It was certainly simple, no more than four plank walls whose small cracks had been stuffed to keep out the wind. A single window was cut into the wall close to the door, and a pane of glass revealed the swirling snow outside.
If she never saw snow again, it would be too soon.
Beneath the window was an iron stove, and she supposed she ought to consider herself lucky to have happened upon a trapper with both a stove and a hearth for additional warmth. Beside the stove was a series of shelves built into the wall, holding canisters and jars. A small, square table and two chairs sat before it.
Only one of those chairs was normally occupied, she imagined. This struck her as being rather sad.
In the opposite corner was a small bed, its sheets and blankets stripped clean. She supposed the sheet on which he slept was what he’d given her to wrap around herself.
Strangely, she could not bring herself to care whether this was quite proper.
She finally understood that there were situations in which propriety could not be considered. What mattered was living, and they’d both come close to losing their lives earlier. What did it matter whose sheet she used to cover herself so long as she was dry and warm?
When Roan returned, stepping through the door between the shack and the lean-to where he left the horses, he was wrapped much as she was.
She averted her eyes instantly, willing herself not to take notice of his bare arms and shoulders. Her cheeks flushed hot, her breath coming in strangled gasps. Truly, this could not be happening.
“Are you unwell?” he asked, taking notice of her distress.
She shook her head, keeping her face turned away.
“Oh. I see. Pardon me. I shall dress myself as soon as I am able.” Was there amusement in his voice, or was she imagining it? How could he possibly find the situation amusing?
He sat near the hearth, leaving a good bit of distance between them. After a moment she managed to glance his way. In the firelight, his tawny skin glowed.
“And you? Are you well?” she asked, looking at his hands. He had scraped them terribly when he’d fallen, clearly having scrambled against the rock to find a handhold.
“As well as I can be,” he murmured before turning to her, his expression solemn. “Thanks to you.”
She flushed again, though this time it was not embarrassment which caused her to do so. “I did what you needed me to do. I used the rope.”
“Yes, but your quick thinking was what saved me. You might have panicked, but you didn’t. Thank you. I admit, I did not give you enough credit at first. My apologies for that.”
Her throat tightened with some inexplicable emotion. She could only nod before turning back toward the fire.
She had the feeling that if she were to continue looking at him, she might be lost.
8
The wood floor was hard under Roan’s back when he woke the following morning.
It was unlike him to sleep so soundly, and for so long. The sky had barely begun to darken when he’d made his bed on the floor before the hearth, and by the time he woke dawn had begun to break.
Most surprising of all was the lack of wind. It had been howling when he fell asleep, bringing to mind the lullabies which his mother had sung to him while rocking him to sleep before her illness took hold. Though her lullabies had been sweeter by far.
Now, it was silent. Almost alarmingly so.
He sat up, looking around. The bed was empty.
“Holly!” he called out as he got to his feet. Would she have taken it into her head to leave while he slept? Was she that foolish?
Yes, he had offended her sensibilities with his lack of clothing as their garments had dried by the fire, but they’d both dressed just as soon as possible.
Yes, he had placed his hands on her, but that was only in service of restoring her circulation.
He had hardly taken enjoyment from it.
The door to the lean-to opened, and there she stood.
“I was tending the horses,” she admitted with a slight smile. “They were hungry, and thirsty. They worked hard yesterday.”
He frowned, skeptical. “You are familiar with the care of horses?”
“I live on a ranch.” She tilted her head to the side, eyes narrowed. “Do you think me feeble?”
All he could do was chuckle. “I had forgotten.”
“I admit, I knew little about such matters before coming here.” She sat on the bed, hands folded primly in her lap.
“Where did you come from?” He went to the stove, lighting it before putting on coffee for the two of them from the canister on the shelf.
He was not the type to believe in blessings, but if he were, he would consider it a blessing to have recently gone into Carson City for provisions. There was more than enough coffee, sorghum, flour and cornmeal for both of them, along with potatoes and salt pork.
He hoped that wherever she had come from, she was accustomed to eating simply.
“Baltimore,” she replied.
He’d known it from the start. She was from the city. “And what brought you all this way?”
Her laughter was soft. “I seem to remember you disliking questions,” she reminded him with another gentle laugh. “I see the situation is different when you are the one asking them.”
She was right, though he did not enjoy admitting it to himself. The fact was, it was easier to ask questions than to allow silence to unfurl between them. When there was nothing but silence, there was nothing for him to do but imagine the days and days which she might well have to stay with him.
What would they do? How would they exist together?
“Very well, I will stop teasing,” she said. “As I told you, my father left his ranch to my sisters and myself. I was born on the ranch, along with the rest of us, but my parents divorced when we were very young. My mother’s family was from the east, so she took us there.”
“What does she think of you being here again?” he asked, for lack of anything better to say.
“She passed away two years ago.”
