Sweet Autumn Surrender

by Vivian Vaughan

  “You need someone,” she had insisted to Ellie. “So does he. He’s had a lonely life, but he’s a man who knows how to take care of a woman. He isn’t demanding. At least, I don’t think he’ll be. He’ll understand your lack of education in the finer arts of homemaking, and he’ll go easy on you in the bedchamber. You won’t find another man of his caliber.”

  No, Ellie thought now, Benjamin hadn’t been demanding. And if the few minutes she spent beneath his body once or twice a month had given him pleasure, she considered it small payment for the home he provided her in return. Once again, like most times since she’d been orphaned at the age of six, Lavender Sealy had made the right decision for her.

  For her, but not for Benjamin. Ellie glanced toward the grave which she had covered with flat limestone rocks in an attempt to keep varmints from desecrating it. Once more her inherent bad luck had surfaced, this time striking a gentle man whose only ambition had been to make a home for the two of them here in the wilderness.

  A whirlwind whipped up by the late afternoon breeze tossed a dried tumbleweed in its path. Ellie watched it roll down the hillside, wondering how much longer she could hold out in this place she considered her first and last true home.

  Now the best she could hope for was to work for Lavender at the Lady Bug. How she hated the idea of it! Not that she didn’t love Lavender, but that work…that sordid work!

  She rubbed her arms to warm away a sudden outbreak of gooseflesh. What choice did she have? She sighed into the soft autumn air. Of course talking Lavender into letting her work the way the other girls did would be her first hurdle. Lavender had always protected her from such a life.

  But then Lavender hadn’t anticipated Benjamin’s untimely death—or his murder, Ellie corrected herself fiercely. No one had. Now she was left a widow with no means of support, other than this land which evil men were intent on wresting from her.

  Why hadn’t she heard from Carson, Benjamin’s Texas Ranger brother? Since she wired him in care of ranger headquarters, she hadn’t expected an immediate reply, but two months was a long time. And she needed help now, badly…quickly…before Matt Rainey and his brother succeeded in running her off her land.

  Only one day after Lavender insisted she contact Benjamin’s brothers for help, his body had been left on her back doorstep. Since then the campfire in the rock shelter above the house had become a nightly reminder of her vulnerability. A Texas Ranger would be the very person to instill fear in the hearts of the Raineys; she knew it. But as day after day passed with no sign of Carson, she also came to realize that she could depend on no one but herself. If she were to keep this home Benjamin left her, she would have to do it alone.

  Standing, she shook rocks and dust from her skirts, picked up her pail, and started for the house where another cold supper awaited. A cold supper which she would eat alone at her table in her empty house.

  Benjamin Jarrett had been good company, a companion. Tears blurred her vision. She missed him. And she would miss this home he provided for her.

  Suddenly hoofbeats sounded through the stillness, and she glanced toward the valley in which her house nestled. Two horsemen sprinted away from the barn. Her first thought was that Armando Costello’s men had brought more meat; they came almost daily to keep her in a supply of game and an occasional side of beef.

  But these horsemen had not come from the town road, nor did they return that way. Instead, they raced away from her barn as fast as their mounts could carry them, crossing Plum Creek and tearing out up the hillside in the direction of the Raineys’ Circle R.

  Tucking up her skirts, she hurried down the hill. Whatever had they done now? Her stock had been driven off a number of times during the last two months, but never in broad daylight. Today no stock remained in the pen except her milk cow and saddle horse.

  Damn them! They’d better not have…

  By the time she reached the bottom of the hill, smoke billowed from the barn windows. She picked up her pace, fury growing by leaps and bounds inside her.

  Kale nooned at Hord’s Creek. The country was changing, becoming more broken now. He saw several peaks rising to the south, marking the Colorado River region. From here on he paid extra attention to what lay ahead, recalling the rustlers who had holed up along the Colorado that summer, preying on trail herds.

