Читать книгу Montana Legend - Jillian Hart - Страница 9

L ate-night weariness tugged at Sarah like a cold north wind as she wrung water from the mop. Droplets tinkled in the bucket and the soap sudsed, sending up tiny bubbles to pop in the candlelight.

Over the past year she’d washed this floor so many times, she didn’t make a sound or need more than the single flickering light as she bent to her work. A board squeaked beneath her foot, the only sound in the silent hotel.

Earning her keep at her aunt and uncle’s homestead left her little time to earn the money she needed. There was always an expensive new medicine to pay for or new shoes to buy, for Ella was always growing. What was left of her salary went to pay the doctor.

It was times like these when she was exhausted from a long week of working days and half the nights and when living with her aunt and uncle seemed unbearable, she didn’t know how she could keep going.

Her small weekly payments seemed to make no difference; the debt she was in seemed insurmountable. When she was falling asleep on her feet and her hands bled from lye soap, it seemed her life was never going to improve.

She was simply tired, and she knew it. Tomorrow, when the sun was rising and the breeze brought with it the sweetness of the morning prairie, she would feel differently. She always did. She took heart in that. Today had been an especially difficult one.

Uncle Milt’s mood had not improved by suppertime, and he grew into a rage when told of the latest gossip concerning their new neighbor, Gage Gatlin. Sarah shivered, remembering the look in her uncle’s eyes when he spoke of the man he believed to be a drifter, the man who’d taken cattle that Milt had decided were his.

A shivery sense of foreboding that sat deep in the pit of her stomach stung worse than her hands as she dunked the mop into the pail and wrung the excess water. She had a bad feeling about this. Milt wasn’t the most kind or honest of men. How far would he go? Would he steal those animals? Or worse?

Sarah’s chest felt tight with worry as she gripped the mop handle more tightly and accidentally banged the side of the bucket.

A metallic clank shot through the silence like a gunshot. She froze, listening to the echo fade in the long corridor. Wincing, she gently eased the mop back into the water, hoping beyond hope that she hadn’t startled anyone awake.

The door in the shadowed hallway flew open and a man’s broad shape emerged as dark as the night, only a silhouette against the pitch-black room behind him.

Sarah felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. With water dripping onto the floor, she carried her mop with her as she dared to step toward him. “I’m truly sorry I woke you, sir. I—”

There was a metallic click that echoed eerily through the night. Sarah froze when she realized it was the sound of a revolver being uncocked and lowered. The man was armed. She didn’t know what to say as he jammed the Colt into the leather holster he carried and wiped his brow with his sleeve.

“Sorry about that, ma’am. I guess that sounded too much like a gunshot to a man sound asleep.” He lifted one sculpted shoulder in a shrug.

Gage Gatlin. The mop handle slipped from her grip and clattered on the wet floor. She jumped when the noise bounced down the hallway like cannon fire. Oops. That wasn’t helping her job any. “I suppose that sounded like a band of road agents taking over the hotel.”

Before she could kneel to rescue her mop, he was there, bending down and into the light, his dark hair tousled handsomely, his jaw rough and his eyes weary.

So very weary. Sarah could only stare, mesmerized, as he straightened, only wearing his trousers, unsnapped and unbuckled, the faint lamplight caressing the span of his bare chest and abdomen.

A very fine chest and abdomen. Sarah swallowed hard, feeling heat burn her throat and sear her face. It was entirely indecent to notice the light dusting of fine dark hair that splayed across his chest and arrowed down his firm, toned abdomen to where his silver belt buckle winked in the shadowed light from downstairs.

“I didn’t know you worked here.” He held out the dripping mop, his stance open, a crook of curiosity arching his brows. “Your uncle and aunt don’t keep you busy enough?”

She blushed harder, but for a different reason. He’d said his words kindly enough, although it didn’t stop the shame from creeping through her.

Remembering how lovely the banker’s daughter had looked this morning when she’d visited Mr. Gatlin, Sarah felt plain indeed. Small and mousy and as dull as the patched dress she wore.

She didn’t want to be attracted to Mr. Gage Gatlin anyway, so it didn’t matter what she looked like. Gathering her pride, she straightened her spine, looked him in the eye and took possession of her mop. “Living on the homestead has become rather dull, so I spend my nights in town seeking one thrill after the next.”

“You strike me as that sort of woman. Far too bold for propriety’s sake.”

