Читать книгу Oklahoma Sweetheart - Carolyn Davidson, Carolyn Davidson - Страница 6

Chapter Two

The crowing of a rooster woke her, and Loris sat up from her makeshift bed, groaning aloud as she felt the pull of muscles strained by the hard floor. If there was one chicken out there, there might be more, she thought hopefully. And if one was a hen, there might even be an egg or two available.

She rose slowly, aware now of the chill of the kitchen around her. The fire had apparently gone out, and she’d been too tired earlier to replenish it. Lifting the stove lid, she caught sight of glowing ashes and was cheered by their presence.

More wood was placed with care, lest she suffocate the promise of flames, and then as the bits of bark on the sides of the wood caught fire, she smiled and gently put the lid in place.

Shaking out her quilt, she folded it, depositing it over the back of a chair, and then set out to explore her shelter. The house was small, a parlor and two bedrooms occupying the rest of the downstairs. Furniture had been left behind, the owners apparently not considering it worth transporting. But upstairs there were two more bedrooms, complete with beds.

But beggars couldn’t be choosers, she reminded herself as she viewed the sparse furnishings throughout the house. At least there were dishes, and perhaps kettles, though what she would find to cook was another thing entirely.

First on her list of the day’s tasks was finding an outhouse, she decided. Stepping outside, she saw the small structure standing near what appeared to be the chicken coop. Loris made her way there, walking carefully across the yard, lest she slip on the covering of fresh snow. Only an inch or so whitened the ground, and she was thankful there wasn’t any more than that.

Her duties completed, she went to the chicken coop, opening the door to find two hens squatting in the confines of their nests. A barrel of feed had been tipped over, most likely by the owners, who probably felt guilty at leaving the creatures behind. Bits and pieces of feed lay about on the ground, liberally mixed with the chicken’s leavings, and Loris felt a surge of nausea at the odor of the pungent manure.

The two hens squawked at Loris’s appearance in their domain, and one of them fluttered to perch on a dowel rod apparently placed there for their comfort. In the nest, Loris found four eggs and she gathered them, aware that they might not be fit to eat. It would be easy enough to find out, she knew and given the temperature of the henhouse, they might yet be edible.

Leaving the second hen to cover her clutch of eggs, Loris left the henhouse, spying the rooster as he scurried in through the tiny door leading into the fenced-in yard. He halted before her and cocked his head, perhaps deciding if she were worth his attention.

Before he could lunge in her direction, which the rooster at home tended to do if disturbed, she left, closing the door tightly behind herself, carrying her find to the house. There, she entered the kitchen, appreciating the warmth of the stove, and found a bowl in the cupboard.

Next, she searched for a skillet and came up with one in the depths of the oven. With it were two kettles and she pulled them out, using her mittens as potholders, and put her treasures on the stove burners.

“Things are looking up,” she sighed, heading for the sink in the corner, although she doubted that water would be available, given the cold temperature. A small pan sat in the wash basin, its surface icy, and she rapped on it sharply, pleased when a hole appeared and water welled up.

Dumping the scant cup or so of liquid into the pump to prime it, she worked the handle vigorously and was rewarded by a gush of water.

She rinsed and filled the wash basin and carried it to the stove. Opening the reservoir attached to the side of the black appliance, she tipped the clean water inside, knowing it would warm up soon and provide her with a bit of comfort. She filled the basin again, and after filling the reservoir to the top, she set about washing the skillet and kettles, placing them in the basin and allowing the whole collection to heat on top of the stove.

Beneath the sink was a jar of soap, and she carried it back to the stove, not surprised to find the container behind the faded curtain some poor soul had hung to hide the assortment of odds and ends she’d tucked beneath her sink board. It was the same place her own mother kept a supply, and Loris was familiar with the ins and outs of a kitchen.

A glob of the slimy stuff would soon form bubbles in the basin and would give her a semblance of cleanliness when she began washing the utensils and dishes she planned to use. So she settled to wait for the fire to do its work, pulling a chair closer to the warmth and seeking the bundle of food her mother had given her.

