Читать книгу The Stranger - Elizabeth Lane - Страница 11

Laura had taken extra pains with supper, mixing up a batch of sourdough biscuits, churning fresh butter and adding a pinch of precious ground seasonings to the rabbit stew. Caleb McCurdy had put in a long, hard afternoon, she reasoned. Not only was the corral gate mended, but he’d replaced the missing vanes on the windmill and patched the holes in the roof of the chicken coop, to say nothing of setting Robbie’s arm. Since she had no money to pay him, the least she could do was serve him a decent meal.

Glancing out through the kitchen window, she could see him washing at the pump. He’d tossed his brown flannel shirt on a sapling and unbuttoned the top of his long johns to hang around his waist. He was bending forward, letting the water stream through his raven hair. Now, slowly, he straightened, raking his fingers through his dripping locks. Water flowed over his bare shoulders to trickle down along the muscled furrow of his spine and vanish beneath the damp waistband of his denims. He was as lean and sinewy as a tom cougar with no trace of fat on his lanky frame. Where the setting sun shone on his wet skin, he blazed with liquid fire.

Turning, he cupped his hands and sluiced water over his chest and under his armpits. The nicks and scars that marred his coppery body spoke of violent times and rough living. Laura’s fingers tightened on the frame of the window. Caleb McCurdy had appeared out of nowhere, like an angel in her time of need. But he was clearly no angel. His dark eyes were too feral, his reflexes too quick. He had all the marks of a wild animal, ready to strike out at the first unguarded moment. She could not afford to trust him—or any other man in this godforsaken, bullet-riddled country.

So why did she stay? Laura had long since stopped asking herself that question. She knew the answer all too well.

Another letter had arrived last week, this one from her sister Jeannie, urging her to leave the ranch and come home to St. Louis. There would be a room for her in the family home, Jeannie had said, and a room for Robbie, where he could grow up safe and happy, surrounded by people who cared for him.

For the space of a breath Laura had been tempted. But who would she be in St. Louis? The scarred sister, hiding from curious eyes in some upstairs room, a prisoner of her own ugliness. And Robbie—he would be the son of a dead father and an unseen mother, dependent on others for a leg up in the world. Here the boy was heir to five hundred acres of fine ranch land. Here he would have his own piece of the earth. He would grow up to be a strong, independent man. For Robbie’s sake she had to stay—to bear the hardship of grinding work and the lonely terror of black nights. Her own life had ended with the flash of a knife and the roar of a pistol. Now she lived for her child and the man he would become.

Caleb McCurdy glanced toward the house. Laura shrank back from the window. Heaven forbid he catch her watching him. The last thing she wanted was to put wrong ideas into the man’s head—ideas that might be there already, she reminded herself. She would be wise to keep the shotgun handy.

He was reaching for his shirt now, thrusting his glistening arms into the sleeves. Soon he’d be coming inside to eat. It was time she fetched the milk from the springhouse.

She had left the milk until the last minute because the day was hot and she didn’t want it to spoil. Besides, there was nothing better than ice-cold milk after a day’s work, especially with hot, buttered biscuits.

Slipping into her bedroom, she took a moment to check on Robbie. The boy had passed a restless afternoon, but an hour ago he’d taken some warm broth and fallen into exhausted slumber. Now he lay curled on his side, his splinted arm resting on a pillow. Aching with love, Laura leaned over the bed and brushed a kiss where one damp golden curl fell across his forehead. He was her boy, her perfect, precious son.

What if she’d lost him today in that terrible fall from the tree? For the space of a heartbeat she’d feared…But no, Laura forced the thought from her mind. Robbie was safe now. His arm would heal, and soon he’d be good as new.

The springhouse, a sturdy log building the size of a very small room, stood just a few steps from the back door. Laura’s husband had built it over the creek, which he’d diverted from its true channel by means of a timber dam, covered with earth and sod. Inside the springhouse there was a perforated tin cool box set into the water, as well as shelves and hooks for hanging meat. It was a clever piece of engineering. Mark had been proud of his work; but after his death, Laura had come desperately close to dousing the structure with kerosene and burning it to the ground. Only practical need, coupled with the danger of setting the house on fire, had stayed her hand.

Even after five years, she could not step into that clammy darkness without feeling sick. Her hand shook as she turned the key in the steel padlock. The door creaked softly as it swung inward.