He paused, wincing with his back still turned. “I am sorry to hear that. My mother passed on when I was very young. I hardly remember her.”
“I remember my mama,” she said with a smile in her voice. “And I can tell you that she would turn in her grave she knew that I had spent all this time alone with a strange man, without a chaperone.”
He poured a cup of coffee for her, then turned to offer it.
And to his surprise, she was weeping. She sat with her hands over her face, her shoulders shaking with grief.
He placed the coffee on the table in the corner and went to her. “What is it?”
There were many things he could manage. Training horses, for example. Trapping. Trading. Managing to live through a blizzard. But a weeping woman? This was entirely beyond him.
He rubbed his palms against his trousers, finding them slick with perspiration. “There is no call for weeping,” he said, and he instantly knew it was the wrong thing when she glared up at him.
“Isn’t there? My sisters must think me dead. When I remember how very terrible it was to lose our mother, and I imagine them suffering the same pain now…” Tears glistened on her cheeks, more of them rolling down all the time. “And there is nothing I can do. I can only wait here, knowing how upset they are. And my twin sister is with child. What if—”
She turned her face away, fresh sobs bursting free.
He hadn’t the slightest notion what he ought to do now. Comfort her? What was there to say? She was undoubtedly correct. It had been two days since her kidnapping, a day since he’d found her in the snow.
Two days could seem like a long time, indeed, when a loved one disappeared without a trace. He could scarcely begin to imagine what these women were suffering.
“How many sisters do you have?” he asked, hoping to encourage her to speak of them rather than of the fright they must be enduring without her.
She held up four fingers.
“Molly, my twin. Phoebe. Rachel. Cate. Everyone except Cate and myself are married. Lewis is Molly’s husband, foreman on the ranch. I only hope he can keep her from becoming too upset. I would hate to be the reason for any harm to her or the child.”
“You would not be the reason. You were not at fault for what happened.” He crouched beside her, frowning. This all made him quite uncomfortable. Were she an ornery mare, he would know what to do. A headstrong yearling? He could tame her.
A weeping woman, on the other hand? That was well beyond his skills.
For the first time since she had told him her story, he wished he could strangle the men who had kidnapped her. It was their fault she was weeping, just as it would be their fault if any harm were to come to Holly’s sisters.
And it would have been they who were at fault had anything befallen her. If she had been the one to fall over the steep ledge instead of himself. If she had frozen to death before he reached her.
Another reminder of how cruel and how selfish men could be. Was it any wonder that he chose to live on his own?
Once it seemed she had calmed herself sufficiently, he handed her the coffee. “I must attend my traps and horses. I can prepare something to eat before going out, if you prefer.” It was an empty gesture after her show of emotion, and he knew it.
But he also knew there was little use in dwelling on what could not be changed. There was no changing her circumstances for the time being. She needed to understand it as well, and to accept that weeping would only worsen things.
A sip of the strong coffee seemed to bolster her, or perhaps it was the inner strength of which he had seen glimpses.
She squared her shoulders, her jaw set in a firm, determined line. “No, I should be the one preparing something for you. You are the one with no choice but to go out in the cold. I’m certain I can make something out of what I’ve already seen in your larder.”
He mumbled something close to thanks. This was still so new to him, the notion of being in close quarters with a woman. There was more space between them than there had been beneath the ledge, but this was still much more time than he had spent alone with any one person since his father’s passing.
And then, his father was a man. An entirely different creature to the one sitting before him now, in her skirts and her lace-trimmed shirtwaist.
It was nearly a relief to step outside, even if the cold instantly set his teeth on edge. At least the snow had stopped falling, yet it came up nearly to his knees, making the act of clearing a path to the stream a difficult one.
Though it was nothing he had not done before.
The sight of five occupied traps was a welcome one. He had managed to capture three foxes and two beavers. Not nearly as much as he would have trapped were the weather more reasonable, but it was better than nothing.
And the cleaning and skinning of them would mean something to do other than sitting in uncomfortable silence with the perplexing woman in his home.
His breath caught at the sound of footsteps in the snow. One hand closed around the rifle, its butt stuck in the snow, the barrel resting against his shoulder as he collected the traps. Another step, another.
Plodding steps. Weak, shuffling, perhaps those of a hungry animal. Hungry animals were the most dangerous.
In one smooth, practiced movement, he stood while lifting the rifle to his shoulder, aiming in the direction from which the footsteps came.
He found himself face to face with a woman, but this was not the woman he had left behind in his home.
However, the face was a familiar one. It looked a great deal like his own face, which he’d seen more times than he could possibly count while bending over the slow-moving stream. Down to the dark hair with a hint of auburn they’d inherited from their father.
He would’ve known her anywhere.
“Lenore?” he whispered, disbelieving what his eyes told him was the truth.
So many years had passed since he had last seen her. They’d met in Carson City while both trading for provisions at the mercantile.