The loaf of bread was cold, but she tore off a piece and bit into it. If the meat were warm, it would be more inviting, she decided, and, ignoring the fact that the skillet, by any measure of cleanliness, should be scrubbed first, she pulled it from the basin and rinsed it beneath the pump. With a quick swipe of her mother’s dish towel, she placed it on the top of the stove and put her piece of roast beef in it.

Bits and pieces of silverware were stored in one of the dresser drawers, a motley assortment, to be sure, but Loris found that necessity made her overlook much, and she found a knife to cut up the meat, allowing it to cook faster. Adding a bit of water assured it would not burn, and she waited patiently for her makeshift meal to be ready. Apparently the former tenants had headed for greener pastures and left here empty-handed.

A thin layer of gravy formed from the meat and water, and Loris cut her piece of bread in half and placed it to steam atop the slices of roast beef. A fork from the drawer was wiped on her towel, and when the meat had warmed through she placed the skillet on the table, then sat down to eat her breakfast.

The eggs would wait till dinnertime, she decided, and perhaps, if all of them were fit to eat, she’d poach them and eat them with another piece of her bread.

In the meantime, she’d do well to scout up a source of wood for the stove, since she’d already used up almost half of the supply left in the kitchen. Maybe there would be a woodpile outside, or hopefully, an ax in the barn, allowing her to cut her own. Not that she’d ever done such a thing, but it certainly couldn’t be all that difficult.

Her stomach reacted well to the food and she took the skillet to the sink, rinsing it with the flowing water from the pump. Filling the container she’d used to prime it earlier, she assured that the pump would be usable, and then set about washing the contents of the basin. Leaving them to dry, she decided to explore the pantry, the doorway of that small room beckoning her from across the kitchen.

It was dark, windowless, and she was delighted to find a candle on one of the shelves, awaiting a match. Within moments, she’d lit it and saw she’d stumbled on a storehouse of sustenance. The owners must have taken only what they could carry and left the rest, for jars of produce lined the top shelf, and partially filled bins of flour and sugar met her gaze. Even a smaller crock of coffee was there, and she smiled with pleasure as she considered the warmth it would elicit.

A dusty coffeepot was there, too, and she carried it to the sink, washed it quickly and then filled it with fresh water. Dumping in a handful of coffee, she settled it on the warmest spot on the stove, and found herself silently urging the fire to do its best to bring the coffee to a boil. An additional log added to the glowing coals insured its performance, and she set off for the back yard, hoping to find enough wood to keep herself in comfort for the remainder of the day and the night to come.

A pile of neatly stacked logs at the side of the house brought a smile to her lips and she carried a load indoors, depositing the wood in the box behind the stove. “This is more like it,” she murmured to herself, basking in the heat and congratulating herself on her ability thus far to survive.

“Where is she?” Connor Webster spoke the words in a rush, his appearance on her front porch apparently having struck Minnie Peterson speechless. The woman groped for a reply and finally grasped Connor by the arm and brought him into her front hallway.

“I don’t know,” Minnie said, her voice breaking.

“She’s not here?” Connor asked, and Minnie shook her head.

“She left last evening, right after supper. Not willingly, but her father gave her no choice.”

“And what about you?” Connor asked. “Did you just let her go out in the cold without knowing where she could find shelter?” Connor’s heart ached as he recalled his own harsh words to Loris.

“I had no choice,” Minnie said weakly. “I gave her a bit of food, and she’d packed a valise. What more could I do, under the circumstances?”

“You gave her a bit of food?” Connor asked incredulously. “Just what does that mean?”

“Don’t get huffy with me, young man. I shouldn’t have offered her even a crust of bread, after she brought disgrace down on her family the way she has.”

“No? Not even the fact that she is your daughter made a difference?”

“Alger told her she’s no longer our daughter,” Minnie said.

“And you agreed with him?”

“I had no choice,” she said.

“You had a choice,” Connor told her, as did he. “Now, have you any idea which way she headed?” The urge to find Loris was overwhelming now. And his anger with her was banished by the memory of her vulnerability.

“I watched her,” Minnie said. “She walked away from town, toward the open country.”

“On the road?”

Minnie nodded. “On the side of the road. There was fresh snow, and she apparently didn’t want to walk in the wagon ruts.”