Her skin began to crawl as she forced herself across the threshold. There was no sound except the gurgling of water, but the buried echo of a gunshot lingered in the wooden heart of each log that formed the walls. The mossy earth was rank with remembered odors—gunpowder, blood, and the awful aftermath of death. Steeling herself against a rush of nausea, Laura bent and lifted the milk from the tin box. The jug was cold and dripping wet between her hands. She hurried outside with it, gulping fresh air into her lungs. For a moment she stood still, letting the twilight settle around her. The fading sun was warm on her face. A rock wren piped from the foothills beyond the tool shed.

Balancing the jug on her hip, she used her free hand to hook the padlock through the hasp and squeeze it firmly closed. Only then did her pulse slow to its natural rhythm. She would be all right now. The horror was locked away…until next time.

A furtive glance told her that Caleb McCurdy was no longer at the pump. An instant later she spotted him at the corral fence, filling the water trough. His arms lifted the big bucket as if it had no weight, pouring the water carefully so that none would spill and be wasted. In the fading light, his wet hair gleamed like polished jet.

Turning, he gave her a nod. “Anything you need?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard across the distance.

“Supper’s on.” She forced the words, her throat so tight that it felt as if she hadn’t spoken in months.

“I’ll be in as soon as I finish here.” He sounded as uneasy as she did. Laura imagined their mealtime conversation as a series of stilted comments on the weather, interspersed with long, awkward pauses. She’d forgotten how to make small talk, especially with a man.

But what did that matter? The only man in her future would be her son. As for Caleb McCurdy, he was nothing but a saddle tramp. As soon as the work ran out—sooner if he grew weary of it—he’d be over the hill and gone like a tumbleweed in the wind. By then, she’d probably be grateful to see the last of him.

In the kitchen, she set the milk on the counter while she checked on Robbie. He was still sleeping, his breathing light and even, his lashes wet against his rosy cheeks. With a grateful sigh, Laura hurried back to the kitchen, poured the foamy milk into earthenware mugs and took the tin of biscuits out of the warmer above the stove. She was arranging the biscuits on a plate when she heard the light rap at the door.

Her heart lurched. Her hands flew upward to smooth back the wind-tousled tendrils of her hair, only to pause in midair like hesitant butterflies.

What in heaven’s name am I doing? Laura forced her hands down to her sides. Arranging her features into a prim expression, she strode across the parlor, turned the latch and slowly opened the door.

The aromas wafting from the kitchen beckoned Caleb to enter. But the sight of Laura, flushed and trembling, stopped him like a bayonet to the heart. He hesitated at the threshold. Her eyes were large and bright, her face glowing in the amber light that slanted through the window. Her mouth, however, was pressed into a grim line, as if her lips had been sealed to keep any emotion from spilling out. Was she frightened, angry, or simply unsure of herself, as he was? For the life of him, Caleb could not read her.

Lord, what was he doing here? What had made him think he could help this woman, when he was part of the nightmare that had scarred her face and driven her wild with terror? If he had any sense, he would turn around, ride away and never look back.

But her lips were moving now, opening like soft pink petals. “Come in,” she said in a taut little whisper. “Your supper’s on the table.”

“It smells mighty fine.” He took a tentative step inside, letting the aromas of meat, onions, and fresh biscuits shimmer through his senses. He was tired and hungry. The food smelled damned good, and he’d earned every bite.

“How’s your boy?” Remembering his manners, Caleb pulled out her chair and waited until she’d seated herself before taking his own place—Mark Shafton’s place—at the head of the table.

“Better. He ate an hour ago and went to sleep.” She ladled the stew into big bowls with her small, chapped hands. It would have been easier with the boy here, Caleb thought. Alone with Laura, he would have to make conversation for the length of the meal. He’d never been good at talking to women, and five years in prison hadn’t helped that any.

“I…hope you like rabbit stew,” she said, passing him a plate of flaky, golden biscuits.

“I was raised on it back in Texas. But my ma’s rabbit stew never smelled this good.” He dipped a bit of biscuit in the broth, wondering if it was the proper thing to do. “Or tasted this good,” he added after savoring the morsel on his tongue. “Did you shoot the rabbit yourself?”

As soon as it was out of his mouth, the question struck him as inane. And Texas. Noah had mentioned Texas on that day, five years ago. Even the word could spark Laura’s memory. Why couldn’t he just keep his mouth shut?

