Читать книгу What A Cowboy Wants - Lauri Robinson - Страница 8

Chapter One

1883

Central Iowa

As she peered out the window, watching a rider enter the front yard on a big black horse with three white socks, Ester Larson’s very being vaulted into awareness. She pressed a hand to her stomach. It was as if she’d swallowed a bird. A big one. The size of a crow. One that fluttered its wings and tried to peck its way out at the same time.

She’d yet to see the rider’s face, but she knew it was him. Brett Richards. Not only did her heart say so, but she’d expected him—someday.

Ester took a moment to watch him secretly, yet instinct told her that Brett, too, knew she was just behind the curtain. Dropping the yellow lace, closing her eyes, she fought the urge to run upstairs and change dresses, or just take a moment to check her reflection. There wasn’t time for that. Besides, everything was best faced head-on—even the man who left you standing at the altar.

Well, not literally standing there, but she’d ordered her dress pattern, and in her mind—and half the minds of Cutter’s Corner—that was close enough.

Pulling up that heartbreaking occurrence helped, and even though the bird in her stomach continued to flap about, she moved to the front door, opened it, and was standing on the front porch when her onetime groom-to-be brought his horse to a stop.

He met her gaze head-on, and it might as well have been five years ago with all the stirring going on inside her. Those sterling features—a square jaw, permanent grin marks on his cheeks, hair as black as the wide-brimmed hat on his head—were all the same. As were the brown eyes that even now were looking straight into her thoughts. It had always amazed her how Brett knew what she was thinking, when she was thinking it. At this very moment, he knew she was admiring him, remembering.

As effortlessly and graceful as a deer jumps a fence, and watching her the entire time, he swung one long leg over the saddle horn, dropped to the ground, and moved forward, barely making a sound before stopping near the bottom step.

“Ester,” he said. A greeting no doubt, since he touched the brim of his hat and pushed it back just a touch.

“Brett,” she replied.

“I’m here to collect Jesse and Hannah.”

The want to close her eyes was back. This man had always affected her like no other, from her very first memory of him. She’d fallen out of the swing still hanging in the oak tree behind the schoolhouse, and when some boys called her a cry baby, Brett had come to her defense and ended up with a black eye. The left one, bruised around the rim and bloodshot for over a week. But the three other boys had fared worse, and none of them ever teased her again. At the age of nine Brett Richards had become her hero that day, all those years ago. He’d have turned twenty-five last month. April 8. She remembered his birthday as clearly as she knew her own coming up this weekend, when she’d turn twenty-three.

Ester didn’t close her eyes. Maybe because she was afraid he’d disappear if she did, just like before, or maybe because he still was her hero and she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

“They aren’t here right now,” she finally managed to say.

“Where are they?”

“Jesse’s at the feed store,” she explained. “He has a job there, after school, and Hannah is over at the Dahls’. She’s minding the children while Suzanne attends a church meeting.”

His somewhat lopsided grin—even though it held a hint of disdain—sent that bird flapping a bit harder inside her. “Why aren’t you at the church meeting?”

“Because I’m not a Baptist. If you’ll recall, I’m a Methodist.”

The grin faded as he nodded. He glanced around the porch, taking note of the new paint by running a hand over the handrail. “Place looks good, I see.”

“Thank you. I try.”

“You?”

She nodded, pleased by the touch of surprise in his tone.

“Where’re your parents?” His frown increased as he glanced around with a bit more intensity.

There wasn’t much to see, just the house, white with new green trim paint, and the carriage house, which held the milk cow, a few chickens and other necessities. Most people called it a barn, but mother had always insisted it was a carriage house. It was her connection to back East. Ester liked the idea of that, and had painted it to match the house just a few weeks ago.

When his brown eyes turned her way again, her entire being stung as memories started coming fast and forceful. “They moved to Des Moines shortly after the fire,” she answered quickly. “I’m sorry about your parents. I truly am. They were good people and are terribly missed.”

The pain that momentarily took over Brett’s face had her flinching inside. She wanted to go to him, comfort him for his loss, but that would tell him how much she still loved him and might break her at the same time. “The children will be home this evening if you’d like to stop back to see them then. After supper will be fine.” She spun, prepared to walk into the house, yet her legs didn’t want to move.

“I’m not here to see them, Ester. I’m here to collect them.”

Lifting feet that seemed to weigh a hundred pounds each, she made it as far as the screen door before telling him, “They’re thirteen and fifteen years old now, Brett, and have a say in their lives.”

“They’re my brother and sister, and they’ll do as I say.”

Her eyes did close this time, and she swallowed. “If you cared so much about them, why haven’t they seen you for five years?” Deep down she was screaming, Why haven’t I seen you for five years? but she couldn’t ask that. Furthermore she knew why. A man doesn’t leave a woman he loves, nor does he contact one he doesn’t love.

The screen door didn’t bang behind her, but she didn’t need the sound to know he was right on her heels. The racing of her heart said that, which is why she didn’t stop until she’d crossed the parlor and turned the corner into the kitchen, where she went straight to the sink, only to feel a bit thwarted since there were no dishes to wash—nothing to busy herself so she could tell him she had things to do.

She spun, preparing to ask him to leave, but found herself groping for the counter behind her with both hands, needing the support to stay upright as he took one final step.

