Читать книгу The Cowboy Comes Home - Linda Ford - Страница 8

“Abe said you would show me where the tools are.”

Linc’s words jerked Sally back to her responsibilities. “Of course.” She didn’t offer to show him the barn but marched toward the shed at the back of the yard. She paused as they reached the garden. Robbie followed at their heels and veered toward the hole he’d been digging this morning.

She watched him and spoke her thoughts. “I’d like to plant a garden.”

“I’ll dig the ground for you.”

She thought of arguing. Would she look as if she couldn’t manage? On the other hand, his help would certainly make the work go faster. Still undecided about how she should handle his offer, she opened the door and stepped aside as he entered. But two feet of distance did not protect her from acute awareness of the warmth of his body as he passed, nor the scent of leather and freshly cut hay. And something more she could not identify, nor did she intend to try. But whatever it was made her feel as if a weight pressed against her chest, making her lungs reluctant to work.

He took his time looking about, then emerged with a round-nosed shovel and a rake.

She had thought long and hard about planting a garden. Well, actually she’d only thought of it this morning and decided growing a garden would prove to Abe she was efficient and capable. Her plan had been to dig the soil on her own, but suddenly accepting Linc’s offer to help seemed the wisest thing in the world. It would enable her to get the garden in sooner, which was good.

When he told her about his father and brother, she sensed a man who valued his family above people’s opinions. She respected him for that.

He strode to the edge of the garden and began turning over the soil.

Robbie stood before the hole he’d dug. “You can’t touch my fort.” His expression dared anyone to do so. Sally knew he would fly into a rage if they did.

Linc leaned on the shovel, his expression serious, and pushed his hat back to reveal a white forehead. Brown dirt dusted the rest of his face, and a thin layer wrapped about his pant.

Sally smiled gently. The man could look as handsome in work-soiled clothes as in a polished and pressed suit.

He nodded toward Robbie. “I respect a man who defends his property.”

Robbie’s expression revealed confusion. “What’s that mean?”

Linc scratched his hairline and seemed to consider his answer with due seriousness. “It means I think it’s a good thing you want to protect what you’ve made.”

“It is?” Robbie suddenly stood up straighter. “I sure ’nough plan to do that.” He picked up a stick and brandished it like a weapon.

Linc held up a hand. “Now hang on a minute. Did I threaten your fort? Did I say I was going to mow it down? No. I listened to your words. No need to get physical when your words work.”

Robbie dropped his weapon.

Linc returned to digging, his back muscles rippling beneath the fabric of his faded brown shirt.

Sally stared. The McCoys had a reputation for taking things. What no one had said, perhaps had not noticed, was this McCoy had a way of giving things. He’d given Robbie the assurance his words could convey his desires. He’d given Sally a feeling of safety.

Now why had she thought such a foolish thing?

She spun around and stared at the house, as if it provided the answer to her question. Just because Linc knew what to say to Robbie to defuse his anger did not mean he offered safety. Safety meant a house. Assurance of staying in one place. Steady employment. Enough to eat.

Her heart burned within her at a rush of other unnamed, unidentifiable things that safety and security meant. She grabbed the rake and smoothed the garden soil behind Linc.

He turned. “I can do that.” His voice rang with amusement and so much more.

She stopped and considered him. Did he think she needed protecting?

No one had thought so since Father died, and a lump lodged in the back of her throat. She swallowed hard. “Is there something wrong with the way I’m doing it?” Confusion made her words sharp.

He studied her, a grin slowly wreathing his face. “Can’t say as I ever considered there might be a right or wrong way to rake.” He leaned on the shovel and contemplated the idea. “I suppose if you had the tines upward. Or tried to use the handle—”

Her tension disappeared and she laughed. “You’re teasing.”

“Seems like a good idea if it makes you laugh. You should laugh more often, don’t you think?” Without waiting for her to say anything, he turned back to digging.

She stared at his back. Didn’t she laugh often enough? Or was he saying he liked hearing the sound of her amusement? Perhaps liked making her happy? As she bent to resume raking, she tried to think how she felt about the idea. No one else seemed to care if she laughed or enjoyed life. Abe certainly didn’t. Seems all he cared about was if she kept his life orderly.

There she was again, comparing Abe to another. It didn’t escape her troubled thoughts that this time it wasn’t her father but a man hired to do chores.

She banged a clump of dirt with the rake, taking out her annoyance on the soil. She knew what she wanted and how to get it. And it wasn’t by comparing poor, unsuspecting Abe to every man she knew or met.