“I didn’t exactly shoot it.” She buttered a chunk of her own biscuit. “Bullets are expensive. Snares are cheap. When I first came west, I couldn’t imagine harming helpless little wild animals. But when you’re raising a child, and you have to put meat on the table every day…” She shrugged. “It’s amazing what necessity can make you do. I did shoot the grouse you had for lunch. Early this spring, I even brought down a deer that wandered into the yard. Butchered it myself. We ate like royalty until the weather warmed up and the meat went bad.”

Caleb studied her over his mug, trying to imagine how she’d managed to survive the past five years, out here alone with a small child. In the fading light she looked as delicate as a rose and just as beautiful. Her eyes were the color of clouds before a storm, and her tawny hair clung in tendrils to her blooming cheeks. The neck of her gown was open to the heat, revealing the creamy skin of her throat and the slight swelling at the top of one breast.

He drank her in, filling his senses with the sight of her.

She shifted in her chair, turning the scarred side of her face away from him. He burned to tell her that the damned scar didn’t matter—that it wouldn’t matter to any man in his right mind. But that, he sensed, would only make her more self-conscious.

“Don’t you have anyone who looks in on you, Laura?” he asked. “Neighbors? Friends?”

Caleb saw her eyes widen and he realized that once more he’d put his foot in it. A strange man, asking if she was alone. No wonder she looked as if she were about to bolt for the shotgun. Swiftly he changed the subject.

“My mother used to make jerked venison—salted and dried. I could show you how. That way, if you get another deer, the meat won’t go to waste.”

“I’d like that.” She paused to swallow a bit of stew. “Is that how they preserve meat in Texas?”

Texas again. Caleb’s throat tightened. “My mother was Comanche. Her people always made jerky. When I was a boy, I used to eat it like candy. Robbie will, too. It’s good, and you can take it in your pocket.”

She studied him with doe-like eyes. Caleb wondered how she felt about half-breeds. “Is your mother still alive?” she asked.

Caleb shook his head. “She died when I was twelve. My father’s gone, too.”

“Any other family? Brothers or sisters?”

“None that I’ve seen in a long time—or want to see.” Caleb’s mouth had gone dry. Her curiosity was cutting dangerously close to the truth. But he could not lie to those eyes—eyes like silvery crystal that seemed able to look right through him.

“I just got out of prison,” he blurted, seizing on a different truth. “I did five years in Yuma for my part in a bank robbery.”

Laura’s spoon clattered to the table. She was staring at him in horror, her eyes huge in her pale face. Maybe she’d throw him out now. That would make everything easier.

“Just so you’ll know, I didn’t hurt anybody,” he said. “And I didn’t take any money—never even laid eyes on it. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, with the wrong people. I’ve paid my debt, and now I’m going straight.” He pushed himself away from the table and rose to his feet. “I’d never hurt you or your boy, Laura. But if you don’t feel safe with me around, just say the word and I’ll leave now. It’s up to you.”

Caleb waited, forcing himself to meet those fathomless gray eyes. His innards crawled with self-loathing. What he’d told her was bad enough. But what he hadn’t told her was a hundred times worse. Using one truth to cover another was more heinous than a lie. It was a crime against innocence and trust.

Her silence lay heavy and cold in the room. Caleb could hear the slow ticking of the pendulum clock in the parlor, counting the empty seconds, and still she did not move or speak.

At last, when he could stand it no longer, he cleared his throat. “Well, I guess that says it,” he muttered. “I’ll be going now, as soon as I can saddle up. Much obliged for your hospitality and the good food.”

Tearing his eyes away from her he strode out of the kitchen and across the parlor. It was for the best, Caleb told himself. The longer he stayed, the deeper the lie and the greater the risk that Laura would discover the truth. He had the answer to the question that had brought him here. Wasn’t that enough?

He had reached the front door when he heard her voice.

“Come back here, Caleb McCurdy. You haven’t finished your supper.”

He froze with his hand on the doorknob. Open the door and walk out of her life, that would be the smart thing to do. But Caleb knew that wasn’t going to happen. With a sigh, he turned around and ambled back into the kitchen.

Laura was sitting where he’d left her, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the table. The fading light caught windblown tendrils of hair, framing her face in a soft, golden halo.

“Please sit down,” she said. “There’s something you need to understand.”

Caleb lowered himself onto his chair, waiting in silence. Even before she spoke, he knew what he was about to hear.