Both of his palms landed on the counter, too, smack-dab between her hands and her hips, trapping her, shrouding her with the scent of horse, leather, and him. That wonderful, irresistible aroma a hundred years couldn’t have erased from her memory.

“I’m thinking, since you already hate me, what I’m about to do isn’t going to make a whit of difference either way,” he said.

A jolt flashed through her, like lightning had just struck the ground where she stood, with enough force to crack a mighty oak into splinters, and then, warm and soft, his lips took hers. The kiss was so overwhelming, her very bones melted and she gripped the counter harder. She’d always loved kissing him. There wasn’t a better feeling in the world. But right now she refused to allow her arms to lift, wrap around him and hold on for dear life as she used to do. For if she did, she’d be lost, and that she’d regret. He’d left her once before, this unfathomable hero, and her heart couldn’t live through it a second time.

Too soon the kiss was over, leaving her weak and trembling. She didn’t dare open her eyes. He’d see into her very soul. Know exactly how she felt.

“I’ll be back after supper.”

Ester didn’t move, not so much as an eyelid, until the front screen door banged shut, and then she turned, hung her head over the sink and took stuttering gasps of air, aghast at the way her soul shouted, He’s back! He’s back! She clenched her hands into fists, trying to muster the ability to hate him. It was her only choice. He’d left her—she had to remember that. And waltzing in here, kissing her, making her want him all over again didn’t change anything. Five years ago she’d given him the ultimatum. Her or Montana. He’d taken Montana.

* * *

Cursing himself up one side and down the other, Brett swung into the saddle and spun the horse around. He kneed it hard enough to leap into a run, putting much needed distance between him and Ester. One look had told him all he needed to know. She was as stubborn as ever, and kissing her was about the stupidest thing he could have done. Yet, he couldn’t stop himself. Seeing those flower-blue eyes, the perfect—kissable—curve of her lips, the fine, corn silk—yellow hair that floated around her sweet little face and down her shoulders is all it had taken.

Her hair had always been as soft as rabbit fur. She’d laughed when he’d told her that once. Said she wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not.

That memory did bring a smile to Brett’s face. He’d tanned a rabbit hide after her comment and sewn it into a little bag himself, with one of his mother’s darning needles, complete with a drawstring on the top, and given it to Ester for her fifteenth birthday.

She’d treasured that bag, and he wondered if she still had it. Probably not. When he’d left Cutter’s Corner five years ago she’d told him if he rode away she’d forget he ever existed, and that most likely meant getting rid of anything that might remind her of him.

A hard knot formed in his stomach and his lips grew tight, even though they still tingled—no, burned—from kissing her. He’d asked her to come with him to Montana, but she’d refused. Said if he loved her, he’d stay here. Well, he wasn’t going down that road again. His love for her wasn’t the issue. She was the one that didn’t love him. Not enough to leave Cutter’s Corner anyway. She didn’t love anyone that much. He’d been given proof of that a few minutes ago, when she said her parents had moved, but she hadn’t.

The horse had set their course, and now it stopped. Brett glanced over his shoulder, confirming he had ridden right through the center of town, all the way to the south end, where nothing but empty lots lay before him, spring grass covering the ground.

He climbed down, walked forward to where his parents’ house had been. Not so much as a burnt footing said that anything used to sit here, that people used to live here. His throat swelled and his eyes stung, and he shut his lids, his mind rereading the letter Ester had sent him. It had told him all he needed to know. The entire south end of town had caught fire. The blacksmith shop, the bank, and six family homes—including his.

Shame and regret came along with the pain of loss. That damnable letter had arrived last fall. It was there waiting for him when he returned to Montana with the herd of cattle he’d driven in from Nebraska. Recognizing her handwriting, he hadn’t opened it. Hadn’t known how he’d react to anything she had to say. It wasn’t until Christmas, in the dead of winter, when no letter from home arrived, no holiday greeting from his family, that he opened Ester’s letter.

Then he’d had to wait until the weather broke before making the trek all the way to Iowa, as well as find someone to take care of the herd and the ranch, and all the while he tried to prepare for all he’d find here.

“Brett?”

He turned, and the burning in his throat increased. “Jesse.”

“I knew it was you, Brett,” his younger brother said. “I saw you ride past the feed store. You looked so much like Pa I couldn’t move for a minute or two.”

Words were stuck in the fire in Brett’s gullet, so he simply stepped forward, folded his arms around his brother’s shoulders. The hug helped, on the inside for sure, and when he stepped back, he ruffled the black hair on Jesse’s head. “You’ve grown, kid.”

Jesse shrugged and shifted his gangly legs. “I was only ten when you left.”

Brett nodded, but had to turn as the empty space with new grass pulled at him. He and Jesse had shared a room in the house that was no longer there.

“I tried, Brett. I tried to help them both, but—”

“I know, Jess,” he said, hooking an arm around his brother’s neck. “I know.” Ester’s letter had told him how his father died trying to get the animals out of the barn, and his mother trying to get his father out, and how people had to hold Jesse back from going in after both of them.

“You wanna see where they’re buried?”

Did he? If he didn’t see the grave, he might be able to imagine they still lived here, in the town he’d come to loathe. “Sure, kid,” he answered. It would be best, because once he left Cutter’s Corner this time, he’d never be back.