“That’s what everyone always tells me.” As if to prove her point, she dunked the mop in the bucket and knelt, her soft skirts swirling around her, and wrung the excess water with a twist of her small, delicate hands.

Gage swallowed. “And you spend your free time roaming the halls of this hotel, I take it. Causing trouble wherever you go.”

“That’s right. I’ve even been known to be so brash as to scrub pots in the kitchen, if it’s been a late night for the cook.”

“Ma’am, with your reputation I’d best stay clear of you.”

That made her laugh, light and quiet, and how that made his pulse surge through his veins. Fast and thick and hot enough to make him take notice of the way her apron clung to her shape as she swished the mop across the floor between them. He was a man and couldn’t help noticing the soft nip of her waist and the gentle sway of her breasts as she worked.

Gage tamped down a hotter, more primal response. He was tired, that was all, and troubled by the nightmare that had torn him awake tonight. By the remnants of a dream that had been shattered when he’d heard the pop of metal in the corridor.

Memory was a strange thing, making the past so real he could taste it, smell it. He wondered if there would ever come a time or a place where he felt safe. Had he come far enough? Would he find peace in this small Montana town? On these high, desolate plains?

Sarah Redding wiped at the floor with determined strokes, leaving tiny soap bubbles popping in the air above his bare toes. She was looking awfully hard at the floor, and now that his head was clear and the nightmare gone, he could see why.

Half naked, with a holstered gun in one hand. Now, didn’t that beat all? “Guess I’d best apologize. Next time I hear a commotion in the hallway, I’d better pull on a shirt first. If you come here often, that is.”

“Five nights every week.”

He reached into his room and found his shirt hanging on a peg by feel. “It’s two in the morning. When does your wild night on the town end?”

“When I reach the end of the hall.” Her mop dove playfully at his feet.

Being a wise man, he backed into the threshold. “So, you work half the night, and then you’re up before dawn to feed the chickens.”

“Sure. It keeps me busy. Out of trouble.”

He heard what she didn’t say. When you have a child, you do what it takes to provide for her. He knew all about that. And he’d had his share of seeing what happened when parents didn’t. Or worse, for that matter.

He closed his mind against the memories he didn’t want. From a time when he’d worn a silver badge on his chest.

“As you can see, I get into my fair share of trouble.” Her mop bumped the wall, scrubbing the last of the floor. “Banging my bucket in the hall, waking up paying guests. I hope you’re not angry with me.”

“I would have woken anyhow.”

“A light sleeper?”

“A troubled one.” It surprised him to admit the truth, but the low-spoken words escaped from his tongue and he shrugged, bashful at revealing so much.

“The life of a widow. Or widower.” Her voice softened and she straightened, turning to gaze up at him with understanding alight in her gentle blue eyes.

It had been a long time since he could look on the world and see goodness in the people in it. And it touched him right in the center of his chest, in the place where his heart used to be.

Where he hoped it still was.

“Don’t tell me you ride home alone this time of night,” he said as he lifted the bucket for her.

“All right, I won’t tell you.” She lifted her chin a notch as she stole the pail from his grip. “Now that I know you’re a light sleeper, I shall try harder tomorrow night not to wake you.”

A frown furrowed a disapproving line across his brow. “Your uncle thinks so little of your protection that he would allow this?”

“The countryside is safe.”

“No countryside is that safe.” He passed a hand over his eyes, looking troubled, looking weary. “Let me grab my boots and I will see you home.”

“No, that’s not necessary—”

“I’m not going to sleep at all if I let you go alone.”

“I have done so hundreds of times,” she reassured him, touched that he—nearly a perfect stranger—would care for her welfare when her kin cared so little.

Still, she was not his responsibility and she’d been independent far too long to lean on a man now. “Go back to your room, Gage Gatlin, and rest well. I’ll be fine on my own, and besides, what are you going to do? See me home every night?”

“Well, now, I admit I haven’t thought that far.” He flashed that grin at her, softened by sleep, edged by the dark shadow of a day’s growth.

He was a charming man. “You’ve got a child to look after,” she reminded him, because it was the practical thing to do. It wasn’t as if he was attracted to her, the way she was to him. He was simply being neighborly. Gentlemanly. Polite. That was all.

She clutched her mop close as she headed down the hall. “Good night to you, Mr. Gatlin.”

