interest in the ranch, left its running in Brett Owens’s capable hands, and spent most of the season calling on Miss Lydia. He dreamed of making her queen of the Diamond S.

  Love’s young dream ended six months later when the surveying ended. Hensley and his daughter packed up to head back to civilization. Lydia’s parting with Matt was a disaster. He managed to extricate her from the young people who had gathered for a farewell party and led her to a secluded alcove.

  Heart beating double-time, Matt went straight to the point. “I can’t let you go, Lydia. Will you marry me?” He held out a diamond ring the size and brilliance of which was unknown in the valley.

  Lydia stared at the beautiful ring as if unwilling to let such a treasure slip through her white fingers. She stroked his lean face with a well-manicured hand and looked deep into his eyes, the sign of affection she often employed. An incredulous smile crossed her face. “Matthew Sterling, you don’t really expect me to stay out here? I belong in Chicago where it is civilized. I do appreciate your asking me though.” She glanced down then back up with the appealing look that brought suitors to their knees and subject to her will. “If you want me to take the ring to remember my Westerner, I’ll be happy to do so.”

  Disillusionment swept through Matt like the San Joaquin River in flood. “Your Westerner, Lydia? Have you only been amusing yourself to pass the time?”

  She had the grace to redden but tossed her head. “It was fun while it lasted. You’ll have to admit that.” She gave him the smile that had formerly bewitched him and now left him as cold and hard as the diamond in the ring he had so carefully selected. “About the ring—”

  Scales fell from Matt’s love-blinded eyes. He saw Lydia for what she was: a selfish, greedy girl out for all she could get. Brokenhearted he raised his head in a gesture that would have impressed anyone with the sensitivities of a turnip. Then he slipped the ring into his pocket and said, “You will have no keepsake to remember me by, Lydia.” He marched out, head still high, like a one-man army with flags waving. And he vowed the San Joaquin River would run dry before he ever again trusted any girl or woman except Solita.

  Matt had faithfully kept that vow until the wrinkled and much-handled picture of Sarah Anderson, taken just before her brother left home, kindled a spark of interest and admiration. Such an honest and steady gaze in the young girl’s face. The delicate way her hands were clasped. Her eyes radiating love for her Seth and her mother. And all that beautiful hair, long and rippling to her waist.

  The second picture threatened to undo the weeks, months, and years Matt had spent locking up his heart and throwing away the key. It didn’t help when Seth asked Matt to take the picture as a favor.

  “Maybe you could look at it occasionally and say a prayer for her and my mother. I worry about her constantly.”

  “I will, but I don’t need the picture,” Matt protested. Yet when Seth insisted, Matt’s hands turned sweaty, and his heart beat unnaturally fast. He slipped the picture into the pocket inside his vest “as a favor to Seth,” he reminded himself, and was never without it.

  The image of Sarah’s honest face rode sidesaddle with Matt across the California range even when he wasn’t looking at it. In spite of his unwillingness to admit the rusty hinges of his heart were creaking open, the image of Sarah’s sweet face was like oil to a long-unused lock. Over and over, Matt wondered how any man could treat an innocent girl the way Gus Stoddard treated Sarah. He found himself wishing he could intervene, “for Seth’s sake, of course,” he reminded himself.

  Just before spring roundup, the town of Madera planned a money-raising event. Seth Anderson was wild to go. Matt was sitting in the kitchen watching Solita toss tortillas when Seth raced in. “What time are we leaving?”

  Matt gave him a puzzled look. “Leaving for where?”

  “To Madera. This Saturday. There’s gonna be a baseball game and stuff for the little kids and a box social. I’ve never been to one. Gus didn’t cotton to such, so even though he took us to church, we didn’t get in on the fun. I’ve been saving my money to bring Sarah out West, but Solita can pack me a lunch. It will be fun to watch you bid on a young lady’s box.”

  “Me!” Matt’s stool tipped and threatened to spill him on the floor. “A box social is the last place I intend to go.”

  “You gotta go, Boss. It’s to raise money to repair the church roof.”

  Matt stood. “I’ll make a contribution.”

  Seth looked so disappointed that Matt relented. “Tell you what. I’ll go to the game, and I’ll give you some money to bid.”

  “It won’t be half as much fun without you.”

  Seth’s disappointed response convinced Matt. “Well, if it means that much to you, I suppose I could go and watch. But don’t expect me to bid, no matter how fancified the boxes are or how much they smell of fried chicken and chocolate cake.”

  “Is that what they put in them?” Seth licked his lips. He staggered out holding his stomach, leaving Matt wondering why he’d agreed to appear at the social.

  Solita told him, “It is good that you are going, Senor Mateo. There are many nice senoritas in Madera who will be glad.”

  “I am not going to make senoritas glad,” Matt mumbled. “Did you cook this up with Seth?”

  Solita placed her hands on her apron-covered hips. “Would I do such a thing?” she demanded, but Matt noticed she didn’t deny his charge.

  For the rest of the week, Matt felt like a trapped bobcat. On Saturday he reluctantly donned his best plaid shirt, tied on a red neckerchief, and crammed his Stetson down to his ears, feeling like he was headed to a hanging. By the time he and Seth reached Madera, the boy had lost some of his high spirits. With a pang of regret for being surly, Matt suggested they volunteer for the ball team.

  Seth immediately perked up and showed a surprising amount of skill.

  The dreaded box social finally began. Matt had never seen such an arra
y of ribbons, ruffles, and flowers as adorned the boxes, but he kicked himself for coming.

  Evan Moore, Madera’s portly postmaster, made a fine auctioneer. “Who’ll start the bidding?” he called, holding up a box and sniffing it. “Smells like fresh-baked apple pie.”

  “Two bits.”

  “Two bits?” Evan looked outraged. “Twenty-five measly cents for this lovely basket? What kind of miser bids two bits?”

  The crowd roared.

  The bidder quickly raised his hand. “Sorry, I meant to offer six bits.”

  “Not good enough. This is worth at least a couple of good ol’ American dollars. Dig deep, folks. None of us want to be dripped on next winter ’cause the church roof leaks.”

  One by one, the baskets sold. Seth bid twice but dropped out when others “dug deep.” Only a worn shoe box tied with string remained. Evan held it up. “Almost through folks. What am I bid?”

  Stone-cold, dead silence greeted his plea.

  Evan cast an imploring glance toward Matt. Despite his resolve to have no part in the social, Matt’s heart ached for the owner of the unattractive box. He opened his mouth.

  Seth beat him to it. “I bid a half eagle.” He fished a five-dollar gold piece out of his pocket and held it up. “It better be enough. It’s all I’ve got.”

  The crowd gasped. Only one or two of the fancy boxes had sold for that much.

  “Sold!” Evan shouted. “What lucky lady gets to eat supper with Seth Anderson?”

  “Me. Bertha Bascomb.” A wispy, white-haired old lady hobbled forward.

  Seth led Bertha to a nearby table. When he opened the box, a sour smell rushed out.

  Matt’s heart sank. Not only were the bread and cheese ancient, but Bertha was proudly lifting out the sorriest excuse for cake Matt had ever seen. If it hadn’t been so pathetic, it would have been hilarious. Matt quickly said, “Mrs. Bascomb, I missed out on a box. Is there enough for three?”

  “If you ain’t too big an eater,” she grudged. “I don’t want to skimp on this young man.”