Seasons of Glory

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Her mouth open and wet with his kiss, her world defined by this moment, by this man, Glory suddenly and clearly saw herself—as if she stood across the room—lying here under him. She a Lawless, he a Thorne. Breathing in gasps of air, she gave in—belatedly—to pangs of regret and sanity. “Oh, Riley, what are we doing? I can’t. We can’t. It’s not right.”

  Above her, Riley stilled, a muscle twitched in his jaw. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath … several deep breaths. He then opened his eyes and ran his gaze over her face. “It is right, Glory. You’re the only damn thing in my life that is right.”

  Scared now, ashamed and wanting to get up, Glory shrank back into the pliant leather’s softness, jerking her head sideways. Her words came out on a sob. “You’re scaring me, Riley.”

  A very long stillness marked the steady ticking of the mantel clock. Then Riley lowered his head, gently resting his forehead against her temple. His voice was no more than a whisper that feathered softly, seductively over the shell of her ear. “It’s all right, Glory, it’s all right.” He pulled back, smoothing his fingers down her cheek. “Will you look at me, honey?”

  Glory turned her head but, reluctant to meet his gaze, looked instead at his neck, at the rapid pulse beating there. She wanted to kiss it, to taste him. But she didn’t dare. Even in her innocence, she knew that the least gesture from her right now would unleash a torrent of passion that she couldn’t stem, couldn’t control. She finally sought his gaze. “I’m sorry, Riley.”

  Riley shook his head and grinned. He planted a tender kiss on her forehead. “You didn’t do anything, sweetheart. I did. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

  With that, he bunched his muscles, pulled his arms away from her and levered himself up. On his feet now, he immediately turned his back to her, hung his head forward, ran a hand through his mussed hair and exhaled a long breath.

  Struggling against her skirt, Glory sat up, feeling awkward but also strangely weightless after having supported Riley’s heavily muscled self. Swinging her legs around to the floor and sitting up, she rested her elbows on her primly clamped-together knees and smoothed her hair away from her face. What in the world does one say now? she wondered. Mama didn’t cover this situation in her etiquette sessions.

  Saving Glory from further wondering was the sound of hurrying feet and Biddy’s crying out, “Riley! Glory! Are ye in here?”

  Biddy’d no more than shouted their names before Glory was on her feet and rounding the end of the couch. Riley went the other way. They met the apron-strings-flapping nanny at the same moment, each taking an arm to support her as she bent forward in relief. “There ye are, the heavens be praised. Come quick, the two of ye. There’s somethin’ the matter with Skeeter. He’s barkin’ and bayin’ to wake the dead.”

  Glory stared at Biddy, then her words sank in. She flicked her gaze to Riley. He let go of Biddy and took Glory’s arm. “Stay here with her. I’ll go.”

  “No,” Glory cried. “I’m going, too.” She herded Biddy toward a leather chair adjacent to the couch. Over her shoulder she called, “You wait for me.”

  Biddy stopped where she was and pulled Glory’s hand off her arm. “Go on, child. ’Tis only winded I am from hurrying. I’ll be fine. Now go see what’s got that hound in an uproar. I’m afraid yer the only one he’ll allow near him. Ye be careful, ye hear me? An’ stay with Riley.”

  Glory cupped Biddy’s full, soft cheek. “If you’re sure. Now, you sit right here and don’t you move.” With that, she turned to the doorway. Riley was gone. Not the least bit surprised, Glory held her skirt up with both hands and ran for the back door. She tore through the kitchen, her mind’s eye noting the raw makings of supper spread on the counter.

  Not even stopping for her sheepskin coat, she wrenched open the back door, flung it aside, and leaped from the landing to the ground. Not even the tormenting, stinging-cold wind slowed her down. Indeed this time, it seemed to blow in the direction she ran, seemed to urge her on, to ease her way.

  Fighting her hair, which whipped across her face, Glory could see them now. Riley outside the wooden gate of the family cemetery. A short man—was that Abel Justice, the new hand?—inside the fence and cornered by a back-humped, hair-raised Skeeter. Stumbling and tripping her way up the hill’s slope, grabbing at her skirt, trying to suck air into her lungs, Glory nevertheless heard Riley shouting, heard Skeeter’s answering snarls and baying.

