Читать книгу Loving Katherine - Carolyn Davidson, Carolyn Davidson - Страница 9

Katherine’s eyes widened in disbelief, and a mocking smile curled the corners of her mouth. The sight of Roan Devereaux milking her cow was not what she’d expected to see this morning. But she’d been properly set back on her heels as she halted in surprise just inside the barn.

“Good morning, Katherine.” His voice was low and husky.

“Eyes in the back of your head, Mr. Devereaux?” she asked dryly, leaning one arm against the doorjamb.

“No, ma’am. Just recognized your step, the way your skirt swished.”

She looked down quickly at the telltale garment and frowned. “Could have been someone else,” she argued idly.

He turned his head from the task he’d assumed and his eyes flashed a humorless message. “No. If it’d been someone else, I wouldn’t have been sittin’ with my back to the door, waitin’ to be ambushed.”

She nodded, accepting the mild rebuke, and stepped closer. “About done there?”

“About.” His hands efficiently stripped the udder of its last drops of milk, and he lifted the bucket to one side before rising from the three-legged stool.

“Where do you want this?” he asked, inclining his head toward the results of his early morning chore.

She shook her head. “It’s enough that you beat me to the chores. I’ll take care of the rest of the job,” she told him briskly, bending to pick up the pail of foaming milk.

His big hand halted her, his fingers grasping her wrist, circling it easily. “I always finish what I begin, Katherine. Just tell me where it goes.”

The warmth of that callused hand was a revelation, she decided, her eyes riveted on the place where his flesh met hers. She almost flinched, felt her muscles flex beneath his palm as his touch transmitted a strange, pulsing heat to her skin. Then his hand slid up to grasp her elbow and her eyes rose to meet his, apprehension tightening her jaw and flashing momentarily in her gaze.

“I don’t need your help,” she said firmly, her chin lifting proudly.

His grin was one-sided, tilting the corner of his mouth in a suggestion of mirth that was gone before the smile could be fully formed. “Didn’t say you did.” His nod just escaped mockery. “Let’s say I’m a little late earnin’ my supper from last night.”

Turning her by the hold he kept on her elbow, he effortlessly lifted the bucket, careful to keep the warm milk from sloshing over the sides. “Now, tell me where this goes, Katherine.”

It was worth more to keep her dignity intact, she decided as she walked through the wide doorway. Arguing with the man would only be practical if it involved something of greater importance than a bucket of milk. She bowed her head in acquiescence and waved her free hand toward the milk house, a small wooden shed, one of several outbuildings.

“There. You’ll find a fresh cloth to cover it with. I’ll take care of it after breakfast.”

“You’re cookin’ breakfast already?” His words were hopeful.

“I’ll feed you before you leave,” she said flatly, pulling from his grasp and heading for the house.

Behind her, he halted, the half grin in residence for a fleeting moment. “We haven’t talked about a horse yet, ma’am,” he reminded her.

Her gait was brisk, and only a man with a quick eye would have noticed the hesitation his words inspired. Roan Devereaux had always prided himself on the accuracy of his eyesight, and he allowed the smile to widen his mouth just a bit. Beneath the brush of his dark mustache, his teeth gleamed for a moment.

“Ma’am?”

Her stride lengthened as she left him behind. Her back was rigid, and chestnut-hued hair hung between her shoulder blades, barely moving against the dark fabric of her dress. Tied with a leather thong at her nape, it reached to her waist. It looked like the silky tail of a Thoroughbred, he noted with absurd pleasure.

Her hand grasped the railing as she stalked up the three steps to the porch. Then, turning to face him, there where he waited, watching her, she spoke, her voice low, her enunciation precise.

“I already told you, Mr. Devereaux. I don’t have any horses ready for sale right now. I don’t mean to be rude, but after breakfast, I’ll expect you to be on your way. I’m sure you’ll be able to find an animal suitable for your purposes in town. The livery stable has a good selection. Thurston Wellman will be most happy to sell you a horse.”