At least seven or eight winters had come and gone since then, yet she seemed to have aged twice that many years. Her face was lined, careworn, drawn. She was not well.
And on her back, she carried a child.
A weak smile began to form once she knew for certain that she had come to the right place.
“Roan,” she managed to breathe before collapsing against him.
9
Holly had never known such silence.
While it was not completely silent in the little shack, thanks to the noise she made at the stove and the comforting sounds of the horses in the lean-to, it was still far quieter than she was accustomed to.
No heavy footsteps signaling Lewis’s return from chores. No giggles, no arguing. None of Cate’s endless recitations. Holly never thought she would miss them, never thought she’d long for the sound of her sister’s voice as she recited this poem or that passage. Never did she think she would miss Molly’s domineering tone, either.
She had already accustomed herself to the lack of city noise, but the ranch had a music of its own. The hands riding past, the hooves of their horses striking the ground in rhythm. The thunder which made the ground tremble, signaling movement of the herd.
Laughter and jesting when the men returned from a hard day’s work, their enjoyment when they reached the longhouse on the other side of the stables and paddock. When the windows of the house were open, and the wind blew just right, she could hear their conversation. Nothing specific, but rather their voices overlapping as they told stories and competed to see who could spin the tallest tale.
She had not been aware until now just how much she had come to depend upon those sounds. The feeling that she was never alone. The security of it, the knowledge that her world continued to turn and that the people in it were well.
She had none of that now. Nothing more than fried corn mush and a bit of salt pork.
At least the food was plentiful, though she did wonder how he had not yet tired of his limited options. He was a simple man, and there was certainly no one worth impressing out here.
Though she could not help but also wonder as she prepared their simple meal just how long he planned to live this way. Was this all he wanted from life? Far be it from her to think poorly of a man’s choices, especially when his choices led him to an honest life, but he was a young man, and there was still plentiful opportunity for him to perhaps settle down one day.
What hope was there of settling down when his life was so secluded? How would he ever meet a sweetheart?
Were Phoebe there, she would already have concocted a tale of woe. Something to do with a broken heart, perhaps a lady who had jilted him. Or one who had succumbed to illness. She would imagine him having locked his heart away after such deep disappointment. Knowing Phoebe, she might even bring herself to the point of tears over a story which existed only in her head.
She jumped in surprise at the sudden opening of the door, cold air reaching her before she had time to think. Even though she stood practically touching the stove, it still managed to seep into her clothing and cling to her skin. The sort of cold a person did not easily survive.
Which was why the sight of Roan leading a young woman into the shack came as a tremendous shock.
He did not look at her, instead, leading the young woman to the bed and sitting her down. Holly hurried to the door and closed it, shivering and rubbing her arms as she turned toward their visitor.
Correction.
Not visitor.
Visitors. As the young woman carried a child on her back.
Holly could scarcely believe her eyes. A child! In the storm they had just survived? Yet he was very much alive, and quite pleased to be. His wide, coffee-colored eyes took in everything around him, and joyful smile reflected his feelings regarding his surroundings.
“What is this?” Holly asked, hurrying over to them. She noted the way Roan rubbed the young woman’s feet an
d hands just as he had done for her.
She raised her head, this young woman, and Holly noted the resemblance between them. A sister? He had not mentioned any family.
“There is tea in one of the tins on the shelf,” he informed her in a tight voice, not looking up from his work. “Brew some now, strong and hot. We shall need to prepare something for the child as well.”
“I don’t understand.” Indecision and confusion froze her in place, though she knew she ought to be doing as he asked. Rather than going to the stove, she took the liberty of lifting the child from his mother’s back, noting how warm was the contraption in which she’d carried him. A sort of pack, lined in fur. Only his arms and shoulders had been exposed, and they were covered in a tunic made of buckskin and covered in fur.
It seemed to her that a young woman needed to lie down, was all. She would be better able to do so without the threat of crushing her child.
It had been quite some time since Holly had held a young child. Not since she had visited friends in Baltimore, young women with whom she had come of age who had then gone on to marry and bear children. She’d set them on her lap and sang songs and played games, but that had been the extent of her experience.
The children she had taught at school had all been considerably older than this lad, who could not have been far past his second birthday.
He seemed entranced by her, patting her cheek with his chubby little hand and babbling gleefully. He was more than likely delighted simply to be warm, and indoors.
“Did you hear me?” Roan looked up at her, his voice short and sharp.
Holly stammered, surprised. “Yes, I simply thought—”
“Get to it, then.” He turned away from her in favor of tending to the young woman, who barely had the strength to utter a reply when he murmured close to her ear. The worry he felt for her was clear. She was obviously very dear to him, even if he had not mentioned her.
This was enough to make Holly wonder what else he had neglected to mention.
She knew better than to ignore his instructions, and thus carried the eager boy to the stove and returned the half-full kettle to the fire before scooping tea leaves from the tin.
An Inconvenient Bride Page 6
