Читать книгу The Horseman's Frontier Family - Karen Kirst - Страница 14

Chapter Six

Long after darkness had descended and Walt had drifted off to sleep, Evelyn reclined beside the fire, gazing up at a blue-black sky studded with brilliant stars, her thoughts unsettled. Conflicted. If Gideon was telling the truth, that meant someone in her family was lying.

While she couldn’t discount his conviction, the man was a complete stranger. She knew next to nothing about him. What she did know came secondhand, and none of it was positive. She loved and trusted her brothers. And Drake... Well, he wasn’t around to tell his story, was he?

Above the sound of the wood crackling and spitting came a soft thwack, thwack. Easing to a sitting position, she cast about for the source. What was that noise? It came again from the direction of Gideon’s tent. She stood and, tucking her blouse into her waistband, peeked in on Walt. He looked peaceful as he slept, his hands nestled underneath his cheek. She wavered in the doorway. Should she ignore the sound?

Thwack.

Now that her curiosity was roused, there would be no rest until she discovered whether the cause was man or beast. Preferably not beast.

On her right moonlight glinted off the ribbon of trickling water. On the far side of the stream, impenetrable blackness cloaked the rolling fields. Up ahead the fire cast orange fingers on the elms and cottonwoods towering over his tent. There was no sign of him.

“Gideon?” She spoke quietly, praying he wasn’t already asleep. Tiptoeing closer, she noticed the tent flaps were still up. His pallet was empty.

When the sounds came again in rapid succession, she ventured past the copse a little ways. A kerosene lamp swinging from a low branch outlined Gideon’s unmistakable form. Slung across his back was a quiver of arrows, and in his hand he held a sleek bow. The ankle-high grass swallowed up her footfalls as she approached him. She watched wide-eyed as he brought the bow up and, anchoring it against his shoulder, fired off a shot at the paper target attached to the trunk twenty yards away. The tip sank into the wood like a knife sinking into butter. It joined five others in the black circle.

Lowering the bow, he twisted his torso in her direction. “Has no one ever told you not to sneak up on an armed man?”

Ignoring his forbidding expression, she shrugged. “I wasn’t worried.” Just as he’d known she was in the barn earlier, her presence here hadn’t gone unnoticed. His senses were honed to perfection.

She took in his rumpled appearance—shirttails hanging out, buttons undone to reveal a white undershirt stretched across his chest and flat stomach—and decided sleep had evaded him, too. Shortly after their exchange at lunch, he’d hitched up his wagon and left without a goodbye. He must’ve visited the barber in town, for his hair was neatly trimmed and his cheeks smooth, the spicy scent of shaving cream teasing her nostrils. Faint lamplight cast his features in sharp relief, mysterious angles and shadows. His mouth looked like sculpted marble. Perfectly proportioned yet hard and cold and emotionless.

Suppressing a shiver, she forced her feet to approach him. Nodding at the target, she said, “You’re good. You make it seem effortless, but I’m guessing it requires an inordinate amount of skill.”

He stalked to the tree and removed the arrows. Replacing all but one in the quiver, he retraced his steps and stopped in front of her. “It’s a good tension reliever.” His wolflike gaze roamed her face, then her hair, which she’d released from its pins for the evening. The soft waves spilled over her shoulders. “You look tense. Why don’t you give it a try?”

She instinctively retreated a step. “I don’t think so.”

Trying new things meant the possibility of failure. She’d learned not to risk the condescension. The stinging criticism. Easier to stick with what she knew and those tasks she could perform well.

With a terse nod, he said, “Suit yourself.”

Then he pivoted and, without hesitation, fired off an arrow so fast her eyes could barely track it. Gideon moved with fluid grace and strength, toned muscles working together in a cohesive sequence born of hours of practice.

“Who taught you to do that?” She couldn’t mask her awe.

“Lars.”

“But you haven’t known him very long. Your level of skill...”

“I practice a lot,” he murmured without looking at her. Pacing away, he lifted a jar of water to his mouth. The light glanced off his golden throat as he swallowed.

If shooting arrows helped ease his tension, and he was this good already, then he must be dealing with a lot of anxiety.

Fathomless eyes met hers. “Is there something in particular you wanted, Evelyn?”

She should forbid him to say her name. The way he said it—all hushed and reverent as though she were a queen or something—made her want to touch the top of her head to see if there really was a crown up there.

How utterly ridiculous, she chastised herself.

Still, she wouldn’t let him run her off just yet. She wasn’t ready to return to her lonely fire and even lonelier bed.