She lifted one hand to shield her eyes from the rays of sunlight shining from above the horizon in the east. He watched her silently, with a measuring look that gave little indication of his thoughts, and she responded with a calm appraisal of her own.

Her eyes swept his form, lingering briefly here and there as she measured his considerable length. His clothing was well-worn but sturdy, she decided, his denim pants clinging to the strength of his thighs like paper on the wall. His shirt was faded to a nondescript color, but intact, neatly tucked into place, hugging the breadth of his wide shoulders, then tapering to the narrow measure of his waist. Long-legged, his stance casual and relaxed as he watched her, he bore her scrutiny well. The mouth that had twice twitched with amusement at her expense was almost hidden now, his lips pressed together beneath the brush of his mustache. His eyes were narrowed and dark. High cheekbones made her think of an Indian brave, and the straight blade that formed his nose was centered in a face too strong and rugged to be considered handsome.

“You can wash up at the well,” she offered finally. “Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes.” Briskly, she turned to open the door, and her skirts swayed as she disappeared into the house.

He ate four biscuits, smothered with pale gravy and flanked by several eggs. She’d risen twice to fill his mug with coffee and was surprised to see him add a generous dollop of cream to the dark brew. It was a crack in his spare demeanor, this small luxury, she thought, watching his fingers move the spoon about in the heavy white coffee mug. Katherine silenced the admiration that surged within her as she acknowledged the raw, dark beauty of the man across the table. Roan Devereaux, her father’s friend, was not what she had expected.

She ate sparingly, aware of his presence in her kitchen, of each movement of those lean hands as he ate, only the small sounds of their silverware against the thick china plates marring the quiet of early morning. And then she nodded at the murmur of his appreciation as he finished the meal she’d prepared.

Pushing his chair back, he lifted his coffee to drink the last of it, savoring it slowly, watching her over the rim of his mug. “Fine food, ma’am. I’m much obliged,” he said, replacing the empty vessel on the checkered tablecloth.

She rose briskly and was up and about, clearing the dishes and removing herself from his presence. He’d been the soul of good manners, she decided, eating the food she prepared and using his utensils with skill and ease. Sometime in his life, someone had taught him well, she thought, wiping up crumbs from the red-and-white oilcloth. Aware of his gaze upon her, she moved quickly, uneasy beneath the cool, measuring eyes that paced her movements.

She rinsed the dishrag and hung it to dry over the edge of the sink, then she set the dishes to soak in soapy water. Closing her eyes, just for a moment, she took a breath and, turning toward him, motioned to the door.

“I’ve got a heap of work to do, Mr. Devereaux. I need to be up and at it.” She’d given him a bed and meals to boot. Roan Devereaux or not, Charlie’s friend notwithstanding, she didn’t need the strangely disturbing presence of this stranger here. Now to move him on his way, out of her house and on down the road.

“Katherine.” His voice reproved her gently.

Her mouth tightened at his reluctance. The sense of unease he inspired within her had to do with that husky inflection in his voice as he spoke her name, she thought. As if he knew all there was to know about Katherine Cassidy and found her lacking. As if he sought to peel away the stark surface she wore like a coat of mail, seeking the softness of the woman beneath the brown drabness. The same warmth she’d felt at the touch of his hand on her flesh earlier reappeared as she listened to the sound of her name on his tongue. He’d rolled it within his mouth, making it appear a many-syllabled word. Not like Pa, who’d more often than not called her Kate or sometimes Katie, when his eyes regarded her with tenderness.

“Katherine,” Roan repeated, rousing her from her wandering thoughts. “Can we talk about a horse now?”

She pursed her mouth and frowned at him, disturbed by her meanderings. “Like I said before, I don’t have any stock ready to sell.”

He shrugged and tipped the sturdy chair back to balance on the back legs. “Can I take a look?”

She shook her head at his persistence. “It wouldn’t do you any good. They’re all halterbroken, of course, but I’ve only put a saddle on two of them. They’ve not been ridden yet.” Her pause was significant before she added her final words on the subject, as if to emphasize their import.