“Five years ago I thought my life was perfect. I had everything I wanted—a home, a loving husband and a baby on the way. Then one afternoon three rough-looking men rode in through the gate. Just the sight of them made my flesh crawl. I begged Mark to send them on their way, but he was a man who lived by the Golden Rule. We welcomed them, even gave them a meal. Then, just as they were getting ready to leave, things got ugly.” She stared down at the table for a long moment. “One of them caught me alone in the springhouse. He gave me this when I fought him.” Her fingers brushed the scar as she flashed Caleb a view of her left profile, then turned full face once more. “When my husband came rushing in and tried to save me, they shot him and rode off. He died in my arms.”

She made an odd little strangled sound, closing her eyes and clasping her hands until the knuckles went white. Then the breath went out of her in a long exhalation. She opened her eyes, composed once more. “I’m telling you this so you’ll understand how I feel about strangers. It hasn’t been easy for me, having you around the place today. But you’ve been honest about your past, Caleb. You’re a hard worker and you were here when I needed help with Robbie. You’re welcome to stay—until the work is done and you’re ready to move on, of course.”

Caleb gazed at her numbly, feeling as if he’d been kicked in the face. Lord, why hadn’t he walked away while he had the chance? If she’d run him off the ranch with the shotgun, he’d have been fine with it. But her declaration of trust, however reluctant, had undone him. Guilt knotted his innards with a pain so physical that he wanted to double over and groan.

Part of him wanted to know more. Had Laura been able to get help? Had she gone to the law with descriptions of the three men? Were he and his brothers wanted for the crime? But this was no time to ask. He’d pushed her far enough.

“I’m right sorry for what happened,” he muttered, taking a bite of food that had lost its taste. “I’ll be glad to stay, and grateful for the work. But if I do anything to make you nervous, just say so. I’ll be gone in the time it takes to saddle my horse. Understood?”

“Yes, and thank you.” She nibbled at a biscuit, then set it back on her plate. Both of them, it seemed, had lost their appetites.

The silence in the darkening room grew long and heavy. Caleb was relieved when Robbie woke up in the bedroom and began to whimper. Laura flitted away from the table. Moments later he could hear her through the open doorway, crooning a velvety lullaby to her son. Caleb forced himself to finish the stew and biscuits on his plate. He had a hard day’s work ahead tomorrow, he reminded himself. And he certainly didn’t want Laura to think there was anything wrong with her cooking.

He was sopping up the last of the gravy when she came back into the kitchen. By now it was almost dark. She paused to light the lamp on the counter. The match flickered in the gloom; then the golden light flooded her face, making her look as softly beautiful as the Madonna Caleb had once seen in an old Spanish church.

“Just a bad dream,” she murmured. “I got him into his nightshirt, and he went back to sleep. There’s pie if you’re still hungry.” When Caleb shook his head, she added, “You must be tired. Will you need a lantern to lay out your bedroll?”

It was a clear dismissal. Caleb slid back his chair and rose to his feet. “I cleared away a spot in the toolshed before I came in,” he said. “I’ll be fine. But let me put the milk and butter back in the springhouse for you. It’s getting dark out there. Might not be safe for a woman alone.”

The words were out of his mouth before he remembered. He’d made the same offer on that long-ago day when Zeke had cornered her in the springhouse. If she’d accepted his help then, the tragedy might never have happened.

This time she nodded and fumbled in her apron pocket. “Thanks. I’ll give you the key to the padlock. You can leave it on the nail by the back door when you’re finished.”

Again those firm words of dismissal, making sure he knew that she didn’t want him coming back inside. Caleb understood her reasons all too well. Still, it pained him that she felt the need to speak.

The miniature brass key glimmered as she drew it out of her pocket. Caleb reached out to take it from her. For the barest instant, his fingers touched hers.

Her fingertips were as callused and rough as his own. But the warmth of her flesh went through Caleb like a flash flood of raw need. He had touched her before—surely he had—when they were tending to Robbie’s arm. But this time the awareness of her, of every sweet, womanly part of her, left him dry-mouthed and dizzy.

For that instant, the only thing on his mind was wanting more.

The clatter of the key, dropping to the tiles, brought him back to his senses. With a muttered curse, Caleb dropped to his knees and fumbled in the darkness under the table. Laura bent close with the lantern. He could hear the silky rasp of her breathing behind him. Lord help him if he didn’t find that key—

“Got it!” His hand touched metal. He clambered to his feet, his fingers gripping the key, pressing its small, cold shape into his palm. Laura’s eyes were smoky in the lamplight. She took a step backward, widening the distance between them.

“Sorry,” he muttered, jamming the key into his own pocket. “Are you sure you want to trust these hands with your precious milk and butter?”

