Miss Murray on the Cattle Trail(41)

“Oh,” she cried. “Oh.” Her heart was cracking in two.

“Golly, Miss Murray, don’t cry! It’s a really nice picture.”

“Y-yes, it is,” she sniffed. “It makes me very...h-happy.”

That afternoon she left the Chicago Times office early and walked slowly back to the boardinghouse, her mood unusually pensive. She had to admit she loved her career as a newspaper reporter. She had worked diligently for years to get where she was; it was hard work, but learning the many complicated aspects of newspaper publishing was exciting. She knew she was good at what she did. “Exceptional,” Nigel often said.

She was an accomplished journalist, and she felt valued. Working at the Times was fulfilling, and yet...

And yet, at times another part of her felt a tug of something she was missing. Sometimes she wondered if some part of her was being bypassed. She called it her “pink apron” feeling. A part of her, deep down, felt an odd, nagging hunger.

But, as Nigel assured her, she had the world on a string. She had everything she needed for a fulfilling life.

Didn’t she?

* * *

On Friday Alex again left the office early and dragged herself up the steps to the porch of Mrs. Beekin’s Walnut Avenue boardinghouse. When she walked in, her landlady looked up from the sewing machine she’d set up on the dining table.

“Why, you’re home early, Miss Murray. Got another one of your headaches?”

Alex shook her head. “No, Mrs. Beekin, I’m fine. Just...tired, I guess. I’m feeling a bit blue now that winter is here with all this snow.”

“How about I make you a nice cup of tea?”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Beekin.”

“And a slice of my apple cake. You’re lookin’ a bit peaky lately, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so. And mighty thin.”

Alex nodded. She did, in fact, feel peaky. She felt completely flat inside. And that is really puzzling, considering my success at the newspaper.

The boardinghouse owner set a cup of tea at her elbow, followed by a delicate china plate on which rested a thick slice of apple cake. “Now, you just eat some of this, dearie. Put some meat on your bones.”

Alex reached for the fork, stared at it a moment and then set it down. “Forgive me, Mrs. Beekin. I guess I’m not very hungry.”

The plump woman sank onto the chair next to her. “Didn’t eat much of your breakfast, either. Fact is, ever since you got back from that trip you took out to Oregon, you haven’t eaten enough to keep a sparrow alive.”

Alex hadn’t the energy to protest. She admitted she’d paid little attention to her eating habits since the cattle drive; she’d been too busy writing up her experiences to stop for lunch during the day, and she even refused young Tommy’s offers to bring her a sandwich from the restaurant next to the Times building.

Instead, she spent the long hours at her desk. She did miss Roberto’s chili and corn bread and his apple pies, she admitted. No doubt it was all that fresh air that piqued one’s appetite.

Mrs. Beekin reached out and smoothed her veined hand over Alex’s. “Are things with your Mr. Greene at the newspaper office not going well?”

“Oh, no. Nigel is wonderfully supportive. He’s even encouraging me to write longer articles. He says our circulation is increasing and his banker is very pleased.”

Her landlady smiled. “I read your newspaper every single morning, you know. I think those articles you write are mighty fine, Miss Murray. Maybe you’re working too hard?”

Alex sipped her tea and considered that. “Oh, I don’t think so, Mrs. Beekin. The time I spend at my desk just flies by, and I do enjoy it.”

Mrs. Beekin nodded, but she didn’t say anything.

“True, I am putting in long hours,” Alex added, “but I truly love what I’m doing. I love the extra hours I spend proofreading all the typeset galleys and writing and rewriting my stories. I’m striving to be a really good reporter.”

The boardinghouse owner gave her a long, thoughtful look. “I see. Well, you’re certainly building a fine reputation.”

“Yes,” Alex agreed. But her voice seemed to lack enthusiasm, and she did wonder at that.





Chapter Twenty-Nine

Sunday afternoon rolled around again, and as usual, Zach and Juan rode over to the Rocking K for dinner. Alice looked particularly pleased to see him, and for some reason Charlie wasn’t as short-spoken as usual. Even Curly seemed in good spirits. Guess the cocky cowhand had swallowed his upset when Zach had hired Juan instead of Curly as his top hand. Hiring Juan had made Consuelo so proud she had baked her special cherry pie for Zach every single Sunday since he’d returned from the drive and started his ranch.

