Page 10 of If the Boot Fits

“Yes, sir.” She understood just fine.

Agreeing was an entirely different matter.

5

Asher woke early the next morning to scrub the pond out of his clothes. Mama Bess wouldn’t have minded him tossing his laundry in the family pile, but his conscience insisted he clean up his own mess. Plus, he’d prefer not to answer any questions about why he took an evening swim fully clothed.

Water sluiced off his forearms as he lifted them out of the bucket of soapy water he’d propped on a tree stump. The dilapidated lean-to that housed the family cow stood behind him, blocking his activities from anyone who might peer out the kitchen window. Asher examined the front of his best white shirt and frowned. Still dirty. He gave it another swipe of soap and rubbed it against the washboard again.

He wished he hadn’t donned his best duds for the party. He thought they’d help him blend in with the rich gents who’d come to woo the cattle king’s daughter. He’d even worn his Sunday boots. The ones he saved for special occasions. He loved those boots. Won them in a rodeo contest last year for riding Old Red longer than any other hand at the Bar 7 Ranch. That bronc nearly busted Asher’s hip when he finally unseated him, but seeing those fancy boots on his feet had made the platter-sized bruise and five days of limping worth the trouble. A man walked a little taller in boots like those.

Until he lost one. Wearing half the pair didn’t exactly elevate a man’s standing. Made it rather lopsided, as a matter of fact. His confident swagger would end up resembling the strut of an inebriated rooster. Not exactly a look to draw a lady’s favor or a man’s respect. Asher plunged the shirt into the depths of the bucket with a little too much vigor. Water sloshed over the brim and onto his denims. Asher grimaced. All his good intentions were going awry lately.

“Whatcha doin’ back here?”

Asher jumped, sloshing another wave of water onto his trousers. “Gallopin’ goose feathers, Fergus! Don’t scare me like that.”

His youngest brother snickered as he rounded the lean-to, milk bucket in hand. His blond hair stood on end, and his shirttails dangled untucked. Must’ve come straight from bed. Fergus resisted rising like a cat resisted swimming. Especially on a Saturday when there was no school to motivate him. Yet even at seven in the morning, he had that ever-present pencil behind his ear. The kid might only be ten, but he knew what he’d been put on the earth to do—write stories. He could entertain himself for hours with his sketchbook and writing tablet and rarely went anywhere without them. Even the milking stall.

Fergus pointed at Asher’s trousers, his pudgy cheeks straining to contain his guffaw. “Thought you were too old to wet your pants, Ash.”

Asher released the washboard and grabbed hold of the bucket handle. “I’m not too old to wet your pants.” He pulled the bucket off the stump, grabbed the bottom, and pretended to toss the contents onto his brother.

Fergus squealed and dodged backward out of range, though his chuckles proved he trusted his big brother not to carry out the threat.

Asher grinned and set the bucket back on the stump. He shook the water off his hands and wiped them on the backside of his trousers. One of the few places dry enough to do any good.

“What’s on the menu this mornin’?”

Asher had been craving Mama Bess’s hotcakes ever since he’d returned home three days ago. Butter denting the fluffy middle as it melted, and her blackberry syrup dripping over the sides of the stack to puddle at the edges of the plate. Mmm. No ranch cook could match that sweet perfection. He’d dropped a few hints yesterday after the second morning of oatmeal, and the kiss she’d pressed into his head as he cleaned his bowl had promised good things.

Fergus shrugged. “Not sure. I didn’t see the oat bin out, so we might get hotcakes, but she’s been real stingy with the eggs ever since we moved. Sells most of them to the dry goods store. Butter too.” His slightly somber expression brightened as he met Asher’s gaze. “But now that you’re home, she’s bound to let us have jam and cookies again. It’ll be like Christmas!”

Because Christmas was the only time he came home. At least that’d been true for the last five years. He’d tried to find local work after his pa died, but stringing together odd jobs didn’t pay enough, and no one wanted to hire a wet-behind-the-ears kid at a man’s salary. He’d finally found work as a cowhand, riding drag on a trail drive. He’d eaten more dust than chow on that drive, but it gave him something he’d desperately needed—experience.

After that, he managed to hire on with different brands whenever an outfit needed an extra hand. The work was sporadic and kept him moving from ranch to ranch, until two years ago when he landed a permanent position at the Bar 7 over in Callahan County. His foreman had given him two weeks off with no pay to tend to his family and promised another one if he needed it. Anything longer, though, and he’d likely be out of a job. Which wouldn’t help Mama Bess or the boys get back on their feet. Jack had already dropped out of school to work as a stableboy at one of the liveries in town to bring in extra money. A fact Mama Bess had failed to mention in her letters, and one that stuck in Asher’s craw worse than a swallowed fish bone.

The boy should be in school, not mucking out rented stalls. He was only twelve. This wasn’t his burden to carry. It was Asher’s.

Thank God Fergus was still free to be a boy. Taking school away from the youngest of the Ellis clan would be akin to stripping him of his skin. Never had Asher known a boy more fond of books.

And sweets.

Asher grinned, grabbed his brother in a mock headlock, and ruffled his not-yet-combed hair. “Now we know the real reason you like having me home. All those jams and cookies.”

Fergus chuckled as he squirmed free. “Well, that and having extra help with the chores.” He held out the milk pail. “You know, Mrs. Merriweather mentioned just last night how much she missed seeing you. I’m sure she’d love to have you pay your respects this morning.”

Everyone else called the cow Cindy, but Fergus insisted on a more elegant title. He’d written her into his stories a couple of years ago, dubbing her Mrs. Lucinda Merriweather, matron of the barnyard. A woman of high moral standards and proper etiquette, she disapproved of all the trouble Fergus’s more mischievous characters got into under her nose. Yet having a heart as big as her udders, she’d saved the little scamps from more than one misadventure.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to pass along my regrets,” Asher said, backing away from the milk pail palms up. “Let her know I’ll stop by to work on her roof later this afternoon, though. Patch up some of those holes for her.” The rotted wood on the lean-to surely leaked like a sieve when it rained.

Fergus dipped his chin. “She’ll be glad of that. She gets a bit out of sorts when the weather doesn’t stay outside like it’s supposed to. Everything in its place, you know.”

His brother’s voice took on the prim tones of a schoolmarm, and Asher fought back a grin. Pressing his lips together, he crossed his arms over his chest and managed a solemn nod of agreement.

Fergus and his milk pail disappeared into the lean-to, and Asher got back to his laundry. Thirty minutes later, his shirt, trousers, underdrawers, and socks hung on the line in an adequate state of cleanliness, and the worst of the wetness had dried from the clothes he wore. He’d just finished putting the washboard and bucket away in the shed when Mama Bess called him to breakfast.

Feeling like the boy he’d been when Mama Bess had first married his pa and wooed her stepson with kindness and sugary treats, Asher hurried for the kitchen door, anxious to see what delights waited for him at the table. One of the hens pecking about the yard tried to waylay him with a flurry of flapping feathers, nearly flying into his belly. Asher dodged the airborne poultry and jogged up the back steps, satisfaction filling him when the step he’d replaced yesterday held his weight.