  Jerking to a winded, stumbling stop beside Riley, she clutched at his arm and hung on. Riley righted her as if he wasn’t aware of doing so, so intent on Abel Justice was he. Holding Glory upright, he called out to the terrified man. “Don’t make a move, Justice. That dog’ll take you apart.”

  Glory saw the whites of Abel Justice’s muddy brown eyes as he nodded. The man’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He never once looked away from the threatening hound dog.

  “What are you doing up here?” Glory called out.

  At her side, Riley advised, “Call Skeeter off, Glory. We can talk then. I just tried to coax him, but he’s not having any part of me today.”

  Glory bit at her bottom lip as she tried to think this through. Reflexively, out of ingrained habit, she swiped her hair out of her face. And then became aware that the wind had suddenly died down. For once today she didn’t have auburn tangles blurring her vision. That was one blessing. Maybe she was due another. She pulled away from Riley and walked toward the gate. “I’ll go get him. Skeeter hasn’t been himself since Old Pete was killed.”

  A hand clamped around her arm, eliciting a surprised cry from her. Riley spun her around. “You’re crazy, if you think I’m going to let you go in there. Skeeter might turn on you.”

  Glory jerked in his grip, but to no avail. “I’m going in, Riley. Take your hand off me.”

  Riley’s face burned with determination. “No.” He pulled his Colt from his holster. “You call him from here. If he goes for you, I’m going to shoot him.”

  Glory froze. “If you shoot him, I’ll never forgive you.”

  Riley’s mouth firmed in a straight line. “That’s your decision. But if it’s you or him, Glory, I’ll shoot him.”

  Glory stood where she was, staring up at Riley. He was right and she was wrong, and she knew it. His way was the logical, sensible way. But this was Skeeter. Old Pete’s dog. The hound she’d helped raise from a pup. Old Pete was gone forever. Mama and Papa were gone forever. And no one was going to shoot Skeeter.

  “Let go of me, Riley,” she warned in a low voice, looking him right in the eye. “He’ll listen to me, I know he will. Just don’t follow me in there. That’ll excite him. Give him a chance, Riley. One chance.”

  Riley’s gaze roved her face as he apparently assessed her determination. Then, he exhaled and relaxed the barest fraction, loosening his grip on her. “One chance. But nothing’s changed. If it’s you or him, Glory, I’ve got to end it.”

  Glory glared at him and stepped up to the gate’s latch. Her chest rising and falling with exertion, anger, and no small amount of fear, she opened the gate and sidled into the square enclosure. Taking a deep breath, she bent over and clapped her hands together softly, calling out, “Skeeter, come here, boy. It’s okay. It’s me—Glory. Come on now, settle down. It’s okay.” Keeping her voice lowered to a croon, Glory slowly advanced on the riled-up hound.

  Skeeter turned his big head in her direction. Glory stopped where she was. With no sign of recognition in his eyes, the dog lifted his black muzzle, showing her his razor-sharp teeth—a clear warning. Glory sucked in a breath. She cut her gaze to Abel Justice, noted he hadn’t moved, and then she looked around, seeing the uneaten scraps and the water bowl. No sense trying to ply Skeeter with food.

  Then, knowing Riley stood behind her, his gun in his hand, Glory glanced at him. His sober expression met hers. She took a deep breath, watched him shift his weight as if impatient. Scared that he would shoot at any moment, Glory took her life into her own hands and walked purposefully
toward the dog. By her third step she was foolishly between Riley’s gun and Skeeter. Behind her, she heard Riley’s sharp intake of breath, heard him cock his gun.

  Not taking time to think too deeply about her actions, Glory used a different tone of voice with the offended animal. Whereas before she’d been coddling, now she was firm but cajoling. “Skeeter, it’s me—Glory. Look at me, boy. It’s me. No one’s going to hurt you—or Old Pete, okay? Now, come here, Skeeter. Come to me.”

  Skeeter stared up at her, his black eyes roving over her. He then suddenly made a mock-lunge for her, woofing but not growling. Glory tensed up but didn’t move, didn’t retreat. “Stop that,” she shouted, the words coming from her gut reaction to his behavior. “Stop that right now, Skeeter. Old Pete would be ashamed of you, jumping at me like that. What’s gotten into you?”

  Skeeter cocked his head, lifting his ears slightly, perhaps curiously. Glory ran the tip of her tongue over her fear-dried lips. All right, you’ve got his attention. Keep talking to him. “Come here, Skeeter.” She dropped to her knees, held her arms out, making herself completely vulnerable to attack. “Come here, boy.”

