Читать книгу The Horseman's Frontier Family - Karen Kirst - Страница 12

Chapter Four

“I want a word with you.”

Gideon gritted his teeth as he walked along the stream. Why couldn’t the Montgomery woman leave him alone? Didn’t she have the common sense to know not to provoke a riled beast? The rage coursing through his body made him feel more beast than human. This lightning-quick temper was a curse that had originated in childhood, about the time his father dumped him and his brothers at Cousin Obadiah’s, went off to fight for the North and never returned. With God’s help he’d learned to control it. There’d been exceptions, of course, like the time he broke Theo Chaucer’s nose.

Lately, that control was slipping more often. Despite his antipathy toward the Lord, he recognized he wasn’t strong enough to master it by relying on his own strength.

He glided his hat along the surface of the water, scooping a fair amount into the crown. Then he upturned it over his head, the cool liquid shocking the anger out of his system. Slowly rising, he turned and climbed the gently sloping bank to where she stood waiting beneath the cottonwood branches, her black boot tapping out an impatient rhythm. Her molten-molasses gaze accused him of all sorts of ills. May as well get this over with.

“I’m listening.”

“You almost lost it just now, didn’t you? I could tell you wanted to plant your fist in my brother’s face. Well, I’m warning you right now I won’t stand for violence. Not in front of my son.”

Shame flooded him. Not once had he lost his temper in front of a woman. Not even his wife. Whenever he and Susannah had quarreled, he’d gone off alone to sort through his feelings. He wouldn’t dream of doing so in front of a child.

“I won’t do anything to worry Walt. You have my word.”

One thick brow arched in disbelief. “According to my brothers, that’s not worth much.”

The nerve of her. Spine rigid, Gideon turned his back on her as his ire stirred anew. He’d taken quite enough from this mouthy female. She’d questioned his honor at every turn.

Like a dog worrying a bone, she darted around him, forcing him to hear her out. “Until our case goes to court, my brothers will be coming out here regularly to check on us. How can I trust you won’t resort to violence?”

“Maybe you should revisit what just happened here. It’s your brother you should be lecturing, not me.”

She batted at a stray curl that had escaped the pins holding her shiny locks in place. She wasn’t wearing mourning black, he noted. The pure white blouse lit her skin with a healthy glow, accentuating her waist where it tucked into her billowing navy skirt.

“Look, I know you don’t give a fig about me or my family. I know that we’re on opposite sides of a feud that began many, many years ago, and when it comes to this land, we both want it for ourselves. But I’m begging you—” her husky voice wavered as she flung a hand toward the field where her son played “—have compassion on that little boy out there. He’s been through a lot in his short lifetime, more than any child should have to endure. All I want is for him to be happy and free of worry.”

The sheen of tears in her expressive eyes startled him. This was the first sign of vulnerable emotion he’d glimpsed in the fierce widow. Walt had recently lost his father. To what else was she referring?

He opened his mouth to question her, recalling in the nick of time that it wasn’t his concern. Their past was their business, not his. Soon they would be out of his hair. An unfortunate reminder of a troublesome time.

Anxiety pinched her features.

As a father, he had no trouble identifying with what she was feeling. Good parents desired the best for their children, instinctively strove to protect and nurture.

Attempting to soothe her unease, he spoke quietly and surely, injected confidence in his stance. “The boy has nothing to do with our troubles. I won’t do anything to traumatize him.”

Lips compressing, she studied him, gauging his sincerity. Finally, she nodded.

“I will warn you, however. I won’t stand idly by if provoked beyond reason. I will defend myself. I suggest you make sure your brothers understand that.”

Spinning on his heel, he left her there with her mouth hanging open. He mentally shrugged. Wasn’t his fault if she caught a fly.

* * *

Gideon stirred awake to the sound of the stream trickling past on its course to the Cimarron River. The tent stretching above him was washed in orangey-pink, evidence of dawn’s arrival. Woodpeckers scouted for breakfast in the elms stationed midway between his tent and the stable, and a frog chirruped a throaty greeting.