Connor was silent, his mind working furiously. If she’d left last evening, after dark, she wouldn’t haven’t gotten very far, unless she’d just kept walking until she dropped. And in that case she would have frozen to death. The temperatures were below freezing, and last night they’d dropped far lower.

“What are you going to do?” Loris’s mother asked as Connor turned away.

“Find her.” The words were terse and to the point, and Minnie only nodded as she closed the door.

Connor mounted his horse and rode from the yard, heading out of town at a slow pace, his gaze on the sparse covering of snow beside the road. Several sets of footprints marred the pristine surface, but most of them were heading to town, not in the other direction.

One small set was easy to follow, and he turned his horse to the grassy area, the better to track them. If it was, indeed, Loris’s tracks he followed, she’d slipped several times and he winced as he thought of the harsh wind blowing toward her as she walked. He’d heard it around the house all night, in those long hours when he’d found it impossible to sleep, not knowing what had happened to her. Those dark hours when he’d admitted to himself that his love for her had not died.

The fact that her father had turned her out of the house didn’t surprise Connor. Alger Peterson was a harsh man, a man dedicated to all that was right and proper, and the idea of his daughter bearing a child out of wedlock must have struck him a heavy blow.

Connor wondered why the man hadn’t tried to understand his daughter’s dilemma, at least long enough to provide her with a place to live, and someone to look after her. Instead he’d booted her out.

The footprints Connor followed wove back and forth a bit, as if their owner were uncertain as to the path she took, and well she might have been. Walking away from town would not have offered her much choice as to the shelter she sought.

He passed by the Benson place, saw Joe himself outside, walking toward the barn, and thought for a moment that it would have been a good place for Loris to seek a resting place. But the footprints beside the road told a different story.

She’d bypassed Benson’s barn and walked on. Farther than he’d thought she would, for the next two places had been bypassed too, and after that point, hers were the only tracks to be seen in the sparse covering of snow.

Connor blessed that snow, for without it, he’d never have seen her trail. He needed to find Loris. She’d been betrayed by parents who should have given her love and affection, setting aside the disgrace she might have brought to them. And he, himself, had turned his back on her.

He cursed himself for being so harsh with her, for denying her his aid. He’d offered her money, his help should she want to leave town, but not the helping hand she’d needed. But he’d been so angry at her betrayal, he hadn’t been thinking straight.

If he found her by the side of the road, it would be on his head, for he’d been the logical one she could have counted on to give her help. And he’d turned her away. Sleep had evaded him during the night, his memory bringing her desperate plight before him when he would have slept. While he’d been tucked into his bed, she’d been walking through the night, and he felt the pangs of regret strike his soul with harsh lashes of the whip of remorse. Upon awakening, he’d left home to find her.

A wisp of smoke rose from an abandoned house to the south and he touched his horse’s barrel with his heels, his heart lifting as he considered the possibility of Loris having found shelter there. The owners, a couple named Stewart, had left town months ago, taking little with them. But the house was still livable, to his knowledge.

His horse trotted up the lane and to his relief, he noted the footprints that went before him. She was here. He’d lay money on it. Somehow, she’d gotten into the house and lit a fire. The prospect of finding her at the side of the road had daunted his spirits, but now he breathed a prayer of thanksgiving as he realized his fears might have been in vain.

The house was small, the windows covered with shutters, but the back porch held a collection of scattered footprints in the snow that covered its surface. Connor drew his horse to a halt and slid from his saddle. The reins were wound around a hitching rail quickly and he stepped onto the porch.

Loris was dozing again, curled into her quilt on the floor, her stomach having found relief from its empty state, the skillet in the sink, soaking in the basin. She’d given in to the sleepy warmth of the stove and found her place on the floor once more, settling down to sleep, knowing that it would do her more good than tramping around in the snow, trying to discover her surroundings.

The sound of the door opening penetrated her slumber and she caught her breath, lying as quietly as possible as she heard the footsteps enter the kitchen. Then the sound of the heavy portal closing told her she was trapped in the room with an intruder.

“Loris?” His voice was low, his tone tentative, and she sat up warily.

It had sounded like Connor, the voice deep and soft, the syllables of her name rolling from his tongue in a sound that reminded her of the breeze rustling though the trees in springtime.