“Don’t you think it’s strange that in all of Oklahoma territory, both of our families chose to settle in the same start-up town?”

“You don’t want my opinion on that, and I know I don’t want yours.” Again he snatched an arrow and, after fitting it against the bow, let it fly. Thwack.

“I’m curious. Why did the illustrious Thorntons choose to take part in the land rush? Wasn’t there enough land and wealth to go around in Kansas?” she baited him.

The fact that they had financially benefited from the war while most of their neighbors had suffered great hardship was one of the chief reasons for her parents’ hostility.

Grief gripped his features. “We were ready for a change,” he pushed out on a heavy sigh. “A fresh start.”

Questions bubbled up to the surface. What had happened in Kansas to make him so bereft? So closed off? So tense?

Don’t ask, Evelyn. No matter what misfortune he’s endured, you can’t afford to feel sorry for him. Sympathy will only land you in a heap of trouble.

Feigning a yawn, she mumbled, “It’s late. I’ll leave you to your target practice.”

Turning, she was a few paces away when he spoke.

“Good night, Evelyn. Sweet dreams.”

She faltered. With a wince and a mental shake, she forged on ahead. Sweet dreams? On the contrary, she feared her dreams that night would consist of a certain cowboy calling her name.

* * *

Gideon scrubbed the scrambled-egg remains from his cast iron skillet, unable to block the sounds of Evelyn’s voice and Walt’s soft giggles floating downstream. Like him, they were finishing up breakfast. But while their meal was a shared experience, he’d eaten alone. In silence. A silence that didn’t use to bother you, he reminded himself. Not until they came along and invaded your territory.

Their presence only served to remind him of what he’d lost, what he could never recover.

Unbidden, images of his and Susannah’s modest one-room cabin assaulted him, memories of past mornings spent at the breakfast table with his wife and daughter. While Susannah hadn’t been at her best at that early hour, Maggie had awoken with a smile and bright sparkle in her blue eyes, eager for the day’s adventures. His little girl had been generous with her hugs and kisses and declarations of love.

Shutting his eyes tight, Gideon shook his head to dislodge the memories. Where was his ironclad control? Remembering only brought him pain and a piercing longing that refused to be assuaged. His daughter was gone. She was never coming back.

With a growl, he flung the skillet to the ground and strode for the stable. He needed a distraction. He needed action, tasks to occupy his mind and hands. Hard work and the blessed exhaustion it brought was the only relief from this incurable grief. A shame the relief was temporary.

He had almost reached the corral when a blur of brown and white barreled into his path, skidding to a stop before him and kicking up bits of dirt and grass. Walt. His small chest heaving, his hair mussed, he gazed up at Gideon with shy appeal. He pointed to the horses making their way to the fence.

No, God, I can’t— He halted the mental plea, convinced asking God for help was an exercise in futility.

Where was Evelyn? Surely she would swoop in and rescue her son from his objectionable company?

Craning his head, he caught her staring in their direction. Good. He waited for her to put down the stack of dishes and storm over to rescue Walt. Only she didn’t. Instead, she waved and turned back to her task.

His jaw dropped. Now she was extending him her approval? Now, when his insides felt as if they were being ripped apart each time he peered into Walt’s innocent eyes, and he wished with everything in him it were Maggie standing before him?

The boy’s tiny fingers pressed into his palm and tugged. Careful to blank his expression, Gideon reluctantly looked down. Walt was pointing to the horses again, his curious brown gaze fixed on Star.

The boy is hurting and can clearly use some extra attention, a voice inside him prodded. Not only had his father been ripped from his life, but this dispute had separated him from his uncles. No matter Gideon’s opinion of the Chaucer men, he couldn’t deny they appeared to genuinely care for the boy. He’d witnessed the affection that had passed between the gruff men and Walt that first day.

He cleared his throat. “Would you like to help me water the horses?”

A shy grin curved his mouth, and his head bobbed up and down.

“Let’s go get some pails and fill the trough.”

Walt followed him to the stable and accepted his pail with a bounce of excitement. How that emotion didn’t spill over into speech he hadn’t a clue. A five-year-old boy who didn’t talk was downright unnatural. Pitiful, too.

Gideon determined then to question Evelyn—his no-questions rule be hanged.

They made several trips to the stream. Walt carried his half-filled pail with pride, and if most of the water landed in the dirt beneath the trough, Gideon pretended not to notice. Evelyn at last made her way over as he was introducing Walt to Peanut, a gentle mare he’d acquired from another settler the day before the land rush.