Easing to a sitting position, he leaned forward and parted the tent flaps to soak in the prairie’s serene beauty. Buttery light gilded each individual blade of grass, every wildflower tilting its face eastward, every glossy leaf dangling from the trees, so that it seemed to him a vista of pure golden goodness. He’d grown accustomed to this. The thought of leaving it—and the dreams it nursed like a greedy infant—made his insides seize up something terrible.

There was nothing else to do but continue his work and, when the time came, present his case and attempt to convince the judge of his rightful ownership.

Dressing quickly in denims and a blue-and-white-striped shirt, he straightened his pallet and pillow and retrieved the bulging laundry sack from the corner. These were his last pair of clean trousers, which meant he couldn’t put off a trip into town any longer. He tried to space them out as much as possible. In general, people drained the life out of him. Their nosiness and frivolous chatter gave him a headache. He was an oddity, he knew. A lone wolf who craved solitude and space to think. Does not get along with others, his teacher had once observed to his ward, Cousin Obadiah. Possesses a superior attitude. Gideon grimaced. That had earned him twenty lashes and a week of bread and water for supper.

Elijah and Clint were the only ones who really understood him. They accepted him. Didn’t try to change him like Susannah—

Shoving to his feet, he strode to the stream and splashed his face and neck and wet his collar-length hair. Tying on a neckerchief, his fingers brushed the scruff on the underside of his chin. Time for a shave and haircut.

As he stirred the fire and set the scuffed tin pot to boil, he kept a watchful eye on the other tent, hoping she’d prove to be a late riser. Conversation anytime was a stretch. Before breakfast bordered on criminal. What was more, he couldn’t fudge his way through. Evelyn Montgomery required all the focus and concentration he could muster.

Low on provisions, he made due with corn mush that was about as tasteless as tree bark but filled his belly. He carried his coffee with him to the stable, stopping to greet Star and Snowball, a three-year-old gray he’d bought shortly after his arrival in Boomer Town. Their friendly greetings never failed to soothe him. Horses didn’t judge him or push him to be something he wasn’t. He understood animals better than he did most people. Actually preferred their company, if truth be told.

Star nudged his shoulder.

“Searching for treats, huh?” he ran a hand through her mane. “You’re outta luck. But I’ll see if I can’t scrounge up a carrot or two in town. How about that?”

She dipped her head, seeming to agree with him. A fleeting smile lifted his lips.

“Gotta go.” He pushed away from the fence. “The faster I get this stable up, the sooner you’ll have a roof over your heads.”

Inside the structure, he surveyed his progress. The walls reached his waist. Since he couldn’t physically lift the logs any higher without help, he’d have to rig a pulley system.

The sound of feet shuffling in the dirt behind him had him spinning about, hot coffee sloshing over the mug’s rim. His heart settled back into a somewhat normal rhythm when he spied his pint-size visitor.

“Walt.”

The boy hovered just inside the opening, his hands twisting behind his back, large, dark eyes surveying the interior with interest. His shirt buttons were off-center, the wrinkled hems uneven, and his wavy hair hadn’t yet seen a comb this day.

Gideon searched the field beyond the opening, suddenly desperate for Evelyn’s presence. He did not want to be here alone with a walking reminder of his dead child.

“Where’s your ma?” he croaked, throat muddy with trepidation.

Pointless question. He hadn’t heard Walt Montgomery emit a squeak, let alone an intelligible response. Not that the child was slow-witted. Far from it. Intelligence shone in those Chaucer eyes.

He pointed a chubby finger in the tent’s direction.

“Is she making breakfast?”

Walt shook his head, folded his hands and pressed them against his cheek.

“She’s still asleep?”

When he nodded and wandered over to the neat piles of tack—saddles, blankets, bridles and more—Gideon tamped down panic. “Uh, maybe you should go back to your tent. Your ma will worry if she wakes and finds you gone.”

