He walked the fence line, checking for more damage, keenly aware of Bridget’s presence behind him. A few yards later, he found another length of cut wire and blew out a long breath in frustration.
“Why do you hate them so?”
Turning, Seth smiled at her. She’d obviously misread his dismay at the vandalism.
“The poachers? They make my job a long sight harder, and Mr. B. ain’t gonna like hearin’ what I found. But I can’t say I downright hate ‘em.”
“No. Why do you hate the Indians?”
Her question stopped Seth in his tracks. He swallowed hard, resting his hand on the top of a fence post. This sweet, spunky girl he admired—no, more than admired—had just dragged him back to a place he didn’t care to revisit.
He allowed his eyes to meet hers and found no hint of reproach, only kind curiosity and a longing for understanding.
“It was a long time ago.” He shoved the words through his tightening throat.
“What happened?” The caring touch of her hand on his arm warmed him as if the sun had split the canopy of gray clouds overhead.
“When I was twelve years old, my pa got the notion to sell our land in Pennsylvania and move the family to Texas.” Seth marveled at how the story he hadn’t recounted for years began to spill out at Bridget’s gentle nudging. “So he bought land up by the Red River and started a dairy farm. Right smack in Comanche territory. My folks thought if they were kind to the Indians, the Indians would be kind to them. That’s what they believed. They learned different.”
The memory of his parents’ trusting innocence soured Seth’s tone. “I’d gone to the barn to start the mornin’ milkin’ when I heard the Comanches’ whoops. I looked through a knothole in the barn door and saw my pa tryin’ to reason with a war party.” The picture flashed again before Seth’s eyes, and he gripped the fence post until his hand hurt.
“What happened then?” Her kind voice prodded him on.
“I watched one of the painted devils split Pa’s head open with a war axe.” Seth ignored Bridget’s gasp. “They took my mother and my sister.”
“What did you do?”
“What could I do? I was twelve.” Seth regretted the anger in his voice. He didn’t want Bridget to think it was directed at her. Tempering his tone, he continued. “I buried my pa, then walked to the next county. An old couple, the Pritcherts, knew my family and took me in. After they died I started ridin’ cattle on the Chisholm. That’s where I met Mr. B. He took me under his wing. Him and Violet have been like parents to me ever since.”
“I’m sorry, Seth.” At her sweet compassion, he swallowed hard.
A jagged flash of lightning ripped across dark thunderclouds along the southern horizon. The cattle in the pasture below set to bawling.
Seth turned his face toward the approaching storm. “Better head back, I reckon.” A thunderclap swallowed his words. The wind had picked up, snatching at his hat and blowing the copper curls framing Bridget’s face.
He turned toward the horses, glad for a reason to change the subject and leave the painful memories behind.
“Seth, I know how difficult it is to be left alone as a child.” She seemed unwilling to let it go. “I was orphaned myself at the age of eleven. My parents died of typhoid fever. I guess being orphans is something we have in common.”
Turned up to his, her smiling face looked like delicate pink and white porcelain.
He stood mute, surprised by her revelation and mesmerized by her beauty.
The silence exploded with a deafening crack followed by bone-jarring thunder, jerking Seth from his trance. The next instant, a vague sensation of tremors worked its way up through the soles of his boots. At a distant rumbling sound, he turned and looked southward.
Barely visible amid a cloud of dust, a brown and white wall of cattle raced straight toward him and Bridget. The animals’ long horns stretched out like curved sabers in front of them.
Seth glanced several yards north to where their grazing horses had wandered, now with their heads up, alert. Fear twisted a knot in his stomach.
“What is it?” Though obviously unaware of the approaching danger, Bridget’s face reflected the alarm in his. “Stampede!”
