Widow Woman

by Patricia McLinn

  Her gaze jerked to his. His dark eyes regarded her inscrutably. She’d become so used to the desire in his eyes that this old look struck her like a dash of cold water.

  “You’ll come with me to the shed this evening, and be out a while tomorrow. Start getting you out before you make that ride.”

  Over the next thirty hours, as Nick put his words into action, Rachel sensed something slipping away from her. Or someone.

  Nick’s touch hadn’t changed, and the effect of his touch had only strengthened. But she could feel him withdrawing from her. As the time before her leaving dwindled, she became more direct in trying to get him to give her something of himself beyond passion.

  “You never talk about your family.”

  Silence.

  “Your sister, where’s she?”

  “Texas.”

  “Is she . . . is she all right now that . . . now?”

  “Yes.” The next words seemed to drag out of him. “I took her to the sisters at a mission there. They cared for her, healing her leg. It’s where she went to school as a girl after . . . It’s familiar. Safe.”

  Heartened that he’d answered, she kept on. “What’s she like?”

  He shrugged, the movement a muscled wave under her head. “Dark. Dark hair, eyes—”

  “Like you.”

  “Like me.” A solitary thread of amusement entered his voice. “But she’s pretty. And gentle.” The amusement faded, replaced by something almost fragile. “A gentle woman. Like our mother.”

  He gave a sharp, deep breath, and she knew the mood was gone.

  “You mother taught you to read, didn’t she?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Something in your face when I said about Mama teaching me.”

  “Yes, she taught me. Then I taught my sister.”

  She smoothed a palm over his chest, gentling even before she asked, “Because your mother had died?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old were you?”

  “What does all this matter?”

  “I want to know you. Nick,” she said simply.

  “To know me? You already know I killed my sister’s husband.” He threw off the covers and swung his legs over the side, twisting to stare at her furiously. “You know I’m wanted in Texas. You know I’ve followed the cattle, like a lot of other nobody hands.”

  He rose, as unabashedly naked as he had been that day at Jasper Pond, but with such different emotions in his eyes. Rachel sat, holding the covers to her breasts, watching him, as he took two steps, then demanded in a harsh voice, “Do you also want to know I’ve been a gambler and a horse trader? That my mother died too soon, weakened by my father’s beatings and by having too damned gentle a soul? Do you want to know that my father barely tolerated my sister and me when our mother lived, and that after she died, he turned his fury on my sister? I’d reached a size by then I could give back a blow, so he stayed clear of me.

  “Until the night he was so drunk he forgot to lock me out while he beat on her. And when I tried to put him out of the stinking room we had over the meat shop, he drew a knife and tried to kill me. Only he was so damn drunk, he fell backward down the stairs before he could cut out my heart the way he promised. Or do you want to know that my father did not die soon enough? Are those the things you want to know?”

  His bitterness and pain battered at her, but she didn’t bend.

  “Yes, those are things I want to know.”

  Emotion bled from his eyes, and watching that was no easier than if she’d watched him shed his life’s blood.

  Desire had drawn him across the distance he kept from people, but now he retreated, perhaps even deeper than before.

  “There is something about me you should know.” The quiet, cool voice of his first months at the Circle T chilled her beyond where the air touched her bare skin.

  “What’s that, Nick?”

  “I bought the old Wallace spread. That’s why Andresson’s there this winter.”

  “Oh.” Thoughts and emotions tumbled and spilled into the yawning pit of her heart.

  “I made an offer before I came to the Circle T.” He sat sideways on the edge of the bed. “The dealing took longer than I expected, but I got the papers during the drive to Hammer Butte. I was set to tell Shag when I got final wages, but . . .”

  “But we asked you to stay on.”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose you’ll be leaving.”

  He gave her a sharp look, but said nothing.

  “Stands to reason,” she said as steadily as she could. “You wouldn’t have bought a spread if you wanted to spend the rest of your days working someone else’s.” And he wouldn’t have brought it up now if it hadn’t been a means of putting something between them.