The little boy ignored his suggestion, touching a hesitant finger to this item and that, bending at the knees, peering closer. Inquisitive as well as intelligent.

And without a father. Just as Gideon had been at that age.

Drake Montgomery’s image resurfaced in his mind. Gideon could clearly recall the expression of hatred, of reckless resolve that drove him to push himself and his mount beyond their limits. He could still hear the frantic pleas for help as he lay writhing in pain. What kind of man had he been? What kind of husband? Father?

Taking another swallow of the bitter coffee, Gideon dislodged the misplaced curiosity. Not his business, remember?

Still standing in the same spot, he watched as Walt drifted over to the corner where the building tools were stacked. He picked up a hammer, tentatively testing its weight. When the boy lifted a beseeching gaze to him, Gideon was hurtled backward in time, to before the war that divided the nation and ripped his father from him, to a time when things were simple and good. His father had taught him how to pound nails into wood. How proud Gideon had been to be his helper.

Spurred by poignant memories, he set the mug on the ground and, retrieving a discarded wood round, located the box of nails. He could spare a few minutes for a lonely little boy, even if it meant resurrecting pain that would devour him from the inside out if he let it.

* * *

Evelyn woke with the distinct feeling that something was off. But what? She lay motionless for a long moment, not breathing, trying to pinpoint the source of her unease. Breathing. Walt’s soft breathing wasn’t filling the tent’s cramped interior. The absence of it aroused all sorts of dire imaginings.

Bolting upright, she called his name, lifting the blue-and-yellow-swirled quilt even though it was obvious he wasn’t here.

She shoved her arms into the thin cotton housecoat, tugged on her boots without bothering to lace them. Stumbling outside, she searched both sides of the stream. The fields were empty. Tethered to the nearest tree, Petra turned her head and let out a welcoming bawl.

“Walt?”

Where could he be? Surely not with Gideon. To a shy kid like him, the man must seem like a giant. A big, brawny, intimidating giant. Clutching her housecoat lapels, she strode across the field, dewdrops wiping away yesterday’s dust from her boots.

The steel-swathed-in-velvet voice slowed her steps. Patience marked Gideon’s words as he explained the safest way to wield a hammer. Amazing how soothing and, yes, even pleasant, he could sound when he wasn’t defensive or tense or angry as he was around her.

Edging to the doorway, she caught sight of man and boy crouched close together. Walt had a tight grip on the handle, a look of intense concentration on his face, lower lip tucked in tight. The cowboy’s capable-looking hands gently covered his, mimicking the movements.

Oh, Walt. Evelyn’s throat constricted. Anyone could see he was soaking up the attention.

She must’ve made a sound, because Gideon’s head whipped up, the force of his gray gaze slamming into her. While his voice and expression were easy, his eyes told a different story. Misery was reflected there. Desolation. Whatever had happened to this man had come close to destroying him, had robbed him of hope and life and trust.

Blinking, he severed eye contact, then dipped his head. “Look who’s here.”

Walt’s blinding grin sidetracked her train of thought. How long had it been since he’d been this animated? Silently animated, she amended, drawn farther into the sunny space. This time when Gideon looked at her, his eyes were clear of turmoil as they did a slow inspection of her hair, her clothing and her unlaced boots.

Heat traveled to her cheeks. They were practically strangers, and here she was in her nightclothes, her hair arranged in a haphazard, sleep-tousled braid.

Tightly bunching the material at her neck, she held out her hand to her son. “Let’s leave Mr. Thornton to his work, sweetheart.”

This suggestion did not sit well with Walt, who jutted his chin at a stubborn angle.

“I don’t mind if he stays a little longer,” Gideon said, surprising her. “We’re not quite finished with our lesson.”

Finished or not, Evelyn had to stamp out the adoration taking root in Walt’s eyes. He could not be allowed to become attached to her family’s sworn enemy.

“You’ll have to finish it later.”