But it wouldn’t be Connor, she reminded herself. He’d left her on her own, just yesterday, and he was a stubborn man, not given to changing his mind, especially not overnight, and particularly not about such an important issue.

She’d betrayed Connor. He would hold his hurt pride like a shield before him, should they meet, and the thought of ever seeing him smile at her again was beyond hope.

“Loris.” This time her name was spoken in a commanding tone, and she felt the bidding of the man behind her. She turned in her quilt, her gaze seeking the intruder, and found the face of the man she’d loved for three years of her life.

“Connor?” She whispered the familiar, beloved name of the man she’d planned to marry, and noted the look of relief that washed over his handsome features. Taller than his brother, but not as muscular, Connor had a shock of black hair and the same blue Irish eyes as James. Yet, on this man, they were soft and appealing, and Loris wondered how she’d ever thought James to be the handsomer of the two, how she’d ever been fool enough to hurt Connor so badly.

He stepped closer and squatted beside her. His hands were big, his flesh cold, as he lifted her from the floor, but she did not flinch from him, welcoming his touch instead.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly. “Are you hungry?”

She shook her head. “Mama gave me some food to take along,” she told him. “I’ve eaten this morning.”

“Are you cold?” He seemed intent on her revealing each small bit of information he could drag from her.

“No,” she said softly, shivering as the cooler air in the room penetrated her clothing. Curled by the stove, she’d indeed been warm. Now, uncovered and sitting erect, she felt the chill. Her coat was tossed aside, having been used for cover as she slept, and now she reached for it.

“You’re shaking with the cold,” Connor said firmly, lifting her to her feet, looking down at the coat she held by one sleeve. “Let me help you put that on.”

“Just pull the quilt around me,” she told him. “And then put some more wood in the stove.” She watched him as he released her and did as she asked, adding four large chunks of wood to her fire, and wrapping her securely in her quilt.

He watched her, his gaze hooded, his mouth firm and straight, with no sign of softening on his harsh features. Connor was handsome, she’d long ago decided. He was not a beautiful man, as was James. Connor had features that were knife-sharp, his nose a blade, his cheekbones high and seemingly carved from granite. If not for the blue eyes, she might have feared him, had she not known the man.

But she knew the soft heart beneath the broad chest, the tenderness he could call forth at will, enveloping her in his arms and holding her as he might a treasured creature he claimed as his own.

She’d turned her back on all of that, she realized, the day she’d given in to James’s coaxing and offered herself to him. And loved him desperately with a love that had turned to ashes at his betrayal of her.

Now she faced the man who had planned a future for them, who had placed his ring on her finger and offered her his love. Connor. The man she had hurt beyond forgiveness. Who had offered her his help, should she want to leave town, who had apparently spent his morning looking for her when she came up missing today.

He watched her closely and she knew he was evaluating her, gauging her condition, allowing her to gather herself before he spoke again.

She bent her head, so that she no longer needed to see his harsh face hovering above hers. “I’m sorry you’ve gone to so much trouble, Connor,” she said. “I didn’t think you might be looking for me.”

“I never intended for you to be frozen by the side of the road or left on your own, the way you were last night,” he said.

“What did you think would happen?” she asked, lifting her gaze to his, venturing bravely to watch his expression.

His brow twitched as he considered her query. And then he breathed deeply, as if his words were hard to come by. “I didn’t think your father would throw you out. I thought your mother would defend you. I went to your house this morning to make certain you were all right, and I couldn’t believe my ears when your mother said you’d left last evening.”

His eyes were icy, the chill of anger gripping him.

“Well, I’m all right, as you can see,” she said, fearful of his anger being turned against her. But it seemed there was little chance of that, for he only shook his head in disbelief.

“You’re far from all right,” he said sharply. “You’re alone and about three hours from freezing to death, should that stove not be fed on a regular basis.”

“There’s some food here in the pantry,” she said defensively. “And wood outside. I won’t freeze.”

“And what happens when that pitiful pile of wood runs out?” he asked. “And when the food in the pantry is eaten?”

“There’s enough wood for a couple of days, and I’ll look for an ax to cut more.”

“You’re going to chop wood?” he asked. “You’d be more likely to cut your toes off or swing wrong and slice your leg open. And then what would you do?”