Linc worked steadily up the length of the garden, turning over clumps of dry hard dirt. She followed, smoothing the soil for planting. Without rain she would have to baby the plants along with rationed bits of water, the same as she did at home.

Neither spoke as they worked. Crows flapped overhead, cawing. The wind sighed through the grass and moaned around the buildings. Robbie yelled some sort of challenge to an unseen intruder. Sally paused to watch the boy.

Linc had stopped, too, and grinned at Robbie’s play. Then turned his smile toward Sally, capturing her in a shiny moment.

The amusement they shared made her eyes watery, and she turned away. The feeling was more than amusement but she refused to acknowledge it. She riveted her attention to Robbie.

He leaped out of his dirt fort and charged at the invisible foe, brandishing the same stick he had waved at Linc. He turned, saw them watching and lowered his weapon. Then determination filled his eyes and he marched toward Sally, his stick held like a sword. “You are my captive. I will take you to my fort. You will stay with me until someone rescues you.” He shot Linc a narrow-eyed look.

Sally backed away, uncertain how to respond.

Linc straightened and grew serious. “Never fear, fair maiden. I will rescue you from your wild captor.”

She giggled and allowed Robbie to shepherd her into his fort. The hole might be the right size for a five-year-old but barely accommodated her legs, so she stood awkwardly while Robbie guarded her from the solid ground of the garden. They were on eye level with each other, close enough that she saw the mixture of excitement and worry in his eyes. She understood how badly he wanted to play, yet couldn’t believe any adult would play with him. When had she ever seen Abe play with the boy? Never. When did she play with him? Almost never. Sure, she read to him. Gave him crayons and coloring books. Even helped him do jigsaw puzzles, but she had never romped with him. Why not? Father had played with her and her sisters. She could remember games of tag and hide-and-seek. He’d even taught them to play ball and croquet.

Her thoughts stalled as Linc crouched low and worked his way cautiously to the edge of the garden. “Someone has captured my fair maiden,” he murmured. “I must rescue her before she is harmed.”

Robbie pressed a hand to his mouth to silence his excitement and wriggled with delight.

Linc pretended to search behind a clump of grass. “Where can they have taken her?” Keeping low, he ran to the shed and opened the door. “Maybe they will capture me, too. I should hide.” He darted inside and pulled the door shut.

Silence followed his disappearance.

Robbie stood stock-still, seemed to consider his next move then yelled out in his fiercest voice. “Mister, I got your lady over here.”

The door cracked open. Linc peeked out, and seemed surprised to see Robbie and Sally. “The fair maiden. I will come to her rescue.” He emerged, brandishing a length of wood matching Robbie’s. He planted one hand on his hip and danced forward in some kind of fancy step while waving his wooden sword. “I challenge you to a duel. Come out and face me like a man.”

Sally chuckled softly, but her enjoyment ran much deeper than amusement. Linc made a mighty impressive swashbuckler.

Robbie, holding his sword high, stepped forward, meeting Linc at the edge of the garden. Crack. Whack. The swords crashed against each other.

Sally sat on the edge of the hole, grinning at the pair. One thing about Linc—he seemed to know how to have fun. He also knew how to talk to Robbie in such a way as to bring out the best in him. Guess she’d have to give him credit for being loyal to his family, as well. It couldn’t have been easy to bring his father back to a place where he knew he’d face censure. But he’d returned so his father could recover … die … in comfort. Her eyes stung with unshed tears.

Linc fell to the ground, and Sally jolted to her feet. “Are you hurt?”

He pressed his hands to his chest. “Mortally wounded, fair maiden. Mortally wounded.”

Instinct brought her out of the hole, but Robbie waved his sword and ordered her back. “You must stay until you are rescued.”

She shook her head as she realized it was all play acting and sat down again on the edge of the dirt hole.

Linc groaned, rolled on his side and heaved a deep sigh. Then he was quiet. So quiet and still that Robbie tiptoed over. Linc waited until he bent over him to check if he was okay, then grabbed Robbie’s sword and held it to the boy’s chest. “You are my captive. Set the fair maiden free or prepare to die.”

Robbie backed toward the dirt fort. He signaled Sally. “You have been rescued. Go and never bother me again.”

Linc reached out and helped Sally from the hole in the ground. He pulled her to his side.

All pretend, she assured herself. Her silly feelings of being protected were not real.

Linc laid Robbie’s wooden sword on the ground and edged away, keeping Sally pressed close behind him. “We will meet again, you scoundrel. Next time you won’t be so lucky.” He turned, grabbed Sally’s hand and raced around the shed and out of sight to lean against the warm, rough wall. He laughed, long and hard.

