Andresson nodded, not in the least apologetic.
“I didn’t mean it as a good thing, but I see it different now. You’ve worked real hard—I expected that. But you’ve done a lot for the spread, things like changing that creek behind the cabin. Looking at ways to improve.”
Only the creak of saddle leather and the rhythmic thud of hoofs broke the silence for a few minutes.
“I’m making you part owner. Ten percent. Or if you want to put some wages back in, I’ll go a quarter share.”
“Quarter share,” Davis blurted, then colored as Nick grinned. “I’ll put back all my wages if need be, because I knew from the start you’d make something fine of this spread. And I’m honored, right honored, to have you making me a part of it. I’m grateful, too, for the chance.”
“Chance to work your hide off,” Nick muttered, shifting in his saddle at Andresson’s burst of words.
“But,” Davis seemed to gather himself then rushed on, “what means more is you trusting me this way.”
The words surprised Nick almost as much as his own reaction. He looked at Andresson, and said what he hadn’t known was true until a second before. “I do trust you, Davis. But you might want to hear about a deal I made with Dunn before you decide for sure.”
* * * *
“Alba, come with me. I have something to say to you.”
Alba’s hands stilled, knuckles deep in the bread she was kneading. “Where to, Davis?”
“The creek.”
Davis hadn’t said a word to her when she’d arrived a couple hours ago from the Circle T, riding along with Henry when he delivered the repaired blade. The old man had eyed Rachel’s horses in the corral with raised eyebrows, but asked only where Nick was. Checking stock, Davis told him. Henry nodded serenely.
Alba wished she had some of that serenity. She’d been edgy for days. She had not told Rachel why Nick and Davis had gone to Chelico; if they failed she did not want Rachel disappointed; if they succeeded it was not for her to give that joy to Rachel. So a silence had settled between them that had not existed before.
Also, there were Rachel’s questions about Davis. Kindly, even tentative, yet a matter Alba did not want in her conversations while she tried so desperately to put him from her mind.
Now he stood behind her, demanding she come with him. “Nick will wonder—”
“Nick won’t be back till supper. That’s why I came in now. I’ve things to say that’re between you and me.” She stared over her shoulder at him. His hands clenched. “I won’t be saying anything improper for a lady.”
She uncurled her fingers from the dough, spread a cloth atop it and wiped her hands on her apron. She held her head high as she walked unevenly out of the cabin.
At the level area by the creek, she sat on the edge of the bank, hands folded in her lap, back straight.
Davis planted his backside on the bank three feet from her as if it were the saddle of a bucking horse.
“Nick’s giving me a share of the spread. Making me a partner,” he blurted.
A spurt of air escaped her in a short “Oh.”
He rushed through an explanation. Alba heard it all, recognized his pleasure and pride. But his words jumbled in her head with her thoughts and reactions.
Until now she hadn’t realized what she’d feared—but he wasn’t leaving, he was staying.
He’d be more than a cowhand. He’d be a man any would consider a worthy suitor for a woman. Another woman.
“I’m thinking we could cross the longhorns Nick brought from Texas with breeds like I knew in Iowa, getting good meat that’ll stand up to winters. I’ve got other ideas. With a share of the place, I got a right to tell ‘em, too.”
She stared straight ahead. “I am very pleased for you.”
“I won’t stay if it means you’ll chafe with me around.”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said, with a grimness she’d never heard from him, “that I wouldn’t take pleasure in having a share if I knew you’d keep on feeling the way you have since, uh, this recent spell. I couldn’t have any ease with you feeling uncomfortable with me around. If you can’t forgive me, well, I’ll move along.”
“Move along? And leave the share Nick has given you?”
“Yes.” So simply he told so much about himself.
“You will not give up such an opportunity.” Even though the opportunity would mean he could take a wife.
If she was firm, he was stubborn. “I won’t stay if it keeps recalling to you what a clumsy-mouthed fool said and did so you had to remind him you’re a lady and he’s far from a gentleman.”
“That was not—” She faced him in her effort to make him understand. “I did not mean for you to take my words that way, Davis. I . . . I lost my temper with you and . . .”
Her voice faded at the import of her words. She had lost her temper. She had never lost her temper, not in all the years of her life. From her earliest memories, she had known safety depended on that. Men lost their tempers and lashed out, even when she held herself in check. What might they do if she became angry? She had never risked finding out. Even with her brother, she always maintained the security of her serenity.
Only with this man had she lost her temper.
Instinct as deep as survival had told her that with him she could be angry without risk.
Davis picked up her words. “You had cause to lose your temper. And I apologize for spyin’ on you. It wasn’t right, no matter what I was intendin’. But—” stubbornness came to the fore “—I won’t apologize for kissing you. I ain’t going to stop wanting to kiss you, but I won’t force it on you—don’t worry on that. But if you can’t live comfortable, then I’ll move on.”
Her mind could not formulate words, so she left that task to her heart. “You have never asked about . . . about how I walk.”
He didn’t seem surprised. “Nope.”
“Have you never wondered if I was born with such a walk?”
