for the Rocking M Ranch. Merrill family owned the Rocking M back then, and the missus used to be Julia Merrill ’fore she married Mr. Thornton. Grew up right here on the ranch, she did. Back in those days all the hired hands used to eat in the kitchen with the family.”
Hy’s grin had a hazy, remembering look to it. “A dozen people, closer to twenty during roundups,” he went on. “Used to get pretty lively sometimes back then, but ... He paused. “Things are different now. Different,” he said again, Gib could tell that the difference was somehow important.
“Different?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Hy said. “Well, quieter like. Bein’ a banker and all, Mr. Thornton likes things to be sort of polite and quiet like.” He grinned. “Quiet, ’specially.”
Gib had a feeling Hy was trying to tell him something without really saying it.
“Quiet,” he repeated, nodding, and Hy grinned and nodded back.
Gib told himself he wouldn’t forget.
The kitchen in the big house was pretty amazing. Amazingly huge and warm and good-smelling. It was an enormous room with a long rectangular table running down the center and, around the walls, cupboards, sinks, worktables, and two big cooking ranges. At one end of the long table there were place settings for—five, six, seven, Gib counted—seven people. Yes, he thought, a large family.
Looking around the room, breathing in the mouthwatering smells, and then counting the seven place settings, Gib felt an unexpected rush of hope. A fleeting feeling that here it was, a scene right out of his dream. But then the people began to arrive, and they were not one big family and not at all like the people he had always imagined.
A woman came in first. A large roundish woman with a face to match who was wearing a gingham dress and apron and carrying a big pitcher. When she saw Gib she stopped, stared, and then said, “Well, glory be. So this is finally the boy from the orphanage.” Setting the pitcher down on the table, she put her hands on her hips and went on staring, nodding her large, round head.
Gib was wondering if ... and then deciding that no, this couldn’t be the Mrs. Thornton who had ridden the mare named Black Silk, when three more people came in. Two more women and then Mr. Thornton himself, still dressed in a dark suit and high-collared shirt.
The two women were very different-looking. The older one was tall and thin with a narrow, bony face, a plain, dark dress, and lots of wiry gray hair. The other was probably the most elegant woman Gib had ever seen. She was wearing a dress made of a deep blue shiny material, there was lace around her wrists and neck, and a great pile of brown hair was arranged in sleek coils on top of her small head. She looked, Gib decided, as elegant as the black mare and almost as beautiful. But the beautiful woman didn’t walk into the room like the others. Sitting in a thronelike chair, she was pushed through the door and up to the table by the woman with the thin face and sharp, quick eyes.
Gib had never seen a wheelchair before, but he’d heard about them. He was still staring when the beautiful woman turned, looked directly at him, and said, “Well, hello there, Gibson Whittaker. So here you are at last.” Just then there was the sound of running feet. The door flew open, and the girl who had visited Hy’s cabin shot into the room, skidded to a stop, and then, ignoring Gib completely, walked primly to the end of the table and sat down next to the woman in the wheelchair. And when the woman said, “Livy dear, this is Gibson Whittaker,” she only glanced at him briefly and turned away. “I know,” she said coolly. “The boy from the orphanage.”
Chapter 17
L ATE THAT NIGHT, AS he tossed restlessly on a squeaky cot in the loft of Hy’s cabin, Gib’s mind spun with a bewildering confusion of vivid mental pictures, unanswered questions, and up-and-down emotions.
The pictures came first. Most often and most shocking, a
Hy’s grin had a hazy, remembering look to it. “A dozen people, closer to twenty during roundups,” he went on. “Used to get pretty lively sometimes back then, but ... He paused. “Things are different now. Different,” he said again, Gib could tell that the difference was somehow important.
“Different?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Hy said. “Well, quieter like. Bein’ a banker and all, Mr. Thornton likes things to be sort of polite and quiet like.” He grinned. “Quiet, ’specially.”
Gib had a feeling Hy was trying to tell him something without really saying it.
“Quiet,” he repeated, nodding, and Hy grinned and nodded back.
Gib told himself he wouldn’t forget.
The kitchen in the big house was pretty amazing. Amazingly huge and warm and good-smelling. It was an enormous room with a long rectangular table running down the center and, around the walls, cupboards, sinks, worktables, and two big cooking ranges. At one end of the long table there were place settings for—five, six, seven, Gib counted—seven people. Yes, he thought, a large family.
Looking around the room, breathing in the mouthwatering smells, and then counting the seven place settings, Gib felt an unexpected rush of hope. A fleeting feeling that here it was, a scene right out of his dream. But then the people began to arrive, and they were not one big family and not at all like the people he had always imagined.
A woman came in first. A large roundish woman with a face to match who was wearing a gingham dress and apron and carrying a big pitcher. When she saw Gib she stopped, stared, and then said, “Well, glory be. So this is finally the boy from the orphanage.” Setting the pitcher down on the table, she put her hands on her hips and went on staring, nodding her large, round head.
Gib was wondering if ... and then deciding that no, this couldn’t be the Mrs. Thornton who had ridden the mare named Black Silk, when three more people came in. Two more women and then Mr. Thornton himself, still dressed in a dark suit and high-collared shirt.
The two women were very different-looking. The older one was tall and thin with a narrow, bony face, a plain, dark dress, and lots of wiry gray hair. The other was probably the most elegant woman Gib had ever seen. She was wearing a dress made of a deep blue shiny material, there was lace around her wrists and neck, and a great pile of brown hair was arranged in sleek coils on top of her small head. She looked, Gib decided, as elegant as the black mare and almost as beautiful. But the beautiful woman didn’t walk into the room like the others. Sitting in a thronelike chair, she was pushed through the door and up to the table by the woman with the thin face and sharp, quick eyes.
Gib had never seen a wheelchair before, but he’d heard about them. He was still staring when the beautiful woman turned, looked directly at him, and said, “Well, hello there, Gibson Whittaker. So here you are at last.” Just then there was the sound of running feet. The door flew open, and the girl who had visited Hy’s cabin shot into the room, skidded to a stop, and then, ignoring Gib completely, walked primly to the end of the table and sat down next to the woman in the wheelchair. And when the woman said, “Livy dear, this is Gibson Whittaker,” she only glanced at him briefly and turned away. “I know,” she said coolly. “The boy from the orphanage.”
Chapter 17
L ATE THAT NIGHT, AS he tossed restlessly on a squeaky cot in the loft of Hy’s cabin, Gib’s mind spun with a bewildering confusion of vivid mental pictures, unanswered questions, and up-and-down emotions.
The pictures came first. Most often and most shocking, a
Similar Books