  “No.”

  “So, I figure you’ll have cattle of your own—”

  “A cowhand’s not supposed to own cattle.”

  “I’m not saying you’re doing anything wrong.”

  He relaxed some. “I don’t own a single head of beef cattle. There’s a milk cow Davis is tending, a couple pigs and chickens. Not enough to keep a man alive if we hadn’t put up supplies.”

  “Oh.” She went carefully. “Sounds like you have a ways to go before you’re ready to work the place yourself.”

  “A ways,” he agreed.

  “So, you won’t be leaving just yet.”

  “No.” His voice changed, and he ran his fingertips down her bare arm. “Not just yet.”

  She released the covers and reached for him.

  * * * *

  They set out the next morning.

  Even with the horses picking their way around still-deep drifts, the journey didn’t take much longer than usual.

  They talked no more than necessary, and for that Nick was thankful. He didn’t know how he would have stood up to Rachel asking her kind of questions, not this near to their returning to the way things had been.

  Now, with the main ranch in sight, one thing needed saying. He brought Brujo beside the little chestnut she rode.

  “Rachel.”

  She turned, and he had all he could do not to take her face between his hands and cover her mouth with his.

  “Yes?”

  “I want you to know . . .” He couldn’t find the right, soft words. “The way things were at the shack, with us, that all stays there. I won’t be trying to bring that here, or to have it change the way things are on the Circle T. I’ll return to the shack first light, and when I come back to ready for spring roundup same as the others, it’ll be just like before.”

  She said nothing, staring straight ahead between the chestnut’s ears toward the main house.

  “You understand, Rachel?”

  “I understand. But there’s no need for you to go back to the shack. You . . . you could stay at the main ranch, Nick.”

  “No.”

  “It won’t be long before the weather breaks for good and you’d be here anyway, so what difference does it make?”

  The difference was she’d be sleeping in a second-floor bedroom, between clean, fresh sheets as befitted the Circle T’s owner, and he’d be in the bunkhouse, too far to suit him but too damn close for his ease. At the shack, he wouldn’t have to fight the urge to cover the distance between them every damn minute.

  “No.”

  The door of the bunkhouse swung open, and Henry and Fred spilled out with shouts and questions and whoops of relief.

  Rachel answered the first volley of questions with ones of her own. But there’d been only one message about Shag, and though the traveler said Ruth sent word Shag felt better, that had come a week ago. There’d been no more news.

  Pleading tiredness, Rachel said she was going to turn in.

  “Oh, I don’t know what shape the house’s in, Mrs. Terhune. With Ruth gone, nobody’s seeing to it. We’ve been making do in the bunkhouse, even for cooking.”

  “That’s all right.” She smiled into Fred’s worried face
. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Neither Fred nor Henry would hear of it. They insisted she stay in the bunkhouse while they lit the stoves in her room and the kitchen.

  Nick led the horses into the barn, unsaddling, feeding and watering them more slowly than usual. Still, when he returned to the bunkhouse, Fred and Henry were just about to escort Rachel to the main house. He’d hoped not to see her again, not until he’d gotten used to not being able to touch her. But here they stood, face-to-face in the doorway of the bunkhouse. The warmth and light behind her, the cold and dark behind him.

  He broke the look, stepping aside and tipping his hat as she went past. “Good night, Mrs. Terhune.”

  It felt like goodbye.

  * * * *

  The weather stayed fair, and that brought Nick back to the home ranch in two weeks. By that time he didn’t much mind.

  The days he’d spent helping the cattle that managed to find late drifts to get caught in, and shooting two wolves, though too late to save the winter-weakened steer they’d felled. But even with days getting longer, the nights were too long because they were spent alone in the shack where every inch held a reminder of Rachel.

