So Far from Spring - Peggy Simson Curry The Pruett Series

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Most good things don’t shine up fancy on first meetin’, whether it’s a man, a woman, or a country.”

      He was quiet for a few moments and then added, “The Park’s more than a place; it’s a way of livin’, son. And you’re gonna fall in love with it or you’re gonna hate it the way a man can hate another man’s guts. Nobody I ever met has an in-between feelin’ about the Park.” Then he smiled a sudden warm smile that made his face startlingly young. “I gotta hunch about you. A big redheaded fella with eyes to match the sagebrush belongs in this country.” He swung into the saddle, looked at Kelsey for a long moment, and added, “So long, son. Come up to Big Creek Lake and see me—if Tommy don’t work the tail off you.”

      Kelsey watched him ride up the hill, sitting so carelessly in the saddle. He drew a deep breath of the fresh air. Was there ever a man lived had such a stink to him as this Jediah Walsh? And he chuckled to himself as he moved on.

      In the late afternoon Kelsey limped to the top of a low hill and stopped. There before him, maybe half a mile away, lay the ranch. Around the buildings the earth was vivid red, as though a big barrel of red paint had rolled down the ridge and broken open at the foot of it. And when he looked around he saw that all the land before him had the red color. Then he noticed the cattle; they were everywhere—on the brown meadows south of the ranch buildings, in the open land north of him, and on what appeared to be pasture there below him. He had never seen so many cattle, and there was something about them he found hard to describe. They seemed to belong to the earth; they were somehow a part of the grayish-red country with the wind blowing over it.

      He went down the hill, wincing from the pain in his heels, opened the pole gate, and closed it carefully. He started following the road that led across the pasture toward the house, filled with impatience to see Tommy. And then his steps slowed, and finally he came to a stop, for the cows were close to him, their white faces lifted curiously as they looked at him. The sunlight touched their dark reddish-brown hides; they snorted and ran and then turned to study him, all the white faces toward him. How many were in this bunch—a hundred, two hundred? For a moment they made him think of a mass of enormous white daisies. He laughed at himself; it was a notion such as a woman might have. Then an excitement stirred in him. If all these cows were his he’d be a fair toff; he’d be like a laird in the old country! And suddenly he knew he liked cattle and wanted them for his own, and it was more than the money they would represent; it was a feeling deep in him as he looked at them. For the first time since he had left Scotland he felt right inside himself. And he left the road, walked into the sagebrush, putting out a hand toward the cows, saying softly, “Here, you lassies with white faces—don’t run from me.”

      But they snorted loudly and fled, stirring up a fine red dust behind them. A distance away they turned once more. He smiled and limped on toward the ranch house, forgetting the pain in his tortured heels. There was no doubt about his future; as soon as he had any money to spare he’d buy a cow.

      CHAPTER II

      The two-story ranch house was sunk in the earth; the logs were bleached silver-gray from time and weather and chinked with the vivid red mud. A sagging fence surrounded the house, and the yard was choked with dead brown grass that hissed in the wind. Kelsey walked to the door and knocked. It swung open with a scraping sound and a man stood there, a stocky middle-aged man with a stubble of graying whiskers and mild blue eyes. He wore a dirty floursack apron tied around his middle and carried a big spoon in his hand. “Ya?” he said. “What you want, young fella? Boss ain’t hiring no men this time of year.”

      Kelsey wet his parched lips. “I’m Tommy’s cousin from the old country.”

      “Come in, come in! Hilder Larson, that’s me.” And the man thrust out a big red hand. “Pleased to meetcha. Tommy, he ain’t come in from chasin’ water yet, but he will soon. And Dalt, he ain’t in either. Sit here by the stove, young fella. You look plumb fagged.”

      Kelsey lifted the tin dipper that hung over the washstand in the corner and plunged it into the water bucket. He drank, the water trickling over his chin. Then he sat down and took off his shoes. The blisters on his heels had broken and were bleeding.

      Hilder made a clucking noise in his throat and got a basin of water. “You shove ’em in here. You get poison from them broke blisters if you ain’t careful.”

      Kelsey lowered his burning feet into the cool water. Then he sat, looking around the kitchen, while Hilder cut up potatoes for supper. The log walls were smoked almost black and had been covered here and there with old newspapers; some, hanging almost free of the wall, rattled when a gust of wind struck the house. The place smelled of stale food, manure, and sweat. A milk bucket sat near the stove, stained with dried milk and dust; a thin crust of manure rimmed the bottom. Ashes were spilling out of the stove, and the woodbox was covered with grease. The floor looked as though it had never been touched by soap and water. My God, Kelsey thought, I’ve seen better places for pigs in the old country!

      The door banged open. Kelsey looked up. A big man stood staring at him, a man with the broad Cameron nose, sharp black eyes, and thin black hair with a shine of red in it.

      “Tommy!” Kelsey said, his heart filled with sudden gladness. “Tommy Cameron!”

      The black eyes blinked. Then the thin lips spread in a smile. “It’s John’s boy, by God! Kelsey!” And he came forward and grabbed Kelsey’s shoulders with both hands, shaking him and shouting, “Lad, what brought you to this country? And how is the harbor? And were the snowdrops in bloom when you left? Did the braes have the bright green look to them yet? And how’s Old Crow that used to sit by the harbor tellin’ stories to the lads? And your handsome mother, Taraleean—how’s she?” Tommy paused for breath, suddenly laughing. “By God, I didn’t expect to see you.”

      “I’ve had my troubles,” Kelsey said. His hands began to tremble. He burst out, “Tommy, I’ve left Scotland for good. I’ll never go back! I’ve come for a job.”

      “What about your father’s shop?”

      For a moment Kelsey couldn’t speak. He struggled to control the bitterness and anger that filled him.

      “He always wanted you to carry it on,” Tommy said. “He planned things that way from the time you were old enough to walk down the village street with him.”

      Kelsey spoke then, his voice shaking. “The shop’s in strange hands. The manager for the Duncan estate—he wouldn’t let me take it over when my mother decided to give it up.”

      Kelsey bowed his head, trying to get control of himself. Tommy said nothing for a moment, then walked toward the door. “Gotta go up to the bunkhouse. Back right away.”

      There was silence in the kitchen, and while Kelsey waited for Tommy’s return his thoughts went back to the bitter scene with the laird’s manager. He lived again the bright cool day when he had walked joyously down the village street, saying to Prim Munro, “Today’s the start of big things! I’m off to see the factor, Captain Morrison, and ask for the shop in my name.”

      The factor was having a walk up the shore, and they met just outside the clipped hedge that surrounded the laird’s big house. Kelsey remembered to hold the excitement within him long enough to ask after the laird’s health.

      “He’s off to the South of France,” Captain Morrison said, pulling at his long nose, which was turning blue in the cold air, “and I’d not mind being there myself. It’s the devil’s own weather we have here in February.”

      “But good for business,” Kelsey said, “for herring are running thick in the sea and all the fishing folk spend their money in my father’s shop.”

      “The shop, eh?” The captain’s face became wary.

      “It’s what I’ve come to talk about. You know how my mother and I have run it since my father died—how I got her to cut down on the spending and finally paid off all her debts. Bless her, she was never a businesswoman. But the books are clear at last, and Taraleean is ready to give it up. I’d like

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