  Skeeter’s long tail wagged halfheartedly. Glory let out her breath. “That’s a good boy. Come here, honey. Come to Glory.”

  The dog drooped his head and tail and slowly padded over to her. When he nudged her shoulder with his nose and licked her, she grabbed his big, floppy-eared head to her chest and hugged him fiercely, tears of relief standing in her eyes. “Good boy,” she told him, rubbing him vigorously.

  Over the dog’s head, she nodded to Abel Justice, indicating for him to climb over the fence behind him. The man nodded and then clambered over it, taking off as if a pack of wolves chased him.

  Glory stood up, kept Skeeter at her side, and turned to Riley. He’d holstered his gun and was standing where she’d left him, a knee bent, his hands at his waist. He was shaking his head at her—and fighting a grin, she noticed. And suddenly it was funny to her, too. She grinned openly at him. “I told you I could do it.”

  Riley broke down and chuckled. “I never doubted it for a minute.”

  * * *

  Riley stepped into the warm kitchen that evening. Hungry and tired, but freshly washed up and his damp hair combed back, he nodded to Biddy at the stove and then to Glory. She cast him a shy, green-eyed glance, took a steaming bowl of something that smelled wonderful from Biddy and hurried over to the old sawbuck table with it. She sat it at the place he now thought of as his and returned to the stove, waiting on Biddy to hand her another.

  Riley liked it that they ate in here, instead of that big, dark dining room around the corner. The kitchen was more cozy, had more of a family feeling to it. His gaze sought Glory’s back. Anytime he thought about a family in his future, she was in the picture’s center. Suddenly feeling self-conscious just standing there staring, Riley greeted the women. “Evening, all. It sure smells tempting in here.”

  Stirring a big, steaming pot, Biddy beamed at him. Her smile lit up her kind and rounded Irish face. “I thank ye, Mr. Thorne. And may I say yer looking right and proper for yer evening meal? We’re having a beef stew and cornbread that’ll stick to yer ribs. Here, Glory, take this one. Careful now, ’tis hot.”

  “I know, Biddy. Just give it here. The cornbread will be cold by the time we all sit down. In fact, why don’t you sit down and let me do this? You’ve only been out of bed this day.”

  Biddy puffed up. “And a good thing I am, too. We’d have been up to our ears in mess, had I not, miss. I pity the man who marries ye, I do. Like as not, he’ll starve.”

  Riley grinned broadly, thoroughly enjoying this bit of play. What with Ma being the only woman at home, he’d not witnessed female teasing before coming here. But then, Glory winked at him. Surprise wiped the grin off his face. She felt comfortable enough with him to let him in on this family fun?

  Her bright and playful, green-eyed gaze still on him—but speaking to Biddy—she cupped another bowl of stew and again made her way to the table. “The man I marry won’t give a fig for how good a cook I am. He’ll be too busy laying presents at my feet and buying me anything my heart desires.”

  “Ha,” was Biddy’s opinion of that. She wagged her ladle at Glory for pointed emphasis. Splotches of dark broth pocked the puncheon floor. “And ’tis something more besides a beef stew he’ll be wantin’ in return from ye for all them baubles. Am I right, eh, Riley?”

  Riley nearly choked on his own spit. He flicked his gaze from Biddy to Glory’s stiff back as she sat the bowl down, and then back to Biddy. “Umm, yes, ma’am. I suppose.”

  Biddy laughed knowingly at him. “Ye suppose? Well, suppose this, me fine young man—’twas this close Glory was to organizing a search party for ye just now. It was that worried, she was.”

  Glory spun around. “Biddy, you hush.” She then turned to Riley. “I was no such thing—worried or thinking about hunting for you. Why, you’re a grown man and can take care of yourself.” She wiped her hands down the front of her apron. “But a body’d think you’d have the decency at least to keep me informed of your whereabouts. We’ve had enough troubles without you wandering off.”

  Her obvious concern for him, despite her words, hung in the air. Glory suddenly looked away from him and made her way back to the stove.

  “I’m sorry I worried you. I was just one place and another this evening, it seems.” Riley’s words followed her. She didn’t acknowledge them, but still he grinned, pleased that she’d missed him.