  He timed coming in that first night just the way he’d wanted. After the hands had returned to the bunkhouse from a supper presided over by Rachel, but before the nine Circle T men who’d wintered over or returned for the season—including Davis—had bedded down. He heard right off that Shag and Ruth hadn’t returned, though word from town had come he’d improved considerably. No one said it flat out and Nick didn’t ask, but between the lines he picked up that Rachel was running both ranch and house on her own.

  He saw the evidence for himself the next morning. In the one quick look he allowed himself before taking his place at the table, he saw smudges under her eyes and a line between her brows.

  He watched them worsen over the days of preparing for spring work. They rounded up horses left on the range over winter, repaired wagons, shod horses, filed branding irons—all the chores to ready an outfit for roundup.

  Now, his fifth morning back, Nick ate the breakfast she’d served up for the men, keeping his eyes on his plate so they didn’t stray to Rachel.

  She was near worn-out, and he hadn’t a right in the world to stop it. He ground his teeth into bacon that didn’t need that much chewing.

  Joe-Max abruptly scraped his chair back. “I near forgot, Mrs. Terhune, a letter came for you.” He went to a peg by the door where his coat hung. “Put it in my pocket to keep it safe.”

  “A letter?”

  “Yep, a rider came by first light when I was wrangling the horses. He said he’d been in Chelico and was heading to Miles City.” Joe-Max stroked his mustache as he handed over the folded letter.

  Rachel took it gingerly. She turned it over, then looked at the direction once more before she slid a finger under the flap.

  Nick had no compunction about watching her now, since everyone else did.

  As she skimmed the words, that line between her brows deepened into a frown and her mouth moved in a way that made him think she’d started worrying her inner lip. Her gaze went to the top again and she read it more slowly.

  When she finished the second reading, her eyes cut to him, then away.

  In the quiet of the room her soft sigh sounded as loud as the wind kicking up across the plains. Something was wrong, and the hell of it was he not only couldn’t try to help, he had no right to even know what fretted her.

  “Laundry tubs ready, Fred?” she asked.

  All the hands knew what was coming. The first warm days had prompted a general cleaning of the bunkhouse. But there’d been more important chores to tend to first. Now came the real turnout. Each man washed his own clothes and bedding. Wasn’t much washing done all winter and there’d surely be no time for such luxuries during roundup.

  Fred nodded. “Fires going, too.”

  “Good. As long as the work stock’s fed—” she got a nod from Henry “—you all have the rest of the day to tend to your laundry and such.”

  Chair legs scraped on the wooden floor as the hands headed out.

  * * * *

  While she was still trying to think of an excuse to talk to him alone, Nick left, among the first through the kitchen door.

  Rachel sighed.

  He’d been back five days and she hadn’t passed two words in private with him. She would work up the courage to cut him out from the other hands, and he would turn aside her effort like a wily steer ducking a rope.

  At the shack, in that narrow bunk, they had done things that made her feel more than desired . . . cherished. But she’d heard that could be the way of men, not to feel in their hearts what their bodies expressed. Maybe Nick hadn’t felt what she had. In that case, she’d best stop making a fool of herself, and get on with running the Circle T.

  Ignoring a stinging in her eyes, she tapped the edge of the folded letter on the table. But she surely would like to talk to him about this.

  * * * *

  Rachel’s first indication of riders coming in was Warrior’s uneasy shifting under her currying. Usually he stood absolutely still under her ministrations. Especially after she’d brought him to the corral and let him kick up his heels a bit before attacking the vestiges of his winter coat.

  “What is it, Warrior?” she asked softly.

  His ears flicked at her words, then strained forward. Not toward the track that led to the stage road, but toward open country to the east. She turned that direction. Before her eyes could scan the horizon, they caught on the sight of Nick.

  Like the others, he tended his clothes and bedding as they boiled in the pots Fred set out. They’d been at it long enough that underdrawers and shirts were spread to dry atop barrels, along the bunkhouse railing and from a rope between the bunkhouse and blacksmithing shed, where they flapped like a peculiar streamer.