“And you can’t have my mare.”

He shrugged off the edict with a casual grin. “Where’s your pa’s stud?” he asked lazily, watching her hands bury themselves in the pockets of her apron.

She flushed and her eyes shifted from his gaze. “I had to sell him.” The admission was painful, and her mouth tightened.

“You don’t have any stock breeding now?”

“Maybe my mare.”

He frowned, considering. “I didn’t notice.”

“If she took, she won’t drop her foal till March,” Katherine said shortly. “She was in season when I had to let the stud go, so I let him in with her just before…before I sold him.”

He drew in a breath, shaking his head. She was really something, this small woman who spoke of the breeding of horses as if it were not fraught with danger. “You’re not big enough to handle a stallion like your pa’s,” he said. “You’re lucky you got it done without getting hurt.”

She shrugged, dismissing his words with the lifting of her shoulders. “You do what you have to. He was strong and a good size, and he’d carried my pa to war and back. I wanted another colt from him before I let him go.”

“Could be a filly,” he reminded her.

Her gaze was fiercely determined and she shook her head, negating the idea. “No, I need a stud. And I’ll have one, give him a couple of years.”

“How many are you running in your pasture?” he asked. “Thought I saw a yearling or two.”

“Three, actually,” she admitted. “The results of last year’s breeding. My father had great hopes for them.”

“You make it sound sorta dismal, Katherine. Surely the dreams didn’t die with Charlie, did they?”

She shrugged off his taunt. “I’m not made of the same stuff my father was, Mr. Devereaux. Someone had to be practical, and Charlie Cassidy was somewhat of a dreamer.”

“That’s not all to the bad.” He dropped the front legs of his chair to the floor with a thump. To his way of thinking, Katherine Cassidy looked like she could use a little dreaming to brighten up her life. As a matter of fact, he decided with a long look at her stiff demeanor, the woman in front of him looked like she’d had all of her dreams shattered. From the top of her smoothly scraped-back hair to the scuffed toes of the shoes showing beneath her dark dress, she looked like a woman who’d buried more than her pa. She was about at the end of her rope, Roan thought. What am I gonna do, Charlie?

Rising from the chair purposefully, he reached for his hat, hanging on a peg just inside the door. Easing it into place, he settled it with a final tilt of the brim His fingers slid into the pockets of his denim pants, thumbs hooked over his belt and his elbows thrust behind him.

All he needed was a gun belt and he’d look like a gunslinger for sure, Katherine thought, her eyes ranging over the man who was thoroughly upsetting her equilibrium this morning. She struggled against the tension that had gripped her upon his arrival yesterday and had remained deeply seated in the depths of her being. His touch had not eased her disquiet any, either, she reflected grimly. Whether it was a natural reaction to a stranger or some individual sense of danger attached to this particular man was the problem.

The former she could handle. The latter, which was more likely to be true, could create a situation she’d gone to great lengths to steer clear of over the years.

His eyes pinned her in place, taking a leisurely journey over the dowdy length of her, and she began to bristle instinctively. He had no right, she thought with rising indignation. No right at all to come in here and make himself at home and then question her about her livestock as if he could pick and choose.

His next words only added to her turmoil. “What are you gonna do with the three mares out in the corral?” he asked mildly, as if he sought to salve her obvious tension.

Her reply was abrupt, snapped off irritably. “Work with them.”

“I’ll take one off your hands,” he offered easily. “Give me a few days to get in the saddle and I’ll be out of your way.”

“My four-year-old is too small. In fact, I don’t have anything big enough for you. Just a three-year-old and she’s…” Her eyes softened as she hesitated.

“Doesn’t pay to make pets of animals you’re bound to sell off, Katherine,” he said gently.

Once more her chin tilted as she glared at him. “She’s not a pet. But she sure isn’t ready to have a saddle thrown on her back and a two-hundred-pound man digging his heels in her sides.”