Sally giggled, as delighted with his merriment as she was by his sense of play.

Finally he sobered enough to speak. “Harris and I used to play war games.”

“Who was your fair maiden?”

“Usually some poor unsuspecting neighbor girl.” He laughed again. “It got so the girls ran indoors when we approached.”

She chuckled, enjoying the mental picture of girls running away screaming. Suddenly her amusement died. She doubted the girls ran from him still. Not that it mattered to her if they did or not.

Robbie tiptoed around the edge of the building. “What are you doing?”

“Is it safe to go back to digging the garden?” Linc asked.

Sally sprang into action. “I have to get to work. No more play.” She hurried back to her raking. What had she been thinking? She had responsibilities.

Behind her Linc spoke to Robbie. “She didn’t mean it. There will always be time to play.”

Sally snorted. Showed what he knew. “Play is for children.”

“Do you really mean that?” Linc picked up the shovel and resumed digging.

“I guess there is a time and place for play. And people who can take the time.” She spoke the words firmly, as much to convince herself as him.

“I gather you don’t count yourself one of them.”

“Not when I have responsibilities.”

He worked steadily. “There will always be responsibilities.”

“True.”

He reached the end of digging and stopped to wipe his brow on his shirt sleeve. “So you don’t play? Grandmama says you have two sisters. Surely you played with them.”

“I used to. When I was young and carefree.” Why did she feel she had to defend herself? She expected him to ask why she wasn’t any longer carefree, but instead he asked, “What games did you and your sisters play?”

“Dress up. Plays. Tea parties.” She didn’t want to mention the games she’d played with Father.

Linc placed the stake in one end of the garden and stretched a length of twine to the far end, marking a row for Sally. As he worked, he was acutely aware of her studying his question, though her fingers sorted through a small tin bucket full of seed packets.

She’d been a good sport joining in Robbie’s game. The boy seemed almost afraid to play. Or rather, to engage adults in his play.

Linc tried to remember a time his father had played with him, but couldn’t. Harris, five years older, had been the one who roughhoused with Linc, threw a ball endlessly while he learned how to connect with the bat, and involved him in long complicated games of cops and robbers.

“My father died almost five years ago,” Sally finally said. “Just before the crash. Mother says it was a mercy. That it would have broken his heart to see how his family had to struggle.”

Linc sat back on his heels and watched her. She had forgotten about the pail of seeds and stared into the past. Her eyes darkened to a deep pine color. A splotch of dirt on her cheek made him want to reach out and brush it away, but he didn’t want to distract her. He guessed she would stop talking if he did, and he longed to hear who she was, who she had been.

A shudder raced across her shoulders. “I can’t believe how things have changed.”

He didn’t know if she meant from her father’s passing or the depression that followed the stock market crash. Likely both. “It’s been tough.” It was both a question and a statement. So many unemployed men, many of them in relief camps in the north. The idea behind the camps was to give the unemployed single men a place to live, food to eat and meaningful work to do. Linc thought the reason was more likely a way to get the desperate-looking men out of the way so people weren’t reminded of the suffering of others. He had seen women with pinched faces, aching from hunger and something far deeper—a pain exceeding all else—as they helplessly listened to their children cry for food. The drought and grasshopper plague took what little was left after the stockmarket crash. Things were bad all over, but he wanted to know the specifics of how her life had changed. He wanted to know how she’d survived.

“The whole world—my whole world—went from safe to shattered in a matter of days.”

“Losing a parent can do that to you.”

She blinked, and her gaze returned to the present. Her eyes, holding a mixture of sorrow and sympathy, connected with his. “I guess you understand.”

Something in the way she said it, as if finding for the first time someone who truly understood her feelings, made him ache to touch her in a physical way, to offer comfort. And keep her safe. Only the distance between them stopped him from opening his arms. “Your sisters would, too.”

She averted her gaze, but not before he caught a glimpse of regret. “Of course they do, but they coped in their own way. Madge, she’s a year older than me, did her best to take Father’s place. She guided Mother in making decisions about the farm, and because of her efforts our house is safe and secure.” She brought her gaze back to his and smiled, as if to prove everything was well in her world. “Louisa is two years older and spent so much of her time sick and forced to rest that she lived in her books. Father’s death hit her hard.” This time she seemed to expect the shudder and stiffened to contain it to a mere shiver. She brightened.

He discovered he’d been holding his breath and released it with a whoosh.

“I didn’t mean to get all sentimental. I mentioned my father because you asked about games. He taught us to play softball.”