“I won’t do that,” she said stubbornly. “I’ll be careful.”

“You’re a woman,” Connor said with a stern look that stripped her of her bravado.

“What’s wrong with being a woman?” she asked sharply. “I can take care of myself.”

He was silent, his eyes holding hers, his mouth a straight line, giving her no clue as to his thoughts.

“I’ll be fine here,” she said. “You don’t need to worry about me, Connor. I’m strong and able to tend to things.”

“You’re strong?” he asked, and with one smooth movement, he gathered her against himself and held her tightly, one arm around her waist, the other banding her shoulders.

She was trapped in his embrace, and even though she feared him not, she knew her position was that of a woman who could not move without the consent of the man who held her immobile. “Don’t try to frighten me, Connor,” she said softly.

“Are you frightened?” he asked harshly, as though his mood had turned to anger.

She hesitated, unwilling to admit the wash of alarm that had indeed sped through her veins. And then she looked up into his face and shook her head. “I’m not afraid of you,” she told him. “You’re angry with me, but you won’t hurt me.”

“I want to,” he admitted. “I want to shake you and knock you to the floor for betraying me. I loved you, Loris. I’d planned on a life with you, and you turned your back on all that to seek out my brother. And then you let him make love to you.” His nostrils flared as if he could barely contain the pain and rage that coursed through him.

His big hands clutched her shoulders and she braced herself for his harsh touch on her slender form. But he only drew her closer to himself and his mouth claimed hers with a passion she could not refute.

She submitted to his kiss, feeling the bruising of her mouth, the crush of his embrace, the strength of his hands as he held her. His tongue claimed her, sweeping into her mouth, the invasion one he’d never instigated before. Always his kisses had been gentle, tender and welcomed.

That this claiming of her mouth was none of those mattered little. She only stood before him and endured. There was no tenderness in his caresses, for his hands were harsh, clutching at her softness, his fingers biting into her hips, his mouth hard against hers. She tasted blood and knew it came from her lips. She felt the hard ridge of his arousal against her belly, through several layers of clothing, and braced herself for his taking.

It was not to be, for he lifted his head and looked down at her. One long index finger lifted to rub at her lip and she winced at the pain of it.

“Your lip is bleeding, Loris,” he said softly.

“I know,” she told him. “I can taste it.” That the inside of her lips were bruised and cut by the force of her teeth against them was of little matter. Her pain was small in comparison to what he felt, and she would not complain.

But Connor seemed to sense more than she had expected of him, for he touched her mouth with his own again, and this time the kiss was tender, a silent plea for her forgiveness.

“I’m sorry,” he said roughly, his voice hoarse as if the words were those of a man who had drunk his share, and more, of whiskey and was speaking past the aching throat muscles of one who had had reason to regret his overindulgence.

She shook her head, offering him forgiveness, for she could do no less. He could have knocked her to the floor. And yet, he’d only spent his anger on her in passion. Even now, she felt his arousal prodding at her, and she backed away from the reminder of his desire.

“I won’t hurt you again,” Connor said harshly. “Don’t be afraid of me, Loris.”

“No,” she said quietly. “I’m not.”

“I’ll chop some wood for you,” he told her. “And then I’ll go into town and get you some supplies.”

“You needn’t do that,” she told him. “Just leave me, Connor. I’m not worth your concern.”

“Ah, but you are,” he muttered. “James left some money for you, and I’m going to spend it on the things you’ll need for the next little while. And then we’ll figure out what to do.”

“James left me money?” Her mind latched on that bit of information and she felt a surge of anger. “I don’t want his money,” she said bitterly. “I’d rather starve.”

“Well, as long as I’m alive and breathing, you aren’t in any danger of starving,” Connor told her. He helped her onto a chair at the table and turned away. “I’m going out to chop wood, and I’ll be back in a bit. There should be enough in that stove to keep you warm for a couple of hours.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, unwilling to meet his gaze, lest she begin crying and be unable to halt the deluge. Her tears would not be only for herself, but for the pain she had brought to Connor and his brother. For her own weakness that had forever caused a rift between two men who had been as close as any brothers could be. And for her loss of the man with her now. Connor could never forgive her or love her again, and her heart ached at the knowledge of what she had lost.