He didn’t answer as she swished down the stairs and into the lamplight of the lobby.

Someday, she thought wistfully as she stowed the broom in the back hall closet and carried the bucket out the side door and into the alley. One day she would no longer be alone. Someday she would have the warm embrace of a man holding her close through the night. Know the welcome comfort of a good man’s love.

“Done for the night, then?” Mrs. McCullough asked from the front desk, her knitting needles pausing as she looked up, squinting through her spectacles. “You sure do look tired, Sarah. These late nights are too much for you. I can get you a morning shift in the kitchen—”

“I wish I could.” Sarah sighed, trying not to think of the work that awaited her each day at her aunt’s shanty. “See you tomorrow evening.”

Sarah stowed the empty bucket in the small closet and her coat sleeve brushed her shoulder. As she lifted the garment from the hook, she tried not to think of the long walk ahead. Weariness weighed down her muscles as she tripped down the crooked board steps and hurried down the dark, narrow alley.

Piano music from the nearby saloon rang sharp and tinny on the icy wind. Random snowflakes drifted through the shadows and clung to her eyelashes and the front of her cloak as she shivered, walking fast past the lit windows where rough men drank inside.

For the ten thousandth time she felt the old anger rise up, anger at the injustice of David’s death. It wasn’t his fault, Lord knew, but nights like this when exhaustion closed over her like a sickness and even her soul felt weary, she longed for the way her life had been. For her own humble home, a cozy log cabin in the Idaho mountains, where Baby Ella had banged pots and pans on the polished puncheon floors and David’s laughter rang as he made a story over the events of his day at the logging camp, where he’d worked.

She longed for that gentle peace she’d known cuddling him in their bed at night, listening to his quiet breathing and feeling the beat of his heart beneath her hand. Of how when he stirred in his sleep, he reached for her, pulling her against his warm strong body, holding her close.

And although she’d grieved him long and well, she missed all he had given her. She knew she couldn’t go back, couldn’t live for the past and try to resurrect it. But she ached to know that kind of happiness again, the kind of love David had taught her a man and woman could find, if they were honest and loving enough.

Remembering made the night colder and more desolate as she left the town behind her. Walking quickly and steadily down the road as dark as despair.

Perched in his stirrups, Gage could barely make out the shadow of Sarah Redding as she walked the deserted road. The prairie winds moaned, making the landscape seem alive. Dried grasses rasped, an owl glided low, startling the mare. Coyotes howled, close enough to make the skin prickle at the back of his neck.

Old instincts reared up, ones that had once served him well. He’d vowed to keep away from Sarah, and here he was, looking out for her, making sure she was safe in the night.

But from a distance of half a mile. That was keeping away from her, right? Thanks to the long, flat prairie, he could see the road for a good mile and the lonely woman on it, walking with a tired hobble that was almost a limp.

He told himself it was sympathy he felt—not attraction—for the woman with the circles beneath her eyes and the worn dresses. For the widow with a daughter who’d been ill. He knew what it was like to be alone in the world with the sole responsibility of a child. And it was the former lawman in him that made him uncomfortable with the thought of any woman walking alone, in a peaceable countryside or not, because cruelty could dwell anywhere.

The road rolled down a gentle incline, stealing Sarah from his sight. He waited as a distant cow’s moo carried on the breeze until she reemerged, a slim shadow of grace against the endless prairie.

Sarah slipped from his sight completely, and he nudged the mare forward, searching for her in the dark.

There she was. Outlined against the empty road and rolling prairie. Looks like she was right all along. Maybe Buffalo County was as safe as it appeared. No danger in any direction.

Feeling foolish, he circled the mare around, nosing her north toward town. Keeping the reins taut, he hesitated, not sure what it was that made him pause. He felt unsettled, and it wasn’t the coyotes’s call or the restless winds that made him hesitate and gaze out over the plains.

Loneliness did. A loneliness that felt as bleak as a night without dawn.

Gage waited until he could see Sarah’s faint shadow at her front door before he turned, riding the mare hard. He knew from experience that it would take many miles to drive the demons from his mind and the nightmares from his heart.

Maybe there’d come a day when he could outrun them forever.

“Know what, Pa?” Lucy tromped through the tall thistles, casting a long shadow across the timber he was sawing. She paused, hand on one hip as she waited for his undivided attention.

“What?” he said for the tenth time that morning.

“At breakfast, Mrs. McCullough told me the schoolteacher was real nice.”