“Ball, hmm.” He pushed his hat far back on his head and stared away into the distance, imagining a father and three little girls laughing and giggling. “Did you like the game? Were you good at it?” His question seemed to surprise her.

“I tried really hard because I wanted to please my father, but I preferred a game of tag. Father knew a hundred different ways to play the game—frozen tag, stone tag, shadow tag—” She giggled nervously. “I guess that’s more information than you expected.”

It wasn’t. In fact, he wanted more details. “Why did you like tag better than ball?”

She shuffled through the seeds and waited a moment to answer. “Because—” Her voice had grown soft, almost a whisper. “It’s just for fun. No one can be disappointed because you couldn’t hit the ball.” She again turned to the bucket of seeds. “Now I must get this garden planted. And I’ve kept you from your work long enough.”

Her words hung in his ears. She seemed to care so much what her father thought. But then, didn’t everyone? His father made it clear he thought Linc didn’t measure up to Harris. Although he didn’t want to be the sort of man his brother had been—rowdy and hard living, caring little for laws or who got hurt in his schemes—Linc did wish his father viewed him as more than a mother’s boy. Too soft for real life. Of course, his father’s version of real life hadn’t exactly worked out well for either him or Harris.

But Sally was right. Work called. He’d promised a day’s work for a day’s pay, and he intended to provide it. He went into the shed, found a ladder and saw and carried them out. Sally bent over a row, dropping seeds into a little trench. He paused, thoughts buzzing in his head like flies disturbed from a sunny windowsill. Noisy but nameless. His heart strained with wanting to say something to her that would—what? He could offer nothing. She came from a good family, and he? He was a McCoy.

Until today it hadn’t mattered so much.

He hurried across to the struggling crab apple trees. Every step emphasized the truth. He was here to take care of his injured father. She had aspirations to marry Abe Finley.

But as he tackled his job, he stole glances at her. She worked steadily, seeming unmindful of the searing sun and the endless wind whipping dirt into her face as she bent over the soil. At that moment the wind caught the branch he had cut off and practically tore him from his perch on the ladder. He struggled to keep his balance, and had to drop the branch. It lodged in the heart of the tree. He jerked to free it, and managed to kick the ladder out from under him. He clung to a solid branch with his feet dangling. The branch cracked ominously, and he stopped trying to pull himself upward.

How inglorious. Hanging like a kitten gone too far out on a limb. “Sally. Could you give me a hand?”

He couldn’t turn to see her, but he knew the second she realized his predicament.

She gasped. “Oh, my word. Hang on. I’m on my way.”

“Hang on?” he sputtered. “I fully intend to.”

She giggled a little as she trotted across the yard. The ladder was heavy and awkward and she struggled to place it in a spot that would enable him to use it. “Try that.”

He swung his feet, found the rungs and eased his weight to them. His body angled awkwardly between his hands and his feet. The limb cracked as he shifted. “Step back in case this breaks.”

“Hurry up and get down.”

He had to let go of the relative safety of the branch and fling himself toward the ladder. He sucked in air, tensed his muscle and made his move. The ladder shuddered but stayed in place. He looked down. Sally steadied it. His heart clawed up his throat. If the branch had broken … if he’d fallen … “I told you to step back.” He sounded angry.

She blinked and looked confused, as if trying to decide if she should obey, then her eyes cleared. “I will once your feet are on the ground.”

He caught two rungs on the ladder on his descent. His feet barely touched the ground before he swung around to face her and planted his hands on her shoulders. He wanted to shake her hard but resisted and gave her only a little twitch. “You could have been hurt if that branch gave way or if I fell. Next time listen to me when I tell you to get out of the way.”

Suddenly, as if obeying his words, she retreated a step, leaving him to let his hands fall to his side.

“If you had fallen and hurt yourself, how would I explain to Abe—Mr. Finley? He gave me instructions to see you had what you needed and offer you coffee. You do drink coffee, don’t you?” Her eyes alternated between worry and interest in his reply.

“Yes, I like coffee just fine.” His anger fled, replaced by something he had no name for. The dark churning feeling in the pit of his stomach made coffee sound bitter.

Her only concern was pleasing Abe, meeting his expectations.

“Fine.” She turned toward the house, called over her shoulder. “I’ll holler when coffee is ready.”

“Fine. I’ll get this tree done.”

Her steps slowed to a crawl and she slowly turned. “Make sure the ladder is secure before you go back up.”

“I don’t aim to break any limbs, except the damaged ones on the tree.” He didn’t even try to keep the tightness from his voice. After all, how could he care for his father and earn enough money for pain medication if he broke an arm or leg?

No sir. He had his priorities straight.