Chapter Twelve
Mirabelle stared out of the truck's window to look at the nearby forested hills, and the ranches and farms lying at their bases. She had decided to take the job. Her parents were both pleased and apprehensive: Pleased that she had taken the initiative to do something and apprehensive because she would be going away with a man who was a total stranger--anything could happen. Still, they had met Mr. Muller and could find nothing wrong with him. The ranch wasn't very far away, either. So with their blessings and farewells she had left. James had even given her a parting gift--a Stetson--he knew she loved horses, and though she hadn't ridden one since they had left their Iowa farm, he knew she'd have the opportunity to do some riding at the ranch and would need some protection for her head.
Mirabelle turned her head from the window to face Mr. Muller. She asked him, "Mr. Muller why do you need a housekeeper and a cook? What happened to your previous one?"
"Please, call me Michael," he insisted, smiling. "My previous housekeeper was my wife. She died two months ago," he said ending his sentence.
"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that," replied Mirabelle, "You have my condolences."
"Thank you," he said, then continued, "She died peacefully and lived a long, happy life; so though I miss her, I am not saddened." He stared at the horizon as he continued, "The ranch is small. There are only forty head of cattle. I used to own a much larger ranch but I retired, so I sold it and bought a smaller one."
"Why didn't you just retire in a town somewhere?" asked Mirabelle.
"I'd never be happy in a town," he answered, "I need to be outdoors and moving. I have some pasture nearby in the hills and down at the base, so I have to move around and check on how the animals are doing."
"You run your ranch by yourself?" asked Mirabelle, disbelieving.
"No. I've got three ranch hands. You'll like them. They're good, honest men," he replied.
Michael made a right turn. They had reached his ranch. As they travelled along the gravel road Mirabelle looked at the place. It was nestled close to the base of the hills. An outer perimeter of trees gave way to large tracts of grassy fields. Near the perimeter of trees, surrounding the ranchlands, was a barbed wire fence. Barbed wire fencing with gates further separated the ranchland into six lots. On the north edge, Mirabelle could see a small stream flowing across the property that originated from the hillside. On the west side a wide trail opened into the forested hill. The trail had a large wooden gate where it passed through the fence and Mirabelle presumed that it led to the hillside pastures. At the center of the property stood a large two-storied farmhouse. It was painted white and had a black roof. It was surrounded by a windbreak of trees on it's west, north and northeast sides. A well was situated north of the house halfway between it and the windbreak. She could also see a large garden south of the farmhouse. A large wooden barn with a silo stood 75 yards southwest of the house. Around the windbreak and continuing to straddle both sides of the gravel road was another barbed wire fence.
Michael drove up to the farmhouse and parked beside another truck. They got out of the cab and then Mirabelle retrieved her bags from the truck's bed.
"Where's the herd?" asked Mirabelle as she looked through the windbreak of trees and past the wire fence.
"They're up on the hillside pasture," answered Michael, "It's not far away so we bring them up and back down everyday in summer." "Come," he said to her, "let's go inside and I'll show you around."
They went in the farmhouse. On the lower floor was a small living room, a large kitchen/dining room, three bedrooms and a bathroom. In the basement was a food cellar, equipment room, and laundry room. Michael then led them upstairs.
"The three bedrooms downstairs are used by my ranch hands," he told her as they climbed the stairs.
"They don't have a separate house?" asked Mirabelle.
"No. It was just them, my wife, and me living here. There was no point in building a separate house for the ranch hands," he answered. He then showed her the upstairs rooms.
"This is the guest room," he said as he pointed it out to her, "You'll be staying in there." "This is the master bedroom," he said pointing out his room. "And this is my den," said Michael as they entered the final room.
Mirabelle gasped in astonishment. Inside the room was a large collection of paintings, vases, statues, furniture, books, and other works of art--all of them oriental in origin.
"Wow," said Mirabelle. "Where did you get all this?" she asked Michael.
"Do you like it?" asked Michael, "I've collected these many objects over my lifetime."
"From where?" asked Mirabelle.
"My cousin purchases them for me in San Francisco or when she goes abroad and sends them to me," he answered her.
"Why do you collect them?" she asked.
"One of my dreams is to travel through the Orient," he confided to her, "That has been one of my dreams ever since I was a boy," he said wistfully. "I'm too old to do that now but I still like to fantasize," he said as he looked lovingly at a carved statue.
"How could you have afforded all of this?" Mirabelle asked Michael as she looked around the room.
"I have been very successful in my chosen line of business," he told her, "The value of the land, of the animals, has always been precious to me. I simply accumulated them when nobody wanted them and sold them when everyone wanted them."
Mirabelle couldn't understand what he meant, so let his comment pass.
They then walked out of the den and into Mirabelle's guest room.
"Unpack your things then come downstairs," Michael said to her. "I'll show you the kitchen and some other things you'll need to know. Then you and I can get started on dinner," he said to her before heading downstairs.
Mirabelle unpacked her things and put them away. As she got accustomed to her new surroundings, she wondered what the ranch hands would be like.