  Watching her help Biddy, and with their attention off him, Riley used the moment to study Glory, noting her neatly combed-back hair. It wasn’t in a bun. Instead, a bright-blue ribbon held her masses of rich reddish-brown hair loosely at her nape. Without warning, she turned around, a third bowl in her hands. Her gaze met his. And held it … for a tenuous second. Then ducking her head, as if against a wind, she walked back to the table.

  Riley grinned, more to himself than to her. What would it take to get her to admit she wanted him as much as he did her? As if an answer lay in her individual features, Riley caressed her with his gaze. Short, curling tendrils that framed the delicate oval of her face captured his attention. Emphasizing her evergreen eyes and full, pink mouth, the curls spoke of a softness about her, a vulnerability that wrenched his heart.

  Glory thumped the bowl down on the table and poked out her bottom lip. “Why are you staring at me like that? Is something wrong?”

  Riley snapped out of his reverie to announce, “No.” But the more he tried to concentrate on the moment, the more his mind kept going back to earlier that afternoon … to the couch. To them on the couch. Every time he recalled the feel of her under him, moving against him, kissing him, he almost busted out of his britches—

  “Riley?! You’re doing it again—you’re staring at me. Did you get into some loco weed?”

  Caught and roped and branded by his bedroom thoughts, Riley shook his head and looked away from her, the source of his befuddlement. “No. Sorry. I guess I’m just tired.”

  Biddy whooped out her opinion. “Tired, is it? Is that what yer callin’ it nowadays, Riley, me boy?”

  That damned Biddy. Heat burst upon his cheeks like the Fourth of July fireworks he’d seen up in Kansas once. “Yes, ma’am. I mean, no ma’am.”

  Still, Biddy’s knowing expression cooled his … thoughts. Which was probably her intent. He wrenched his chair out and abruptly sat down, scooting it loudly all the way up to the table. Only when his bulging lap was out of plain sight did he chance a look at Glory.

  Her face as red from Biddy’s teasing as he figured his was, Glory sat down with studied motions and kept her gaze on the steaming bowl of stew in front of her. In silence, he waited with Glory for Biddy to join them. When the beaming, bustling older woman seated herself, he reached out his hands and joined his with theirs, so that they formed an unbroken circle.

  On his left, Biddy’s hand felt warm, comforting. On his right, Glory’s was tiny
, fragile. Riley bowed his head, tried not to squeeze Glory’s hand too hard, and listened to Biddy’s short, Irish prayer for the Lord’s bounty and this meal. Following the amens, a quiet clattering of dishes and silverware and murmurs of please-pass-me-this-or-that ruled the next moments. But once they were settled and eating, Glory broke the silence.

  “Did you talk to Abel Justice about what it was he was doing up at the hill, Riley? He took off so fast after I grabbed Skeeter that I never got to ask him.”

  Riley watched her talk and then nodded as he buttered his cornbread. “Yeah, I spoke to him. He said he was paying his Christian respects.”

  Biddy tsk-tsked. “Ye cannot fault a man for that.”

  “I suppose not.” Riley dipped up a mouthful of stew.

  Glory made a disbelieving noise. “Paying his respects? I find that hard to believe. He was up to more than that for Skeeter to get so riled up. I’ve never seen him act like that before. Never.” Then some other remembrance quirked her features. “Oh, drat. That’s another thing I forgot to check. Did Smiley and the men make it back?”

  Riley swallowed and nodded, remembering the men’s pointed silence in his presence and Smiley’s grumbling about the two new hands. “Yep. They rounded up about twenty head of cattle, near as I could count.”

  “Why, ’tis glad I am they’re back, what with this devilish wind blowing winter right to our doorstep.”

  Riley looked at Biddy, saw Glory do the same and then noted her laughingly quirked mouth. Biddy pointed at her. “I know what yer going to say. Ye keep a civil tongue in yer head, young lady.”

  Glory grinned openly and turned to Riley. “She’s sweet on Mr. Rankin.”

  Biddy’s spoon smacked into her bowl, slopping some broth over the edge and gaining her both Riley’s and Glory’s amused expressions. “The devil ye say! I’m no such thing. Me—at me age? Why, I’ve no time for such nonsense.”

  “Yes, you do,” Glory egged.

  Biddy picked up her spoon and wagged it drippingly at her. “An’ yer a fine one to be talking, miss. Don’t ye be carrying tales, lest yer wantin’ some of yer own naked stories to come back at ye.”