“She’s a horse,” he said bluntly. “She was bred to be ridden.”

“Said like a man,” she returned with icy disdain, anxious to be rid of this reminder of her own frailty.

“Any man in particular, Katherine?”

She glanced at him quickly, assessing the question.

He pushed for an answer. “Who made you so prickly?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But something tells me you’re a mite touchy about that sassy little filly of yours.”

“That’s the key word, Mr. Devereaux. She is mine and I intend to keep her.”

He smiled agreeably. “That’s your right, ma’am.” His head nodded in the direction of the barn as he changed the subject with alacrity. “Thought I’d spend a couple of hours out there to pay for my keep.”

“It’s not necessary,” she countered swiftly. She’d felt the warmth creep up into her cheeks as the play of words had swirled between them, and she felt a sudden letdown as he turned from the fray so easily. For a few minutes, she’d felt alive and vital sparring with Roan Devereaux and, in an odd way, enjoying it

His index finger rose to tilt the brim of his hat in a courtly parody, and he headed for the door with long strides that carried him out onto the porch and down the steps before her protest could be enlarged upon.

She watched, almost unwillingly, yet drawn by the sight of him. Slim-hipped, he walked with a lithe swing that spoke of long years in the saddle and an ease with his own body. Only a slight hitch betrayed him, and Katherine’s gaze narrowed as she analyzed the hesitation that marred his easy stride. Then her father’s words came back to her, jolting her with the image of savage warfare they had painted.

“Roan paid for my life, girl,” he’d said grimly. “That leg of his will wear scars for all of his years. He dragged me when he could hardly make it himself…till both of us were so covered with muck and mire you couldn’t make out the pair of us from the mud we crawled through. Him pullin’ and tuggin’ on me, one hand holdin’ my belt and the other clawin’ for a good grip on the side of that hill.”

Charlie Cassidy had spoken often—and well—of the man who’d saved his life in the midst of battle in Virginia. Her eyes softened as they focused on the barely discernible hesitation in Roan’s step now as he strode across her yard.

“I owe you, Roan Devereaux,” she whispered with reluctance in the silence of her kitchen. Her shoulders lifted as an indrawn breath shuddered through her. “Maybe I can figure something out.” And maybe she’d better quit lollygaggin’ around and get busy, she thought, shaking her head as she reluctantly turned her back and headed for the cookstove to bank the fire.

Charlie had left a fine legacy. Although where the mares were concerned, who had produced these charmers was anyone’s guess. The yearlings frolicked about the pasture with long-legged freedom, heads tossing and tails flying, performing as though they sensed the admiration of their audience. Oblivious to their antics, a chestnut mare grazed, her nose lifting as she turned her head momentarily in his direction. The man who’d hooked one boot on the bottom rail, leaning casually to watch the animals gambol about in the pasture, was more than just an admiring audience. Roan had earned his respite, the sweat that drew his shirt to cling to the muscles of his back was a damp testimony to his morning’s work.

He’d walked the boundaries of the pasture, checking and repairing several weak places in the old fencing, tight-lipped as he considered the amount of work that needed to be done. The condition of the posts and wire had disturbed him, and he was aware that his nailing up sagging wire and shoring up fence posts could only be considered a temporary measure.

Charlie’s homestead was not what he’d expected. The horseman who’d befriended him in the last days of his service to the army had not been cut out to be a farmer, it seemed.

Charlie’d been more suited to be a roaming man, Roan thought. More geared to training horses and moving on his way than settling down here on green Illinois pastureland.

And then there was Charlie’s daughter. Roan’s quiet laugh broke the silence and one of the fillies tossed her head at the sound.

“Yeah, Katherine…” His voice caressed the name and his mouth twisted in a wry grin as he considered the woman. Unyielding at first glance, stiff and unbending with that old shotgun aimed in his direction, she’d glared her best at him. She was still glaring, he thought, only not quite as convincingly.