“So I heard.” He’d been there, too, blurry-eyed from a night of hard riding and, when he’d returned to the inn, hours filled with troubled dreams.

“Do you know what?” This time she didn’t pause but went right on talking over the sound of the saw. “Her name is Miss Fitzpatrick. Guess that means she ain’t married.”

“Guess so.” The saw’s teeth caught in the stubborn wood and the metal screeched in protest. He held back a curse as he worked the damn thing loose.

“Know what, Pa?”

“What?”

“I sure hope Miss Fitzpatrick likes me. Not that I want to be her favorite or nothin’, ’cuz I get to be the favorite a lot.”

Gage leaned on the saw and studied his daughter. Sparkling and excited. This new teacher was apparently a big worry, but as much as he loved Lucy, he had to get this house built. There was a whole lot of work to do before the mares started to foal.

“I reckon Scout is wondering why you aren’t showing her the new spread.” He set back to work. “Why don’t you go ride her around so she can get to know the place?”

“Sure. Know what, Pa?”

“What, Lucy?”

“’Suppose there’s lots of girls and boys my age at that school?”

“I reckon so. Now go ride your mare.”

“Oh, all right.” Lucy sparkled. “Do you know what, Pa?”

“Lucy.”

She giggled, not the least bit perturbed by his mood. “I’m gonna go ride, but I want some of Sarah’s pie for lunch.”

“Go.” Gage bit the inside of his cheek to keep from chuckling.

There went his little girl, dashing through the weeds. Lucy flourished wherever they’d landed, but she looked lighter somehow, as if this place suited her. She hopped over the rail fence and unwound Scout’s reins from the post. With a whoop, she leaped onto Scout’s withers and the two of them were off, streaking out of sight.

Just how long would she be able to stay out of trouble? He didn’t know. Lucy was a mystery to him, but he loved her. He shook his head, sank his saw into the cut and worked, sweat dripping down his face as the sun strengthened.

This was happiness. A beautiful morning. Hard work to occupy him. A day spread out before him without a single problem he couldn’t handle. He’d been needing this for a long time. Wandering from job to job, trying to put the past behind him hadn’t worked. Maybe the peace of this great land would be the balm he needed.

The timber broke apart and he wiped his brow with his shirt. He straightened, taking a breather. He could see Lucy loping Scout through the fields and into the creek. Water splashed everywhere.

The squeak of a buggy wheel spun him around. Was it Sarah? He didn’t know why his thoughts turned to her, maybe it was because he knew she lived close. When he spied the tasseled surrey drawn by a pair of matching gray Arabians, he couldn’t explain the disappointment that whipped through him. It wasn’t Sarah.

What was wrong with him? He needed his head checked, that’s what it was. A man opposed to marriage knew better than to start pining after a woman looking for matrimony.

“Mr. Gatlin, I presume?” The surrey squealed to a halt.

There, looking at him from beneath a fancy bonnet, was a beautiful redhead with a fetching smile. He knew the look of hope, having seen it a time or two before, and panic kicked through him like a cantankerous mule.

Being a brave man, he straightened his shoulders, told himself to buck up, and managed what he hoped was a cordial smile. “Howdy, ma’am. What can I do for you?”

“Then you are Mr. Gatlin.” Her smile widened, and there was something artificial about it, as if she’d practiced just that same striking curve of mouth and sparkle of eye in a mirror.

“I hate to say I am.” Resigned, he knelt to heft the timber off the sawhorse.

“Then I’m so pleased I was able to find you at home.” She climbed down from the surrey. “I wanted to welcome you to our little corner of Montana. I baked a cake for you.”

“That’s mighty kind of you, ma’am—”

“Call me Marilyn.” She gazed up at him through long lashes, a coy look, just this side of proper, but her message was clear.

How many more women were going to be stopping by to measure up the new bachelor? He dropped the timber, letting it thud to the ground. “That was mighty kind of you, ma’am, but I’m already stocked up on baked goods.”

“I’m sure your daughter will help you eat it.” Marilyn pranced closer on her dainty slippers, arms extended with a glass cake plate.

Angel food. Lucy’s favorite. It wasn’t as if he could be impolite and send her away. He wasn’t a man who could hurt a woman’s feelings, but he didn’t feel right about taking the cake. Or the delicate plate it was on.

