by Pam Hillman
Cookie concentrated on setting the food out while men ambled in, making a beeline for the coffeepots on the stove.
Slade took their measure over the rim of his own cup. It didn’t take long to pick Harper out. A barrel-chested, beefy man with wiry red hair sticking out in all directions, Harper looked like he’d gotten up on the wrong side of his bunk this morning.
“Name’s Red Harper.” He poured a tall glass of buttermilk and pulled out a chair. “Lazy M foreman.”
“Slade Donovan.” He didn’t elaborate. The change in ownership of the ranch would be better coming from Mariah. But if she didn’t get here soon, he’d have to do the telling.
“Got in late last night.” Harper frowned. “Thought I saw two horses in the corral.”
“My brother rode in with me. He’s not real sociable.”
“What brings you to the Lazy M?” Harper acted friendly enough, but Slade detected an undercurrent of tension in his voice.
Cookie pushed between them and placed a platter of hot biscuits in the center of the table. He made a fuss over the steaming plates of eggs and ham. “Food’s getting cold. Y’all can talk business after breakfast.”
When they’d swiped the last of the biscuits, and the remains of the ham had turned to cold grease, Slade waited for the onslaught from the foreman. He’d decided over breakfast he’d tell the whole bunch the Lazy M had a new owner whether Mariah put in an appearance or not.
“Well, Donovan, now that you’ve got your belly full, where you headed next?” Harper asked, leaning back. The split-bottom chair creaked under his weight. His studied nonchalance wasn’t lost on Slade. He looked coiled as tightly as a rattler about to strike.
Slade glanced around, taking stock of the men lounging at the table. Most of them sipped the last dregs of their coffee, ignoring the conversation. But a couple smirked, clearly interested in how Slade would respond.
A seasoned cowpoke slapped a fresh-faced kid of about sixteen on the back. “Come on, Rio; let’s you and me get out of here.”
“Aw, Duncan, I ain’t finished my coffee yet.”
“Hurry up then,” Duncan said, his tone gruff. “We’ve got work to do.”
Cookie bustled about behind them, muttering and banging pots and pans together.
Harper leaned forward. “I asked you a question.”
Slade reached for his coffee cup with his left hand. “Don’t reckon I’m headed anywhere in particular. I kind of planned on settling right here for a spell.”
The foreman’s face turned a mottled red. “I don’t know what you’re up to, mister, but we don’t need no trouble on the Lazy M. And we don’t need no hands either. So if I was you, I’d just mosey on down the road.”
Slade regarded Harper from across the table. “I don’t think so.”
Harper stood, the sudden movement tipping his chair back to whack against the floor. “If I say you’re moving on, you’re moving on.”
“Red!” Mariah’s voice cut across the tension. She stood in the open doorway for a moment before Cookie rushed to her side.
“Miss Mariah, what are you doing? Don’t you think you ought to be in the house, out of this rain?”
“It’s not raining right now.”
“Well, I know that, ma’am, but it might start before you get back to the house. And it’s awful muddy out there. You’re liable to ruin that purty dress you got on.”
Slade felt sorry for the cook. He looked like a banty rooster trying to protect one of his hens.
“It’s all right, Cookie.” She took a deep breath. “I need to tell you all something. Something important.”
She moved to the table, her troubled gaze resting on Slade before shifting to the others. He couldn’t help but admire her determination.
“I know this may come as a surprise,” she said, “but I don’t know how else to tell you. I’ve decided to sell the ranch to Mr. Donovan. There are some debts to pay, and . . .” She paused, and a tinge of red crept into her cheeks. “The ranch hasn’t been doing as well under my guidance as it did when my father was alive.”
Harper moved forward. “But, ma’am, it ain’t your fault things haven’t gone well for the Lazy M the last few years, what with all the medical bills and the price of cattle being down. . . . We’ll do better next year.”
Mariah shook her head. “I’ve already agreed to Mr. Donovan’s offer. My grandmother and I will help out in the house until Mr. Donovan’s mother gets here. And then we’ll be leaving.”
Nobody said anything, not even Cookie.