Chapter 4
Bridget stood paralyzed at the sight of the bawling wave of cattle bearing down on them. “Hurry!” Seth gripped her hand and they raced toward the horses. Before she could catch her breath, he flung her up onto his horse sidesaddle. He mounted behind her and kicked the horse into a gallop toward the sprawling safety of a lone oak tree. Perched between the saddle’s pommel and Seth, Bridget twisted and pressed her face against his chest. “God protect us. Please protect us both.” Trembling, she murmured her prayer against the coarse wool of his shirtfront.
They sidled up against a gigantic oak tree. Seth clung to the reins with one hand, while his other arm held Bridget tight against him. “Shh, steady now, steady.” The soothing words, no doubt meant to calm the snorting and shifting horse beneath them, comforted Bridget’s terror-filled heart.
The cattle herd thundered around them. Bridget coughed from the dust and ground her face harder into Seth’s chest. His strong arms, wrapped securely around her, offered a sense of security amid the tumult. When the din faded and the earth became quiet again, she lifted her face.
He leaned back so he could see her face but kept his arms clamped around her. “Are you all right?” Beneath pale brows drawn together, his blue eyes were filled with concern.
Bridget realized that she had never been so “all right” in her whole life. “Y–yes. I think so.” She knew she could not entirely attribute her hammering heart and breathlessness to fright.
The tension in Seth’s arm muscles relaxed a bit. In the long moment of their shared gaze, a silent understanding passed between them.
It happened slowly, as in a dream. His arms tightened around her again, and his eyes closed an instant before she closed her own. When his lips touched hers, the gathering storm, the distant sound of bawling cattle, the whole world around them vanished. Only the two of them existed. Held in his secure embrace, she felt weightless beneath his kiss while his lips caressed hers with a tender urgency.
His lips relinquished hers, and he cleared his throat as if embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
Bridget opened her eyes and blinked, regretting that the tender moment had passed. She had never known such exquisite joy. It spread through her whole body. Every nerve ending from her scalp to her toes tingled as if she’d taken a direct hit from the lightning bolts slashing across the slate gray sky. “Don’t be,” she managed in a breathless whisper. “I’m not.” She’d never spoken truer words. Of the many emotions surging through her, sorrow was not among them.
For a long while they rode in silence. Bridget’s heart thundered within her like the stampede that had just passed them. What was she feeling? What did it mean? Guilt filled her, squelching her joy. He’s not a Christian. How could you have? How could you feel like this about him?
A chill wind gusted, nipping at her face. She couldn’t resist leaning against the warmth of Seth’s chest.
“Are you cold?” He leaned closer as if to shield her from the wind.
“A little.” She snuggled against him. “Why do you think they did it?” They were wending their way through a tranquil sea of cattle. The stupid beasts that only a few minutes earlier had been charging in panic now grazed leisurely.
“Stampede?” His chest moved with the chuckle that rumbled up from deep in his throat. The sound sent a ridiculous thrill through her. “The thunder and lightning, I reckon. I should have thought—”
“My horse!” Remembering her abandoned steed, Bridget stiffened in the saddle. She didn’t like to think she’d cost the Circle B a horse.
“She knows her way home.”
This time she gave in to the rich sound of his throaty laugh and relaxed once more against him.
Sure enough, a few minutes later
when they rode into the barn, they found the mare in a stall munching happily on hay.
“See, I told you she’d be here.” Seth dismounted and reached up to help Bridget down.
Joy swept through her as his strong hands held her in a secure grip. You can’t. You mustn’t allow… If only he were a Christian. If only he were a believer.
A thought struck her with a jolt like the lightning that had caused the stampede. She could witness to him. She could bring him to Christ. Perhaps God did mean for Seth Krueger to be part of Bridget’s mission work here.
“I could …” He cleared his throat again, a habit Bridget had begun to notice about Seth whenever he seemed uncomfortable or embarrassed. He looked at the straw-covered dirt floor. His sweet shyness touched her heart as softly as the music of the rain now drumming on the barn roof. “I could ride out with you to the orphan house … until you get used to riding.” He met her gaze now, hope shining from his eyes.
“I think that would be a wonderful idea.” Her words tumbled out in an eager rush. She wasn’t nearly as enthused about making the trip without him as she had earlier thought.