She forced a weary smile as she thrust the milk jug and the covered butter jar into his hands. He’d be all right now, Caleb told himself. He wouldn’t be tempted to brush his knuckle along her cheek as he left, or to lay a too-casual hand across her shoulder. He couldn’t allow himself to touch her again; that much he knew.

“Have a good night’s rest,” she said, opening the kitchen door for him. “When I see you up in the morning, I’ll call you in to breakfast.”

“That’s right kind of you. I’m looking forward to more of your good food.” Caleb moved out into the twilight. The door closed behind him, then jerked open again, flooding the stoop with light.

“Close the door of the shed before you go to sleep,” she said. “We get skunks in the yard, looking for eggs and food scraps. One morning I even found a rattler in the corral. I killed it with the shotgun. They like warm places where they can crawl in and hide. Believe me, you don’t want one of those for a bed partner.”

Caleb gave her a nod. “Thanks for the warning. We had skunks and rattlers back in Texas, too. Some of them were the two-legged kind. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. And you’ll be safe with me here.”

This time, when she closed the door behind him he heard the sharp, metallic click of the bolt.

Enough light remained for Caleb to see his way to the springhouse, but night was falling fast. He balanced his burden against the wall while he fumbled with the lock, turned the key and released the hasp. The door creaked inward and he stepped into the shadows.

The hair rose on the back of his neck as the nightmare memories crept around him. Laura’s anguished screams echoed off the walls, ripping through his senses. He felt the awful snap of bone and his own sick helplessness as Zeke’s blade opened her beautiful face. His eyes recoiled from the glint of light on Mark Shafton’s rifle and from Noah’s dark bulk in the glare of the sunlit doorway. The air was thick and smothering like a foul hand clamped over his face, shutting off his breath. It was as if the fear and evil born in that dank place had taken on a life of its own. All Caleb wanted was to get out of there.

His hands shook as he replaced the milk and butter in the cool box and stumbled out into the night. His mother had warned him about the spirits that lingered in places where some awful event had occurred. As a man, Caleb had chalked her stories up to Comanche superstition—until now.

Laura went in and out of the springhouse every day, he reminded himself. Did the horror of the place haunt her as it had haunted him? Or had she managed to wall it off into some forbidden corner of her mind? Caleb’s jaw clenched at the thought of what she must have suffered and the courage it must have taken for her to stay here alone.

Filling his lungs with the cool evening air, he closed the padlock and hung the key on the nail beside the back door. Lamplight flickered through the window as Laura went about her work in the kitchen. Caleb pictured her small, quick hands, washing, wiping, putting everything in order for tomorrow. What would it feel like, he wondered, to stand behind her, wrap his arms around her shoulders and cradle her gently against him? He wouldn’t ask heaven for more—just holding her would be enough, feeling her warmth and smelling the sweet, clean aroma of her hair. That was what he’d missed most in the past five years. In most any town there were whores who could be had for a few dollars, but simple tenderness was beyond any price he could pay.

Frustrated, he turned away from the house and walked toward the shed where he’d laid out his bedroll. In the east a waning teardrop of a moon hung above the horizon. Clouds floated across its pitted face. The moon was scarred, and yet it was the most beautiful object in the sky. What would Laura say if he told her that?

But what was he thinking? He was a half-breed and an ex-convict. Even if his family’s crime could be rubbed out and forgotten, a woman like Laura wouldn’t be caught walking down the street with him.

He crossed the yard, keeping an eye out for skunks and rattlesnakes. His horse stood dozing in the corral. Its ears twitched as Caleb passed the fence. He could saddle up and go tonight, he thought. Maybe he’d ride south, skirting the foothills, all the way to Mexico. He could build a new life there, with his own little ranch and a fiery-eyed señorita who didn’t give a damn about his past as long as he bought her pretty things to wear.

But no, he had fences to mend, firewood to chop and ditches to clear. He had an injured boy who could still take a turn for the worse, and a brave, beautiful woman who could only do so much without his help.

With every day he stayed here, the risks would mount. But Laura needed him. And while she needed him, he wouldn’t leave her. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until he could leave her safer, happier and better off than he’d found her.

Wispy clouds were streaming over the mountains. Dark against the indigo sky, they floated like tattered silk on the evening breeze. Caleb’s eyes traced the path of a falling star. He was bone tired, but something told him he wouldn’t get much sleep tonight.

In Laura’s window, the light had gone out.