She took another deep breath. “I’ve let you make all the decisions for a long time, Red, because I felt you knew what to do better than I did. If Frederick hadn’t recommended you when my father took sick, I don’t know how I would’ve managed. But from now on, you’ll take orders from Mr. Donovan.”
Harper glowered at Slade with bulldog intensity, his chin jutted. The moment was fleeting, though, before he reined in his expression and looked at Mariah. “I guess I don’t have much choice, ma’am. But I wish you’d change your mind.”
“I won’t.” She turned and left.
Red Harper jammed his hat on his head and stalked from the room.
Slade ambled into the coolness of the barn, stopping to let his eyes adjust to the dim interior. His brother, Buck, whistled as he brushed the coat of a bay mare heavy with foal.
Slade leaned on the stall, watching his brother’s face. “I didn’t see you at breakfast this morning.”
“Not hungry.”
“Here. Saved these for you.” Slade held out a bundle wrapped in cheesecloth. “Cookie’s a fair-to-middling cook.”
Buck hesitated, then dropped the brush, took the biscuits and ham, and settled on a bench against the wall. The tantalizing smell of fried ham filled the barn as he unwrapped the offering.
Slade made himself comfortable against the stall and stared at the mountains behind the house as his brother ate his breakfast. Slade’s jaw tightened. Buck had always been a quiet sort, even as a child. But then, they both were.
They’d grown up hard and fast and hadn’t had time for a lot of fun and games. No time to go swimming with the other boys or to fish for the sheer fun of it. All their fishing had been serious business.
Since Buck’s accident, he’d retreated into a world of horses, avoiding people even more than usual. He’d insisted on making the trip from Texas to Wyoming, even though Slade was dead set against it. Buck hadn’t completely gotten over a bout with pneumonia this past winter, and Slade could just see the two of them getting caught in a storm and Buck taking sick again. But they’d arrived safely at their destination no worse for wear. Buck’s coughing spells seemed to come on less and less, so maybe he truly was on the mend.
The soft whisper of Buck brushing the crumbs from his clothes broke the silence. “What happened this morning? I saw that redheaded barrel of a man come out of the cookhouse mad as a hornet.”
“That’s Harper, the foreman here. Miss Malone told the men I’m the new owner of the ranch.”
Buck whistled. “She told them the truth?”
“Not exactly. She said there were some debts to be paid, and she’d sold the ranch.”
“Well, I reckon that’s true, isn’t it?” Buck asked, scratching his jawline.
Slade shrugged. “I reckon so.”
The steady pounding gave Mariah great satisfaction. She punched the dough with her fist, visualizing Slade Donovan’s face in the doughy blob. She folded the dough before slapping it again.
She should’ve turned down his offer to let them stay.
If she had enough money, she’d go to Philadelphia lickety-split. Surely she could make twice as much in the city cooking and cleaning as she’d make here. She flipped the dough on the wooden work surface, and puffs of flour flew in her face, fueling her anger.
The Lazy M hadn’t turned a profit in two years, and they’d barely squeezed by the year before that. Slade might have enough to pay the other hands and p
urchase some much-needed supplies, but where would that leave her?
Without, more than likely!
She slapped the dough again. Hard.
“If you beat that dough any longer, child, it’s going to be tougher than an old boot.”
Mariah glanced at the mound of dough she’d pulverized. “Sorry, Grandma.”
She formed a smooth oval and choked off a section, expertly rolling it into a biscuit with both hands. “I should’ve stood up to him. I should’ve told him to take us to court. The people of Wisdom would stand by us.” She glanced at her grandmother, expecting to see agreement on her weathered face.
Faded brown eyes, once as bright as her own, gazed back at her. Disillusionment filled their depths. “You think so?”
“Don’t you?” Mariah asked, dismay coursing through her.
“Stealing is a hard thing, Mariah. It isn’t easily forgiven. I reckon folks have to work so hard for what they get, they don’t want someone else taking it away from them.”
“But Papa was a good man,” Mariah argued, tamping down thoughts of the wanted poster Slade had shown her. She’d hidden it in the bottom drawer in her father’s office, tucked inside an old ledger. She never wanted to see the thing again. And she certainly didn’t want her grandmother to see it. “The people in Wisdom respected him.”