He blew out a long breath as if he’d been holding it.
Bridget knew she must crack open the door to the subject of faith if there was ever to be hope of a relationship between them. If he could not accept Christ, she must nip in the bud this blissful feeling in her chest before it bloomed. Her heart ached with the thought. Yet she must not falter.
She laid her hand gently on his arm and mustered her courage with a deep breath that frayed at the edges when she let it out.
“Seth, I know you’re not an especially God-fearing man. I hope you don’t blame God for what happened to your parents and sister. You shouldn’t. And you shouldn’t hold it against the Indian children.” He drew back, but she forged on. “It wouldn’t be fair. Just as it wouldn’t be fair for me to hold a grudge against the Polish immigrants who infected my parents with typhoid when my folks helped them move into our tenement.” She grasped his hands, which had turned rigid. “Don’t you see?
These Indian children are orphans, too, just like us. They need to be taught about God’s love—about Christ’s commandments that we love our neighbor as ourselves.”
He stiffened and pulled away from her, his face reddening. A thunderclap sounded in the distance, as if it were generated by his stormy countenance.
The shift in his demeanor frightened Bridget. Feeling the blood drain from her face, she shrank from his growing anger.
“God? You speak to me of God? God turned His back on my family when they needed His help!” Muscles worked in his taut jaw, and he shook with the fury she’d unleashed. “Yes, I blame God! And maybe I don’t want to stop blaming Him, or the Indians.” His glare sizzled into her like a branding iron. “And maybe, Miss O’Keefe, thou art just better than me!”
Bridget’s heart shredded. Unwilling to let him see the angry tears filling her eyes, she turned and ran from the barn, through the driving rain to the ranch house.
A half hour later she still lay face down on her bed, sobbing.
The howling wind assailed the windowpane with loud splats of rain, interspersed with the crackle of lightning and the deep rumble of thunder.
Bridget gave free rein to her emotions, glad for the noise of the storm drowning out the sound of her anguish. Why had she allowed herself to care for Seth Krueger? She wadded the Texas star quilt in her fists, as angry at her own weakness as with Seth’s stubborn rejection of God and his bias against the Indians.
His words—said in a sarcastic tone, which had skated dangerously close to blasphemy—rang in her ears. He had actually accused her of having a “holier than thou” attitude.
Sniffing, she pushed up to a sitting position and swiped at her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. Seth Krueger was a stiff-necked clod, and she was acting like a silly girl. She would simply squelch her feelings for the man. He wasn’t the reason she came here. She came here to teach and minister to the Indian children.
As if mocking her resolve, the memory of Seth’s kiss returned, enveloping her in sweet despair. Her heart throbbed with a deep ache. Falling out of love might not be so easily accomplished after all.
Chapter 5
A cool breeze greeted Bridget as she stepped onto the porch that ran across the front of the Bartons’ home. With Violet and her cook, Sadie Russell, working on preparations for tomorrow’s big meal, the kitchen seemed overcrowded. Besides, the day was far too pleasant to work inside when Bridget could just as easily peel apples in the fresh air.
She set her basket of Jonathan apples on the porch boards. Settling into one of the two rocking chairs, she nestled the empty crockery bowl, complete with paring knife, in her lap. In front of her, the midmorning sunshine poured like molten butter over the bare ground between the house and barn, then reached the porch, splashing across her feet.
The chair creaked softly as Bridget bent and plucked an apple from the basket. She tried to remember a late November day this warm in Chicago but couldn’t think of one. She should have utilized these rocking chairs out here on the porch sooner. This would be a perfect place to sew, plan her lessons, or read her Bible.
She knew why she hadn’t. Seth.
The porch was in plain view of the barn and the bunkhouse—Seth’s domain. They hadn’t spoken since their argument last week following her horseback riding lesson. His judgmental words still stung like a lash across her heart, and she was not eager for their next meeting. She’d consciously altered her movements to lessen the chance their paths might cross, and she suspected he was doing the same.
