Читать книгу The Stranger - Elizabeth Lane - Страница 12

Laura lay with her eyes open, staring up into the darkness. Beside her Robbie curled in slumber, his splinted arm still resting on the pillow. Usually he slept in his own room, like the little man he was so determined to be. But tonight she wanted him near in case he woke up frightened or in pain. Tonight he was still her baby.

From outside in the yard, she could hear the light creak of the windmill in the nighttime breeze. She recalled how Caleb McCurdy had climbed up to replace the broken vanes with pine slabs he’d cut and shaped from logs in the woodpile. She remembered the sureness of his long, brown hands and the easy power of his body, a savage’s body, beautiful in its lithe, catlike way.

Watching him was like watching a dangerous animal. He had a brawler’s face, but the broken nose and the puckered scar across his eyebrow lent him a cynical, off-kilter expression that drew her eye and piqued her fascination. Laura had found herself wishing she could draw him out, learn more about who and what he was. But the secrets that blazed in those dark, intelligent eyes had warned her to keep her distance.

His whole way of moving and speaking was a study in tightly reined ferocity. Yet she’d never known anything from him except gentleness.

The man had been in prison, she reminded herself. And his self-confessed part in the robbery that landed him there had likely been played down for her benefit. He didn’t act like a criminal. But then, how was a criminal supposed to act? How would she know?

Restless, Laura turned onto her side and bunched her pillow under her head. She would be wise to watch his every move, she cautioned herself. Not only was Caleb McCurdy an ex-convict, he was also half Comanche. She didn’t know much about Indians, but Mark had warned her about half-breeds. They had the worst traits of the white race and the worst of the red, he’d told her. That was why decent folks didn’t like having them around.

Blurred by darkness now, Mark’s silver-framed photograph gazed at her from its place on the night-stand. What a handsome man he’d been—so bright and anxious to do well for himself. As a young bride, Laura had hung on his every word. Only in later years had she come to realize that, in many ways, Mark had been no wiser than she was. They’d been two innocents, little more than children, at the mercy of an untamed land and its people.

Laura twisted the thin gold band on her finger. Mark had been wrong about so many things. Had he been wrong about half-breeds, too?

With a sigh, she eased onto her back once more. Her arm slipped around the shoulders of her sleeping son. Robbie was her one sure, solid truth. His life gave meaning to every breath she took, every beat of her heart. All the rest was so much dust in the wind…even the tall, dark stranger who’d appeared like a phantom out of nowhere.

One day soon he would move on, and Laura sensed that she wouldn’t see him again. Caleb McCurdy didn’t strike her as a man who formed ties to any place—or to any person. He would simply ride away and never look back.

“What’re you doing now, mister?”

Caleb fitted a board into the empty slot and used his free hand to pick up a nail and press the tip into the soft pine. He didn’t mind the question at all. After the lonely years in prison, it was pure pleasure being tagged around the yard by a curious little boy.

“I’m putting new wood on your chicken coop so the skunks won’t get in and eat the eggs at night. Do you think that’s a good idea?” He picked up the hammer and sunk the nail with a few sharp blows.

Robbie watched him, wide-eyed. “Won’t the skunks get hungry?”

“They’ll find other things to eat.” Caleb glanced down at the nails scattered on the ground. “You can help me if you want. Pick up a few of those nails. When I need one, you can hand it to me.”

“You bet!” Robbie scrambled for the nails, eager in spite of his splinted arm, which Laura had cradled in a sling made from a faded bandanna. The boy had bounced back from yesterday’s fall. Except for some soreness in the arm and some awkwardness with the splint, he seemed to be doing fine.

Caleb accepted a second nail from Robbie and hammered it into place. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Laura hanging a muslin sheet on the clothesline. She’d had wash hanging out the day before, he recalled. Today she didn’t seem to have more than a small batch, just some bedding and a few dishcloths. Caleb suspected that the long process of boiling, scrubbing, rinsing, wringing and hanging was little more than an excuse to be outside where she could keep an eye on Robbie, and maybe on him as well.

He remembered the very first time he’d set eyes on her, standing in that very same spot, with yellow ribbons fluttering in her hair, so sweet and perfect that she’d reminded him of a brand-new store-bought doll just lifted from its tissue-paper wrappings.

Today she was dressed in threadbare calico, faded to a washed-out blue-gray that was worn almost colorless where the fabric strained against her breasts. Her sun-streaked hair hung down her back in a single braid, with loose tendrils blowing around her face. Her deep gray eyes were as luminous as ever, but they were framed by shadows of grief and worry. Laura Shafton was no longer a doll. She was a strong, capable woman who had stared death in the face and survived. A woman who could shoot a snake, skin a deer, chop her own firewood and raise a son with loving firmness.

In Caleb’s eyes, she was more beautiful than ever.

“Can you shoot a gun?” Robbie asked, handing him another nail.

“If I have to.”

“Will you teach me how?”

Caleb shook his head. “A gun isn’t a toy. You can learn when you’re older.”

“How old?”

Caleb drove the nail in with a half-dozen ringing blows. “Maybe thirteen or fourteen, if you’ve got somebody to teach you. You need to be strong enough to hold the gun steady. And you need to be smart enough to know when and what to shoot.”

“I’m strong and smart. My mama says so.”

“Maybe so. But you’re not old enough to shoot a gun.”

The boy’s lower lip thrust outward. “But what if bad men come around, like the ones that killed my papa? What if I have to shoot them?”

Caleb felt his stomach clench with a pain so physical that it stopped his breath. He knew the boy’s question needed an answer, but words had deserted him. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. The sun had suddenly become too warm, its light so bright that it made his eyes water.

“Ka-pow!” Robbie aimed his imaginary pistol toward the corral and pulled the trigger. “Ka-pow! Ka-pow! Take that, you dad-blamed varmints!” Laura glanced around, an expression of concern on her face. The boy turned back to Caleb. “That’s what I’d do if bad men came!” he announced. “I’d shoot them all!”

Caleb found his voice. “I’ll tell you what, Robbie. Let’s finish nailing on these boards. Then maybe your mother will let me take you fishing this afternoon.”

“Fishing?” The round blue eyes brightened. “Can I catch a fish?”

“Maybe. I’ll show you what to do. The rest is up to the fish.”

“I’ll ask her now!” The boy spun away, then swung back toward Caleb, looking crestfallen. “But how can we go fishing? We don’t have a fishing pole.”

Caleb’s face relaxed into a grin. “Leave that to me,” he said.

Laura had agreed to let her son go fishing, but only on condition that she come along. Caleb seemed to get on well with the boy, but water could be dangerous. It would be all too easy for a man to become distracted and turn his back at the wrong moment. That aside, fishing would also be a useful skill for her to learn, one more way to put food on the table in times of need.

The problem of finding a pole and tackle had been solved when Caleb delved into one of his saddlebags and came up with a small canvas pouch. Inside was a coil of fishing line and an assortment of hooks and sinkers. All that remained was to find a long, stout willow with the right amount of flex and to dig a few worms from the garden. By then Robbie was dancing with excitement.