Today the hands were gathered around Alice’s dining table, exclaiming as usual over Dusty’s latest Chicago Times article. The newspaper was delivered to the Rocking K regular as clockwork, and Zach knew the hands clipped every one of her columns and pinned them up on the bunkhouse wall.

“Lissen to this, Zach,” Jase exclaimed, punching his forefinger at the typeset page. “‘The cowboys of the Rocking K are gentlemen of the highest order.’”

“Whooee,” Curly exploded. “Ya hear that? The ‘highest order.’”

“Well, of course,” Alice said with a smile. “Everyone knows that.”

Consuelo entered with a huge platter of roast beef, then dashed back to the kitchen for a bowl of steaming baked potatoes. On her return, Curly reached for one and she rapped the serving spoon against his knuckles.

“You behave!” the cook snapped. “First give thanks to God, then eat.”

The men dutifully bowed their heads, and Charlie intoned an unusually long-winded blessing, ending with “And God bless even Zach and his damned Z-Bar-S steers.”

Zach laughed. “How come they’re my ‘damned’ steers, Charlie? I paid good money for every last one of them.”

Charlie focused watery blue eyes on him. “How come? I’ll tell you how come, Zach,” the ranch owner growled. “’Cuz come next spring you’re gonna drive yer own steers to Winnemucca and undercut my price.”

“Not if you get there first,” Zach replied. “Besides, I’ll only have about three hundred head.” He nodded for Consuelo to fill his coffee cup.

Skip suddenly slapped the newspaper he’d been reading onto the table. “Hell, she can’t do that!”

Charlie sent him a sharp look. “Who can’t do what?”

“Miss Alex. Says here she’s takin’ something called a leave of absence. Her column won’t be printed for the next four weeks. What’re we gonna do with nuthin’ to read for four whole weeks?”

Consuelo sniffed. “You read the Bible, maybe. Many good stories and much wisdom.”

“Not as good as Miss Alex’s columns,” Skip said with a groan. He shoved his cup toward the coffeepot the cook lifted toward him.

“They can’t do that,” Curly blurted out. “I’m gonna write a letter to that newspaper.”

Skip snorted. “Didn’t know you could string that many words together, Curly.”

Zach set his coffee down without tasting it. Leave of absence? After all that interviewing and note-taking Dusty did on the drive? Why would she stop writing her columns? Was she tired? Sick?

Across the dining table he met Roberto’s puzzled brown eyes. The older man lifted his shoulders in an I-don’t-know shrug.

“Jupiter, we been readin’ her columns every week,” Curly complained. “She can’t just stop writin’ them. She hasn’t gotten to the part where we captured them cattle rustlers yet.”

Jase ran his hand over his just-shaved chin. “And remember that night we danced the Virginia Reel at the Double Diamond camp?”

“Or when we taught Señorita Alex to play poker,” Juan reminded them.

Alice started. “Poker! Surely not.”

“Ay, señora, she did play poker. We teach her, and Miss Alex, she won three hundred dollars!”

“How about her drinkin’ that whiskey?” Curly added.

Alice’s fork clattered onto her plate. “Whiskey!”

“Just a leetle glass of whiskey,” José explained. “She no like it very much.”

“Well!” Alice huffed. “That is a mercy I’m sure. I am shocked. Shocked! Zach, how could you let my niece be corrupted in this manner?”

Zach bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. He’d done much more than play cards and drink whiskey with Dusty. Much more. His gut tightened into a knot.

“And the stampede we have one night,” Roberto added. “Señorita Alex, she did not cry or nothing. She very brave lady.”

“And what about all those suppers of corn bread and beans and rolling out of our bedrolls in the dark for breakfast?” Jase shot. “She hasn’t written about any of that yet.”

Skip grinned at the hands clustered around the dining table. “And remember when Zach and me tossed Cassidy out of the Rocky Rooster saloon, right on his—”

“Señor Skip,” Consuelo warned.

“...uh, his fancy trousers.”

The men continued to trade reminiscences back and forth, but Zach tuned them out. Those things weren’t what he remembered most. What he remembered was watching Dusty bravely volunteer to ride drag and choking on all that dust. Scribbling in her notebook half the night. And lying next to her under the chuck wagon, listening to her soft breathing. Sure as shootin’ he’d better not mention any of that to Alice!