“My daughter and I thank you, ma’am.” He wasn’t about to use her first name. He’d learned long ago that would only encourage a marriage-minded woman.

There was only one thing to do. He heaved another timber onto the sawhorse. “It was kind of you to stop by.” He grabbed his saw and set to work.

He figured Miss Marilyn had a few prying questions for him, and after she’d batted her eyes a few more times and walked with a sway of her curvy hips meaning to give him something to think about, she’d be gone.

But not soon enough.

Gage set his jaw, watched the saw bite into the raw lumber, and cursed. All he wanted was to be left alone. Was that too much to ask?

At the sound of a knock at the door Sarah looked up from her kneading. There, on the other side of the pink mesh screen door, stood little Lucy Gatlin.

Her freckled face was shaded by her sunbonnet and sparkled with a grin as she pressed against the mesh. “Howdy, Sarah. Whatcha doin’?”

“I’m making bread. What are you up to?”

“Nothin’.” Lucy pulled open the screen door and leaned one reed-thin shoulder on the frame. “That looks sticky.”

“That’s why I use flour.” Sarah dug the heel of her hand into the dough ball. What was that look on Lucy’s face? Her eyes were pinched, her mouth pursed tight. “I wager your father buys bread in town.”

“Yep.” Lucy took one step forward, watching intently. “That pie you made was real good. We had big slices after supper last night.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

Lucy stalked closer. “I bet your bread is real good.”

“I can bring over a loaf when it’s done cooling.”

“Could you?” Lucy’s dark eyes sparkled like Gage’s, full of something extraordinary.

Sarah couldn’t help being charmed. “You can help yourself to a roll if you’d like.” She nodded toward the wire racks on the other side of the kitchen.

“Gee, thanks!”

Sarah pinched the ends of the rolled dough and popped it into a waiting pan. The last one. The back of her neck ached as she straightened. She’d been bending over the breadboard since dawn, but at least the hardest work of the day was over.

Sarah opened the oven door, ignored the blast of heat and slipped her hand inside to test the temperature. “Do you want a glass of milk to go with that?”

“Nope. Can Ella come play?”

“So that’s why you came to raid my kitchen.” Sarah slipped the half dozen-bread pans into the oven and eased the door shut. “Ella’s in her room—”

Footsteps knelled in the front room as Ella burst into sight. “Can I, Ma? Can I please?”

Breathless, Ella clasped her hands together and pleaded. It had been a long time since there had been anyone Ella’s age to play with.

“Take your sweater.” Sarah tried to keep a firm look so there would be no argument. “And you girls don’t go far.”

“We won’t!”

The screen door slammed shut. Laughing to herself, Sarah watched the girls dash into the yard. Ella tugged on her sweater while Lucy untied Scout from the porch post. The bell-like cheer of their voices rang through the kitchen. What luck that a girl Ella’s age had moved in next door.

“Going to take Mr. Gatlin a loaf of your bread, are you?” Cousin Lark, a young girl of sixteen, swept into the kitchen. “I don’t know, Sarah. It sounds like a wasted effort to me.”

“A kind act is never wasted.” Knowing full well what Lark meant, Sarah swept the caked flour and bits of dough into the garbage bucket. “Would you like to take some fresh rolls to your meeting in town?”

“As if I would bring something homemade.” Lark wrinkled her dainty nose as she lifted her best cloak from the peg at the door. “Although I’m sure your baking leaves a certain impression with a man like Mr. Gatlin.”

Sarah had grown used to her stepcousin’s biting remarks, and she was old enough to know the girl was spoiled and sheltered. Life would teach her differently soon enough. But what truly cut to the quick was the derisive look that said, “poor relation.”

That was a sore point. Sarah felt her face flame and she turned her squared back, grinding her mouth shut and keeping it that way. She could not risk losing her temper and being tossed out of the house, a house Ella still needed.

Sarah’s gaze shot to the window where her little girl was stroking Scout’s silky-looking neck. Ella glowed with happiness, standing beside her new friend, but she remained wan and thin. No amount of food and care seemed to make a difference. Ella’s health was still frail, the doctor had told her. It was likely to remain that way for a while longer.

“Everyone in town will get a chuckle out of your baking for Mr. Gatlin.” Lark shot out the door, apparently delighted to have the last word.

Sarah leaned her forehead against the upper cupboard door and tried not to let the words take root, but how could she help it? Especially when Lark was right.