“Figured you weren’t born with it. Creatures born a certain way accept it, because they don’t know different. But those that get hurt later, there’s a pain . . . Not in the bone or the body, but deeper. It shows here.” He brushed a fingertip below her eye.
She stared into his eyes, finding peace there, as if their blue were a clear, calm lake whose waters could keep her soul afloat.
She told him of her father, of his drunken rampages, his rotting breath, his hurtful hands shaking, pinching, slapping. And then his fists.
She told him of Nick’s attempts to protect her, of his final struggle with their father, and of her sanctuary with the sisters.
She told him of Harve Martin, of his early charm, of his unreasoning rages, of his cruelty and of his death.
And all the while, she cried. Tears she had never shed in moments and hours and years of pain, released now.
She ended on a shuddering sigh, drew in a long breath, and felt the burning ache in her eyes. She had purged herself, and that was good. She could not regret this. She could only be thankful that such a man as Davis Andresson existed, to hear her words and to soak up her tears.
She stood, the need to balance against the weakness in her right hip automatic, yet enough to remind her of what divided her from other women.
He caught her wrist. He stood. She felt him at her shoulder, the tall, lean body blocking the insistent breeze from her.
“Alba.”
He bent, dipping his head, and touching her lips with his. He kissed her again, so gently. And again. “Ah, Alba,” he breathed so quiet against her lips.
Tears slipped from eyes she had thought were dry as midsummer drought. But these tears came from a different place, sliding free as softly as a bubbling spring.
He kissed her tears. His arms opened and she moved into their haven. With lips and hands, he stroked and caressed.
He was a healer.
She trembled as the layers of cloth that protected her secrets came away, but
she didn’t falter.
Davis squeezed his eyes closed when she tilted her hips to accept him fully. When he opened them, their blue dazzled her, yet she would not look away as he began to move with the patient care he showed in all things, carrying them to a destination neither could imagine without the other.
Chapter Twenty-One
“I lied to you, Alba.”
She stirred in his arms, and waited. Davis might believe he had lied, but he would never betray her trust in him.
“I told you I watched you here at the creek because I worried about you, but that wasn’t the sole reason. I watched you because I was always dreaming of being with you like this.”
She nuzzled against the firm, warm flesh where his neck met his shoulder, and his arms tightened.
“Most women, they wait for me to talk, and the more they wait the less I can. But you, you look at me like you already understand—without talkin’—and then I can talk. Alba?” He slid a hand into her disordered hair and gently drew her up until their eyes met.
“Yes, Davis?”
“I mean to marry you, you know that, don’t you?”
Her eyes filled, but even more quickly the longing and regret flooded her heart.
“I know I should’ve waited till after we’re married with a lady like you and all, but we are going to marry.”
“Davis, you should not marry a woman who . . .” He rose on an elbow, his eyes slits. “You are a man of property. You should marry a girl, one who can give you babies. I have never been with child, I may not be able. The scars—”
“I don’t care for any of that. I want you for my wife.”
“Davis, think of a future. Think of having a fam—”
“I don’t want any future without you. I can make something of myself with you helping me. Marry me, Alba.”
“But—”
“I won’t ever love another woman.”
Her gentle Davis said it with the certainty of God pronouncing salvation. The salvation of a heart, or perhaps two hearts. And, as she trusted Davis in all other things, she could not doubt him in this.
“I will marry you, Davis.”
* * * *
Nick strode toward the cabin with his temper straining against a tight rein.
He’d been doctoring a steer on the north range, figuring on another two and a half hours of light to work in, when Davis rode up. He’d held off, careful not to spook the steer, until Nick finished. But Davis hadn’t been near as careful of Nick’s sensibilities, brusquely ordering him to get to the cabin because Alba wanted to talk to him.
When Nick reared back and demanded what she wanted to talk about that wouldn’t wait a few hours, Davis stood firm and silent.
Alba wanted to talk to Nick—now—and that clearly was enough for Davis. He’d said he’d take over checking stock, and then waited until Nick mounted and headed for the cabin.
He stalked into the cabin to find Alba waiting, arms folded across her chest. “Sit down, Nick.”
Torn between impatience and a swelling fear—she’d seen Rachel and the boy—he snapped, “What do you want?”
“Sit down.”
He’d never heard that tone from her. He sat, but he slammed his hat on the table, gaining a perverse satisfaction in the discharge of dust across Alba’s clean table.
She sat opposite him. “First, I ask why you have not taken Rachel’s horses to her.”
“She won’t take them from me because of her damned pride and I’ve got too much work to do to go on a fool’s errand.”
“You are afraid. Afraid because of what you feel for her.”
“That’s done with.”
“You lie, John Nicholas Dusaq. And you are a fool.”
His gentle sister’s harsh words brought him up like a yank on a bridle.
He shook his head. “She’s got ideas like one of those books she reads. That the trail will run smooth because you want it that way. She wants a fairy tale and I’m not the man to give it to her.”