  He crossed the Colorado River at the mouth of Mustang Creek, well to the east of where the painted cliffs rose above the Concho River, a place passing Indians once used for a sort of message center. He had never seen the rock drawings himself but had heard stories about them ever since coming west. Benjamin had been planning a trip there when Kale and Carson visited the ranch.

  Mid-afternoon found Kale, hot and tired, approaching Summer Valley. Benjamin’s ranch lay south of town, so Kale skirted the village. Across town an imposing pink structure rose from the top of the highest promontory. No doubt what kind of establishment that was, he thought wryly. His mouth watered for a taste of whiskey. He crossed the San Sabá River to the east. No time for such diversions; leastways, not until after he learned the status of things at the ranch.

  Chances were good Benjamin had returned from wherever he had gone and Kale could expect a home-cooked meal for supper.

  The country was rocky, brushy. Often shinoak grew so thick a man had to ride way around then switch back to get where he was going. In many places rains had washed the limestone bedrock clean of any soil.

  He cut across a dry gully, spurred the bay up a hill, and hit a road leading south. Around the next turn he topped out on the hill overlooking Benjamin’s ranch.

  From where he sat, the road wound down the hill, around boulders, trees, and stumps, then crossed a meadow to where the house lay nestled against the far cliff.

  Hills converged on three sides to form this valley. A spring-fed creek started at the foot of the hill behind the house and continued on out of sight, its banks rimmed with cottonwoods, pecan, and a few cypress and black walnut trees.

  The barn stood to the right as one approached, but with one end behind the house. This enabled a person to move from barn to house to creek with less risk of being seen from the surrounding hilltops. It had been built that way years ago to protect the inhabitants against marauding Indians.

  Kale nudged the bay, and they began picking their way down the hillside in the early dusk.

  It was then he noticed movement outside the barn. Looking closer he watched two horsemen sprint away from the barn and up a gully toward the northeast.

  At the same moment flames leapt from the barn window and a figure emerged from the right, running pell-mell down the hill.

  The bay jumped forward at the touch of his spurs. They raced toward the house and burning barn.

  At the water trough, Kale slid off the bay, picked up an empty bucket, and dipped it into the water.

  When he raised up, their eyes met. She was on the other side of the water trough, golden hair tumbling every which way, wet strands clinging to her throat and soot-smeared face. Her hazel eyes sparkled naturally, and when she spoke her voice sounded as if it belonged in a parlor rather than in this smoke-filled dusk.

  “What are you staring at, Kale Jarrett? Wipe that silly grin off your face and get to work. We have a fire to put out.”

  Indeed we do, he thought. Indeed we do.

  Ellie had been so eager to put out the fire she had not even heard Kale’s horse, but when she rose from filling her bucket and stared into his deep blue eyes, she almost threw the water on him.

  She knew him instantly. Benjamin had talked about his family so often she felt as though she knew them all. But she doubted she would have recognized any of them except Kale, the renegade brother, the gunfighter. Kale, who stood six-foot even in his stocking feet, the same as Benjamin. Kale, who had the same unruly brown hair, the same work-strengthened physique as Benjamin, but who was a good twenty years younger. Kale, who unlike any other member of the Jarrett family except younger sister Delta, had eyes the colo
r of the clear West Texas sky. Eight children and only two with blue eyes. And this virile man across the water trough from her was definitely not Delta Jarrett.

  Kale, the gunfighter, when she had sent for Carson, the Texas Ranger…her body flamed at the thought of such a switch, at the violence this man could bring to her simple life.

  Or was it the escalating fire that caused heat to travel up her spine?

  Kale took in the situation, evaluated the fire, and went to work, half his brain tumbling with surprise at the kind of woman his brother had chosen to wed. Carson had called her a young woman, “a fine young woman.” And nothing could be more true.

  Unless it was a description of her womanly charms and vibrant sensuality. He would never have dreamed such of old Benjamin. He surveyed the burning building.

  The barn, like the house, was a stone structure with an open lean-to attached on the east end, where the fire had been set. The opposite end held oats and an assortment of saddles, bridles, and other goods.