This morning Violet had mentioned that Seth had left early for the piney woods to hunt for their Thanksgiving turkey, so Bridget had felt she could avail herself of the porch without risking an awkward meeting with him. Trouble was, keeping him out of sight hadn’t kept him out of her mind … or her heart.
Sighing, she sliced the knife’s blade into the scarlet-striped skin of the apple, releasing the fruit’s fresh, crisp fragrance.
“From the long look on your face, you’d think tomorrow was a day of mourning instead of a day of thanksgiving.”
At Gabe Noell’s voice, Bridget stopped working the knife around the apple and glanced up. She hadn’t seen much of the old wood-carver since his arrival at the Circle B. According to Violet, Andrew had hired him to add decorative pieces around the porch eaves, but so far she’d seen no evidence of his work.
“Sorry, Miss—O’Keefe, is it? I didn’t mean to startle you.” His gray eyes twinkled as he dragged his battered brown hat off his head.
“You didn’t. Well, maybe a little,” she said with a laugh. “I must confess I was lost in a muse.” The old fellow’s kindly demeanor put Bridget at ease. His presence felt almost … comforting.
“Ah, muses.” He gazed down at her with a grandfatherly smile. “As the apostle Paul tells us in his letter to the Philippians, ‘Whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.’ “
Bridget smiled up at him. “That is one of my favorite Bible passages.” She wasn’t at all sure, though, that her previous thoughts fell within the parameters of the apostle’s admonitions.
The crinkles beside his eyes deepened. “Don’t let me bother you. I just came to take some measurements.” He pulled a folded carpenter’s ruler from the pocket of his baggy pants. Unfolding a length of the ruler, he went to work, holding it up to the porch eaves. Then he took a stubby pencil and scrap of brown paper from his shirt pocket and scribbled something.
For the next several minutes, he and Bridget worked on their separate tasks in silence.
“Mmm. I have to say, those apples sure smell wonderful.” Gabe ambled toward her from the far end of the porch.
Bridget cut in two the apple she’d just pared and held a half out to him. “Please, have some, Mr. Noell. I have more apples here than I will need for two pies.”
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He dipped his head in a bow. “Thank you, ma’am. I’m much obliged.” He accepted the piece of fruit. “If you don’t mind …” He nodded at the empty rocking chair beside her.
“Not at all, Mr. Noell, please sit.” There was something intriguingly incongruous about this old gent, who dressed like a beggar yet possessed the manners and speech of an educated gentleman.
“But I much prefer Gabe to Mr. Noell.” He lowered himself to the chair with a soft sigh.
“I will call you Gabe if you call me Bridget.”
“Deal.” He reached his gnarled hand across the chairs’ arms, and when she clasped it, Bridget was surprised at the firmness of his grasp.
Settling back in the rocking chair, he took a bite of the apple. “Mmm. I like when the tartness gets me right here.” Grinning, he tapped his cheek.
“Then I will be careful not to put too much sugar in the pies for Thanksgiving supper tomorrow.”
“Ah, yes, Thanksgiving supper.” He gazed beyond the porch with a distant look in his eyes as if remembering something pleasant.
Bridget couldn’t help wondering why this obviously educated man had chosen such an itinerant life. But before she could ask, he swung his smiling face back to hers. “I reckon every day is an opportunity for me to thank my Lord.”
“Amen, Mr.—Gabe,” Bridget amended with a chuckle.
“But I do appreciate the Bartons’ kind invitation to tomorrow evening’s meal and must admit I’m looking forward to it. Trail fare gets a little monotonous,” he said around a bite of apple, “and Mr. Krueger tells me Mrs. Barton sets a … how did he put it?…’rip-snortin’ spread’ on Thanksgiving.” He rocked the chair back with his laugh.
At the mention of Seth, sadness gripped Bridget and she frowned. If only Seth possessed the faith of this old wood-carver.
Woodland Christmas Page 3