“You talk of her as if she had the dreams of a child. She has had two husbands, and she has borne the burden of this land, she has lost people she loves, and you think she looks for a fairy tale?” Hands on her hips, she fired the question at him. “I have never seen a more clear-eyed woman than Rachel. And you know that of her. You know she sees the need to sell the horses she loves, and does not flinch from it. Do you not know, then, that she sees people as clearly? Do you not know that she sees you as you are?”
Maybe . Hope edged into his thoughts, a hungry wolf circling an unwary herd. He pushed it back. “She does not see what I came from, or she would know better than to talk of love and marriage.”
“She sees what you are. What you came from—what we came from—does not matter.”
“It matters.”
“Only as long as you press the thorn of it always deeper into your skin. Leave it, Nick.”
“Can you?” His blunt challenge recalled every bruising blow, every demeaning moment.
“I can try. I am trying.”
“Good luck to you, then.” If she wanted to believe in fairy tales after all the years’ lessons, he wouldn’t try to dissuade her. He wouldn’t encourage her, either. He stood. “I’ve got work. Tell Davis he’ll have to—”
“Davis and I are to be married. I love him.”
Her soft statement brought him to a standstill. Slowly he dropped into the chair.
His lips felt dry and stiff. “Alba, after what happened . . .”
“You think I should fear? You think I should trust no one? Love no one? Have faith in no one, as you do?”
“It’s kept me alive,” he said grimly.
“It has kept you alone.”
He jerked his gaze from the implacable tenderness in her eyes. “I wish you happiness.”
“I know you do. Even if you do not believe. And I know you fear happiness is not possible for me, as you do not believe it possible for yourself. But I know I love him. I know he loves me.”
He sidestepped that. “Davis is a good man.”
“He is.” Two words, spilling over with something Nick knew most would call love. “He knows what I have come from, Nick. I have shown him the scars, on my body and on my soul. And he has not turned away.”
I’ve never seen a more clear-eyed woman than Rachel.
“I have trusted Davis,” Alba went on, “and I have been given love. Think of that while you ride to see Rachel.”
Rising from the chair a second time, he started, “I have no cause to go to the Circle T. I told you, she won’t take those horses.”
Alba exhaled, then drew in a long, deep breath, as if, after scaling one height, she fortified herself for a second. “Rachel had some money. Her own money, you understand, not Gordon Wood’s. Money from the sale of her cattle. She might have used this money to keep her horses. She could not since she gave that money to someone.”
Nick’s senses focused on his sister the way they would on a rattlesnake. He saw her quick swallow, then the slight raising of her chin before she spoke again.
“She gave that money to me. The money I gave to you to buy the hay. There was no sale of my belongings in Texas. There was only Rachel.”
For a moment he let the thunderhead of his anger billow over his senses. He was angry at Rachel, at Wood, at Alba, at Davis, at fate, at his brutal father, at his weakened mother, at the cattle that died, at the land that dared men to tame it, at the bitter winds that proved it would never be totally done. At himself.
The storm swept through him in silence, a lifetime of control holding in check thoughts that raged to be screamed at the skies. Only when the roar in his head tempered itself did a single, raw curse escape him. Alba didn’t flinch.
“I said she gave the money to me. That was wrong. She gave it to you.”
As if he hadn’t felt the slice of that knowledge.
* * * *
With it nearly full dark, the hoofbeats from so many horses brought everyone outside. B
ob was telling the women they should get inside and maybe Joe-Max should get his rifle, when Rachel caught sight of the lead rider. Brujo was so dark his rider seemed to emerge from a shadow, but she knew that straight back, those long legs.
“It’s Nick!” Joe-Max shouted. “Bring a lantern.”
In the confusion of the next few minutes, Rachel watched numbly as they released a half dozen of her horses into her corral. While the others surrounded Nick with questions and greetings, she found a dark spot along the rail and absorbed the sound and sight of her horses.
“They’re yours, Rachel,” he said from beside her. She gave herself another moment before facing Nick. She always seemed to be trying to prepare to face him—that first day at the pond, and every meeting since. Not once had she felt she’d found her balance sufficiently to face him with both feet on the ground, firm and sure of herself.
“They’re not.” She gave the horses a final look, then turned, realizing they were the only two still outside. “I sold them.”
“I bought them back. They’re yours.”
“You bought them—they’re yours. I won’t take cha—”
“It’s not charity. You gave Alba that money, damn it! If you’d kept the money you wouldn’t have had to sell them in the first place, and I wouldn’t have a herd now.”
She was silent, then sighed. “I owed you that, Nick.”
He stepped closer, and for two hard, heavy heartbeats they looked into each other’s eyes. Then he looked beyond her.
“You know, Rachel, that first day you came upon me at the pond, I wanted you. I could feel the heat and the hardness even before I caught sight of you. Like some other sense working.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“I’ve wanted you every day, every night since. A man can’t be damned for that. But acting on it . . . I shouldn’t have bedded you at the shack, shouldn’t have given you a child to fend for. I figure I can work off some of that now.”
His final words transformed the heat of desire humming through her body to the much safer fire of anger. “By repaying a debt you don’t owe?”
“By marrying you.”
Widow Woman Page 28