He’d glimpsed her uncertainty earlier, when he’d touched her arm. Sensed the withdrawal as she shrank from his hand. There was a lot of woman there, he decided, hidden beneath the coarse homespun dress she wore like armor against his gaze. But not just his. She made it her business to look dowdy.

“Doesn’t look to me like you’ve earned your dinner yet.”

He spun to face her, his hand brushing against his thigh in an automatic gesture. One her eyes followed with cynical awareness.

“You’re lucky you haven’t lost these horses before this,” he said roughly, his head inclining toward the pasture. “I mended several places that were just one good shove from collapsing.”

Katherine nodded. “I’ve been meaning to check it out. It was on my list,” she said dryly.

Along with a hundred other chores, he thought, aware of the unending job she’d taken on when Charlie died.

“Well, what I did will hold for a while. But it was only a lick and a promise. Some of those posts are rotting where they stand. You’re gonna have to replace them.”

Her sigh was tinged with defeat. “I do what’s most needed. And right now, training those horses in the corral is the most important thing.”

“Who are you gonna sell them to?” He’d lay money she hated the thought of parting with any one of the sleek mares she was so fond of.

“My mare’s not for sale to anyone,” she told him, nodding at the chestnut animal approaching them. Katherine’s hand reached out to stroke the white blaze that flashed through her mare’s forelock and slashed like a narrow sword down the length of her nose. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

Roan nodded, admiring the picture before him…the woman caught up for a moment in her pleasure with the creature she fondled. “I like the looks of the tall bay,” he said, glancing back at the corral Charlie’d attached to the barn.

“The three-year-old? Well, I haven’t decided about her. The four-year-old is going to the banker’s daughter in town, soon as I finish gentling her real good. The black’s mine,” she said, her voice soft as she turned to watch the horses in the corral closer to the house.

“Charlie teach you how to train?” he asked as they began to walk back to the house.

She nodded. “Ever since I was big enough to snap on a lead rope and drag a six-week-old foal around in a circle.”

They walked side by side, their attention caught by the mares who stood in the shade offered by the barn.

“My pa bought this place from the man who cleared the land and built the house. Matter of fact, we moved in just a while before he left for the war. He’d been fretting about sitting on the sidelines, and one day, he just got on his horse and told me to take care of things till he got back.”

“Just like that?”

Her nod was abrupt. “Just like that.”

“What did you do?”

“I’ve always been a dutiful daughter, Mr. Devereaux. I did as he asked. I took care of this place till he did come back. It was a good thing he’d waited so long to go to war. Things had piled up on me by the time he showed up again. I pampered that four-year-old mare and delivered the three-year-old and bought the black with the last of Pa’s hidey-hole money. A neighbor lost his mare birthing that one and sold her to me real cheap. He didn’t want to waste his time raising her by hand. I spent a lot of hours with a play titty on a bottle till I got her to eat by herself.”

They’d reached the pole fence that surrounded the corral on three sides, and he leaned his elbows on the top rail. The image of Katherine, here alone, struggling with the day-to-day work of caring for a farm and all the animals involved, was an overwhelming idea.

“I don’t see how you handled it all,” he said finally.

“I managed. We all do what we have to.”

“And then?” he said, urging her. “Then he came home?”

“He came home.” She took a deep breath, and her smile was tender with the memory. “He rode that big stallion up to the porch one afternoon and called me out of the house, just as if he’d only been gone for a day or so. ‘Katie, my love,’ he said. ‘Your father’s home.’ Just like that,” she told him with emphasis on the words. “Just as if he’d been to town for supplies.”

“Was your brother here at all while Charlie was gone?”

“No. I haven’t any idea where Lawson was.” She glanced at Roan soberly. “I told you, I don’t talk about him.”

“Charlie—” he began.

“I need to go to the house.” Her dismissal was abrupt. “Dinner will be ready shortly.”