Pushing to his feet, Gideon approached, a defensive slope to his broad shoulders. “What’s the problem, Evelyn?” He spoke quietly. “Surely you don’t believe a few minutes in my company will sully your son?”

She fought the urge to take a step back. He was too close, his manly scent—a combination of campfire and leather—luring her closer. The wide, solid planes of his chest looked like the perfect place of refuge, a place to rest her head and, for a brief moment, give up control. Lean on someone else’s strength. The sweetness of that prospect had her swaying toward him.

His sleek brows furrowed in response.

“I—” She scrambled for something sensible to say, stunned at herself. Gideon Thornton was the last person on earth she should be seeking support from.

Liar. Thief. Adversary.

Gentle. Patient. Kind.

Before she could unravel her thoughts, he clamped his jaw. “No need to say anything else. Your opinion of me is quite clear.” He motioned for Walt. “Breakfast time, kiddo. Go help your ma.”

The joy leached from Walt’s face. Small shoulders drooping, he trudged across the dirt floor. Indecision knotted her insides. Was she wrong to interrupt? Of course she didn’t actually think Gideon posed a threat to her son, but a lifetime of warnings could not easily be brushed aside.

Hunkering down to Walt’s level, she took his hand and caressed a thumb over his soft skin. “How would you like to help me make flapjacks?”

He kicked up a shoulder. Dug the rounded toe of his boot in the reddish dirt.

“I found our crock of maple syrup. That would taste good on top, don’t you think?”

He nodded, but no smile appeared. He didn’t want to leave Gideon. Swallowing a sigh, she shot the cowboy a parting look, which he missed because he’d already turned away to tidy up the space. Judging from his ruler-straight spine and careful movements, he wasn’t any happier than Walt was.

On the walk back to the campsite, one disconcerting question drummed through her mind. How could someone so distasteful, so despicable—according to her brothers—treat her son better than his own father had?

Even if her husband were around to defend himself, he wouldn’t see the need to answer to her or anyone else. Drake had been the center of his own universe. His goals and his comforts were all that had mattered. Whenever she’d asked him to pay more attention to their son, he’d shrugged her off. A toddler isn’t worth my time. When he’s old enough to understand grown-up stuff, then I’ll take him under my wing. Infuriating, foolish man. He died not knowing the treasure he’d rejected.

Sitting on a low stool at Petra’s side, she situated Walt between her knees and showed him how to direct the milk into the pail at their feet. His initial hesitation gradually faded, and when the cow’s tail swished against his ear, he giggled. The carefree laughter, like a bubbling spring, made her yearn for more. To hear him say “Mama” and “I love you.” To hear him sing again in his pure, lighter-than-air voice.

Theo had warned her not to push him, and she’d taken his advice. It hadn’t been easy. Living with this unnatural silence, wondering if he’d ever speak again, had filled her with troubling anger. This was Drake’s fault. She wanted to rant and rave and vent her frustration at a dead man. What did that say about her as a person?

“All done,” she said, masking the unpleasantness boiling inside. “Good job, sweetie. Now let’s go make flapjacks. I’m hungry as a bear, aren’t you?”

By the time the fluffy cakes were stacked in trenchers with a hefty slathering of syrup, Walt’s earlier unhappiness was forgotten. He dug into the meal with gusto. With logs for seats and no table to speak of, they ate with the trenchers in their laps, the great outdoors their dining room. Couldn’t ask for a nicer view. The birds whistling overhead and the rush of water were nice touches. However, she could do without the pesky flies.

Her gaze drifted to the stable, where Gideon had his head bent to an unknown task. He hadn’t worked on the walls so far this morning, despite the fact there was a pile of logs behind the structure ready for use. Unusual that he’d chosen to erect the animals’ shelter before his own. If his cabin had already been built, would he have given up his living quarters for them? Not for her, but for Walt? The question was an unnecessary one but interesting. If not for his purchase of Petra, she would’ve said outright that Gideon Thornton giving up his home for the likes of her was about as likely as a wolf giving up his prey. Now she wasn’t so sure.