This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [50]
She studied his confident expression, then looked around her at the sunlit, hard-packed earth, the soft shadows along the walls, the coolness of the place after the heat of the ride from the “little place”. The house was stately with-its verandas, shaded by the oaks that spread their branches some fifty feet in each direction.
Summer nodded her head, too happy to speak.
His hand came out to enclose hers, a smile of pleasure on his face.
“Come. You got to see it all.”
The house stood at one corner of a rectangle of ranch buildings. South and west, no more than forty yards from the house, was the chuckhouse. Built adobe-style, the walls were thick, the windows and doors wide to allow the air to circulate. Beyond it was the long, low, stone bunkhouse, and beyond that an equally long building divided into rooms. These were respectively the saddle and harness rooms, tool house, storerooms and blacksmith shop. Behind this building was a barn filled with hay and three corrals.
In the space between the long building and the next group of buildings was the most beautiful garden Summer had ever seen. There were two acres or more of carefully-tended plants of every kind. Several rows of fruit trees bordered the back and one side. A small stream of water flowed in deep irrigation furrows beside the rows.
Watching the expressions flit across her face, Slater couldn’t help laughing.
“We have a heap of people to feed here. Now you can see why I told you not to bother with a garden.”
“But. . . .” Her violet eyes narrowed as she frowned, wrinkling her nose. “Why was the plot plowed and ready for planting?”
“Ol’ Raccoon is the gardener. He’s the man in charge and no one puts a foot in his garden till he says they can. He wanted to try a crop of peanuts and that’s good sandy soil over there.” He laughed at the troubled look that came over her face, and put an arm across her shoulders as they walked on. “It’s all right, sweetheart. He’s so glad you’re here, he just chuckled when I told him he had lost his peanut land.”
At the far end and to one side of the garden was a brush arbor, and beneath it roughly-made tables on which to spread and sort the foodstuff and prepare it for storage. Near this was a root cellar, the plank door folded back.
“Does Raccoon do all this work by himself?”
“No. We have four Mexican families living here. Some of the men are drovers, but some are too old or too young and they and the women help Raccoon. They share the work and share the bounty. But Raccoon is the boss, make no mistake about that.” He laughed, then turned serious. “Some people can’t seem to forget the Alamo, but there’s a heap of good Mexican people in Texas. They love their children, keep their places neat and clean, are loyal to you if you treat them decent. Look at the flowers around the adobes.”
Summer looked toward the group of houses. Flowers grew in profusion along a rail fence, and clay pots filled with an assortment of bright blooms lined the small verandas. Children were running and playing in the yards and clean clothes lay drying on the bushes. McLean’s Keep was like a small town. As if reading her mind, Slater explained:
“Pa came here when there was nothing but hills and plains, outlaws and Indians, and he planned very carefully. To this new country-, he brought some of the best of the world he left behind. His life went into making the Keep a self-supporting ranch. We must keep it that way, do all we can to preserve it for the next generation of McLeans,.”
They walked slowly back up the dusty track toward the house. Summer’s hand was engulfed possessively in Slater’s. The drovers tipped their hats and spoke politely, then grinned and winked at each other when they had passed. Bulldog sat on the veranda in a chair made from a large tree stump and worn smooth by years of use. He was whittling on a stick with a long, slim blade. He eyed them as they approached, his mouth puckered and twisted to the side.
“Wal,” he said, rubbing his foot over the shavings