  She wondered if Nick had washed all his undergarments or reserved one set for today. If he hadn’t, nothing separated his outer clothes and the flesh she had touched and kissed.

  The thought bled into remembered sensation as she watched him rise from where he’d been squatting to one side of the pots, listening to Joe-Max and Fred squabble amiably. She could imagine his thigh muscles tightening and bunching as he straightened, and she remembered how they felt tangled with her legs. He twisted, and she felt again the long, sleek muscles of his back.

  Then her mind absorbed that Nick’s movements had combined to turn him to face the same section of horizon that so interested Warrior, and Rachel pushed aside memories and longings.

  In another minute, she spotted the dust of riders, though it wasn’t until nearly an hour later that they were near enough to recognize as Thomas Dunn and Gordon Wood.

  They rode right past the laundry tubs. Neither so much as glanced at the men, though they did walk their horses, so hoof-churned dust didn’t cloud over the clean clothes. They came straight to the corral.

  “Mrs. Terhune.” Dunn touched fingers to his hat brim.

  “Good to see you, Rachel,” added Gordon Wood, briefly revealing his head of white hair when he doffed his hat.

  Rachel had momentarily considered hurrying inside to change from her split skirt to more feminine attire, but decided against it. She was glad of her decision when neither dismounted. She climbed the fence to perch on its top pole, still somewhat below the two men, but not nearly as much as before. It also gave her a clear view of her men watching the encounter, with Nick’s stare the most intense. He stood by the near corner of the bunkhouse. Not close enough to hear, but able to see everything.

  “Good day, gentlemen. What brings you to the Circle T?”

  “Wanted to let you know the date set for roundup,” said Wood. “Eight days from now. Starting at that camp by the big bend in Pleasant Creek.”

  She raised her eyebrows, but kept her tone light. “It took both of you to come tell me that? You could have sent a message easy enough.”

  “It was o
n my way,” Wood said with a sidelong glance at Dunn that emphasized the other man had no such excuse. “I’d stopped overnight at the KD on the return from Cheyenne, and we set the time then.”

  “Cheyenne? You were in Cheyenne? Did—”

  “We both were,” Wood said.

  “Did you see Shag?”

  “Matter of fact I did,” Wood said. “Seemed like his old self. I got real worried when I heard how sick he was this winter. And that you were foolish enough to go tearing across the country in a wagon and back on the stage. I could hardly credit you’d take such a fool chance.”

  “Indeed,” interposed Dunn smoothly. “I was quite concerned at hearing you were alone out here so much of the winter.”

  “I wasn’t alone. My men were here.” One man in particular, one who watched her so closely now.

  “That’s worse,” Wood said bluntly. “A woman alone with a half dozen men? Why who’s to say what—”

  “I’m to say,” she snapped. With effort, she recalled Shag’s often repeated warnings about the costs of temper, and her next words carried the chill of dignity. “This is my home. These are my men. I am perfectly safe. Though I do thank you,” she added grudgingly, “for your concern.”

  Wood was undeterred. “Without Shag—and Ruth—it shouldn’t be your home. A woman’s got no call being out here alone like this. Especially not a pretty young woman like you, Rachel.”

  Ah, now she understood. Wood had seen this as an opportunity to renew his suit, thinking that with Shag absent, she’d turn tail and run to the protection of the first male available, and he’d have two things he dearly wanted—her land and a young woman likely to give him an heir. Dunn, no doubt discerning Wood’s intentions, came along to make sure his neighbor didn’t steal a march on the half that he coveted.

  Because one way or another, these two were after the land that stood between their two spreads—her land.

  “It will interest you both to know, then, that I had a letter from Shag and he’ll be here any day—in plenty of time for roundup and with four new hands hired on. But even if that weren’t the case, I would not leave my land.”