  Fortunately, Kale observed, Benjamin had not changed in other ways: his fastidiousness, for one thing. The barn, both inside and outside under the lean-to, was clean of scattered debris or hay.

  “Keep dousing water along here,” he called to Ellie, indicating summer-dried grass around the lean-to and clusters of tumbleweeds that were already crackling under the flames.

  He stripped the blanket from his bedroll and began attacking the fire inside the barn.

  Either the arsonists had been in a hurry to get away or they were just plain careless, because with any effort they could have rounded up enough dried grass and tumbleweeds to start the fire right. Once ignited, it would have flamed straight through the wooden roof, destroying everything inside the barn; it would likely have spread to the house as well.

  Holding two corners of the blanket, Kale beat down on the flames with all his strength, trying to smother them before they licked the rafters and caught the roof on fire.

  He worked quickly with nothing on his mind now but the task at hand. His bandanna kept him from choking, but smoke still burned his eyes and the insides of his nostrils.

  Finally the soreness from his fight with the soldier turned to numbness and then to exhaustion. His arms drooped; he held the blanket motionless in front of him, searching for more sparks.

  “Looks like you’ve about gotten it all.”

  He turned at the sound of her voice, studying her thoughtfully, nodding. “How about you?”

  “It’s out. There wasn’t much to burn in the lean-to.”

  “Or in here. Benjamin hasn’t changed in one respect—he still keeps a pretty good house.”

  Her eyes dimmed at the mention of her husband, smothering Kale’s hopes as he himself had just smothered the arsonists’ flames. Benjamin had not returned. And his own mention of it had brought despair to this beautiful woman, his sister-in-law.

  She spoke again.

  “Wash up at the well and take care of your horse. You’ll find oats at the other end of the barn. I’ll get supper.”

  “What about the stock they drove off? Shouldn’t we look for them?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t have anything in the pen today except the milk cow and my horse, and they’ll come back. They always do.”

  “Always? This has happened before?”

  She nodded, silently measuring the difference in this man. The Lady Bug drew some pretty tough customers, and although Lavender had tried to shield Ellie from them, she had not always been successful. Ellie had seen her share of gunfighters. And Kale Jarrett did not measure up. On the exterior, she reminded herself. He hid his profession better than some.

  Kale watched her turn away. Although he knew she must be weary, her step was light when she walked toward the house, ready to prepare his evening meal.

  A strange sensation stirred inside him at the sight, an easy, comfortable feeling…as if this were the natural way of things, a beautiful, strong woman working beside him, then fixing his meal and sitting across from him to share it.

  He slapped the side of his leg to bring some sense back to his being and chided himself.

  “Kale Jarrett, you old coot! That woman yonder is your brother’s wife.”

  But after he finished up and headed for the house, he wondered how she had known him by sight. She was expecting Carson.

  Ellie strode toward the house, her brain reeling with questions. Where was Carson Jarrett? Why had Kale come in his place? Or was Carson close behind?

  The slight lift in spirits she felt at this possibility was quickly squashed by a feeling of guilt. Kale had come in the nick of time.

  Absurd! She could have put out that piddlin’ fire. She wasn’t in danger. She never had been.

  Yes, she had been in danger and would be again.

  Regardless, she didn’t need or want a blue-eyed gunfighter around to wreak havoc in her life.

  Dusk had gathered quickly inside the house, so she lit a lamp, stoked the fire, and wondered what to fix to go with leftover stew.

  Company! What to do?

  Not company, she retorted, angry with herself now…Armando Costello was company; Kale Jarrett was a gunfighter.

  Taking the last half of the loaf of bread she baked three days ago, she cut large slices, then set them aside to beat a couple of eggs with a pinch of salt. Fried bread wasn’t a company dish. If she’d had warning…

  Company!

  Kale Jarrett was not company. If he wasn’t Benjamin’s own brother, she wouldn’t even allow him to sit at her table.

  Certainly not.