Katherine’s retreat gave him pause, and he watched as she left his side to walk with long, hurried strides across the yard to the small house. You were right, Charlie. She’s small, and fierce, and ready to do battle at the drop of a hat. Not an inch of give to her.

He followed her, stopping long enough at the well to pump fresh water. Within minutes, he was ready to eat, sleeves rolled above his elbows, hair damp and smoothed back from his forehead. He carried his hat with him into the house and snagged it on the peg inside the door as he passed.

She’d already set the table and was pouring a tall glass of milk as he came in.

“I like milk at noontime,” she said, looking his way.

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” he agreed, sliding into the chair he’d used the night before.

He ate his fill before he spoke again, his stomach welcoming the chunks of roasted venison and the abundant array of vegetables she’d prepared.

“Someone sure taught you how to cook, Katherine.” Moving his chair back, he crossed one booted foot over the other knee.

She allowed her eyes to rest on him for a moment. He looked contented and well fed, sitting across the table. Deceptively idle, for even in repose, there was the look of a hunter about him, a faint menace that set her on edge. He was handy with fence-mending tools, though, she reminded herself, and for that she had to be grateful.

“I found early on if you don’t cook, you don’t eat,” she said finally, uneasy with his compliment. “My pa was never one to lend a hand around a stove, so after my mother died, I learned in a hurry how to put a meal together.”

“I wouldn’t mind havin’ dinner here on a regular basis for a while,” he said easily. “Fact is, I’ve got sort of a deal in mind to offer you.”

“I’m not much for making deals. The last time a man tried to make a deal with me, he came close to getting shot for his effort.”

“What did he want? The three-year-old mare?”

She caught the amusement in his voice and flushed. “No, he wanted the whole kit and caboodle. The farm, the horses and me.”

“I take it you weren’t agreeable.”

“It wasn’t any bargain from my point of view.”

“Well, maybe I can strike a better deal than he tried for. It’ll involve some of my time and more work than I’d planned on doing right now, but it might pay you to listen up.”

“Are we back to my three-year-old?” she asked suspiciously.

“She’s a good-sized horse and she’s ready to be saddle-broke,” he said firmly. “If she’s bred from Charlie’s stud, I’d like to have a go at her. I can be in the saddle in a week or so, and you can have a hell of a lot of work done around here in the meantime.”

“I’m not in the market for a hired hand, Mr. Devereaux.”

He flicked her a doubtful glance. “Looks to me like you could use a little help, Katherine. That barn needs some work, and your tack’s in bad shape.”

“I’ll get to it. I can’t afford to hire you.”

“I’ll do a pile of work for a chance at that mare,” he said bluntly.

She looked at him, lips pressed together, holding back the refusal it was her inclination to give. “She’s worth more than a week’s work,” she said finally.

He shrugged. “Set a price. Tell me what you want.”

“I’ll have to think about it.” She hesitated, wondering if she could abide letting the spirited mare go to this man. He was right, she acknowledged to herself. She’d made a favorite of the sleek filly, and now she’d pay the price.

“You’ll stay in the barn,” she said warningly. “I haven’t room in the house for you.”

“I expected as much.” It had been too much to hope that she’d offer Charlie’s bed. It sure had to be better than the cot he’d fought with all night long.

“She’s probably worth more than you’ll want to work out. I won’t give her up easy. I’ll want some hard cash to boot.”

“I don’t blame you. She’s a good-lookin’ horse.” He leaned back in the chair once more. “Do we have a deal?”

She pursed her mouth and glared at him, impotent in her need. “I’ll run you ragged for a month, and then we’ll have to settle on the money end,” she said finally.

“Agreed.” He held out a hand across the table and she reluctantly placed her palm against his.

“Agreed?” he repeated, prompting a reply, his fingers wrapped about hers.

She flushed, aware only of the warmth of his flesh and the strength of the hand she touched. Looking at him quickly, she nodded, tugging her fingers from his grasp.

“Yes…agreed.” She plunged her hand into the pocket of her apron, only too conscious of the triumphant gleam that lit his gaze.