  No gunfighter was welcome at her table. Why, Kale Jarrett was no better than the men who murdered Benjamin, no better than the men who were trying to drive her off her land.

  She placed the skillet over the coals, and while the grease heated she set the table.

  Company! And her dressed in one of Benjamin’s faded shirts and a patched skirt…

  She inched the coffeepot near the fire so it would heat. Herself, she would drink it cold and go to bed, but company…

  The stew bubbled in its pot and she stirred it while anxiety stewed inside her stomach. Company?

  Was she so starved for companionship she would welcome a gunfighter to her fire?

  No! Armando Costello came almost daily, and any time she wanted she could ride into town for a visit with Lavender and the girls.

  The back door squawked on rusted hinges; boots scraped against the threshold.

  She stood.

  Inside her, anxiety simmered on.

  “I drew you some water, ma’am.” Kale offered the crude wooden bucket as though it were a basket of wildflowers.

  She smoothed a strand of hair back from her face, conscious now of her unkempt appearance—a man’s shirt, for heaven’s sake, and not much beneath it.

  “Over there,” she motioned. “On the cabinet. Ah…thank you.”

  Kale had trouble tearing his eyes away from her to set the bucket down. Lordy, Benjamin was full of surprises. Even in that shapeless getup, Ellie Jarrett was all woman. And young…much younger than he’d expected, even though Carson had warned him—“a fine young woman.”

  When he turned toward the cabinet, lamplight caught the ivory handle of one of his revolvers. Ellie cringed.

  “You can’t wear those guns in this house.”

  Her voice was sharp, and he jumped as if he’d been shot. “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry. It’s been some time since I’ve been around…ah, inside a lady’s home.”

  “Well, I don’t allow guns indoors.”

  He frowned, thinking of the difficulty just past. “Not even with trouble about?”

  “I will not brook trouble inside my home,” she insisted.

  While she dished up two bowls of stew and carried them to the table, Kale complied with her wishes, albeit hesitantly. Little the lady knew about trouble, he thought. Did she think it always stopped at the barn? More often than not, trouble came uninvited, when and where it wished.r />
  He surveyed the room: pieced quilts hung in two doorways, separating sleeping rooms from this main one, he recalled. Coarse curtains and a rag rug added warmth to the sturdy limestone building. Dried wildflowers in an earthenware jug sat on the rough-hewn mantel, along with some candles and a fruit jar filled with cartridges which propped up a photograph of Ellie. He studied it—the Sunday-go-to-meetin’ gown she wore, the fancy wood-frame house in the background.

  “You’ve sure fixed this place up, ma’am. It’s a sight more homey than it was the last time I was here.”

  She smiled in a curt manner and motioned to one of the two hide-bottomed chairs flanking a small oak table.

  Kale slung his gun belt over the ladder back of the chair, gun butt at hand, and slid into the seat.

  Watching him she grimaced but held her tongue. “I hope you like stew…” Her words trailed off when she observed for the first time the bruises on his swollen face, the cut over his eye. He looked like he’d just come from a brawl.

  Whatever had she gotten herself into? A gunfighter in the house? Violence begets violence, she recalled hearing. What would Kale Jarrett do when he learned of Benjamin’s violent death? Whatever would he do?

  “Stew’s my favorite, ma’am.” He ate silently, thinking she acted a bit starched, but he’d be the first to admit how little he knew about womenfolk—ladies, especially.

  “It was Benjamin’s—” She bit off her words, wishing she hadn’t mentioned her husband’s name. The idea of Benjamin’s being murdered had never filled her with as much dread as at this moment when she faced telling his brother.

  His gunfighter brother…how would a man violent by nature react to such news? Would he jerk out those ivory-handled Colt revolvers and start shooting? Would he hold her responsible? Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she quickly buried her face in her apron.

  Startled by this turn of events, Kale stared in helpless panic. He knew he should do something to comfort her, but what? When he opened his mouth to speak, no words came forth. He felt big and awkward in the presence of a lady like herself.