“I know. When Seth wrote your grandpa and me and told us to come to Wyoming Territory, that he’d bought all this land, it surprised me. I didn’t expect anybody to go to California and strike it rich—well, he might not have been rich, but it was more money than the likes of us had ever seen. But others did it, so I just figured the Lord blessed him. I never dreamed he’d stolen it.” Her grandmother’s thin shoulders slumped.
Mariah wiped her hands on her apron and hurried over to her grandmother. “Oh, Grandma, I’m sorry. I hadn’t thought how much all of this has hurt you, too. It’ll all work out.” She gave her a tight hug.
Her grandmother patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry about me, child. You did the right thing. There’s nothing we can do about the past. It’s the future we have to think about. We’ve got to do right in God’s sight, and the rest will fall into place.”
“Such an easy thing to say, but much harder to believe.”
“All we can do is pray and have faith. You never know what might happen to change things before we have to leave here.” Her grandmother smothered a yawn. “I do believe it’s time for a short nap. Do you need help with anything else?”
“No, you go ahead. I’ll call you when supper’s ready.”
Mariah watched her grandmother totter from the room. How could the old woman survive this upheaval? Her grandmother had often said that she was done moving. She wanted to be buried by her husband in the cemetery in Wisdom. Mariah turned back to the mound of dough and formed another biscuit.
“Lord, what am I going to do?” she whispered.
What was he going to do?
Slade regarded the ranch house. Mariah had gone on and on with her demands, getting more worked up by the minute. When she’d blurted out the question about meals, he’d told her he would eat supper in the house just to raise her ire.
He hadn’t counted on having to face her at the supper table night after night. He slapped his hat on his head and marched across the muddy expanse between the barn and the house. Nothing for it now. He wouldn’t back down from his impulsive attempt to needle her. He stepped onto the porch and scrubbed the mud from his boots. He stopped when he heard humming.
The tune brought back memories.
His mother used to hum that very song as she worked around the house.
The kitchen door stood ajar, so he could see Mariah’s shadow as she moved about putting the finishing touches on supper. She hummed as she flitted from the stove to the table, the heat from the stove casting a becoming blush across her cheekbones. Her neat bun from earlier in the day was mussed, just as he’d suspected it would be. He smiled. The slightly messy appearance wilted a little of the starch out of her.
Her humming turned to words as she absentmindedly sang a few lines of the hymn.
He rapped on the open door, capturing her attention.
If possible, the color on her flushed cheeks ratcheted up another notch. She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear and motioned to the table. “Supper’ll be ready any minute now.”
He raked a hand through his hair, pushing the damp strands into place, before hanging his hat on a wooden peg by the door.
“I set a place for your brother.” She cleared her throat. “Is he joining us?”
“Buck ate with the men.”
“I see.” She smoothed both palms down her apron before abruptly turning toward the stove. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Yes, ma’am. Black.”
Mariah poured a cup and set it on the table, pushing it toward him. The scrape of the cup across the scarred oak table sounded loud in the silence of the kitchen. He took a sip and nodded. “Good.”
“I’m glad it meets your approval.” Her chin tipped up a notch.
His gaze snapped to hers and saw the challenge there. “All I meant—”
He broke off as the elderly woman eased into the room, her arthritic, blue-veined hands gripping a walking stick.
“Grandma, I thought you were resting.” Mariah helped her to a chair and turned back to the stove.
“I heard voices.” She speared Slade with a look. “Sarah Malone.”
“Ma’am.”
Mariah carried the stew to the table, skirting the chair where he sat. As she leaned toward the center with the heavy pot, she gasped. The pot tilted, and Slade grabbed for the handles, his hands closing over hers.
“You all right? Are you burned?”
“No, my hand slipped.” Roses bloomed in her cheeks again, and she tugged against his grip. “I’ve got it now.”
Conscious of the warmth of her fingers beneath his, Slade let go.
His mouth watered as she grabbed a pan of biscuits with golden-brown tops and carried them to the table. Then she sat down next to her grandmother and folded her hands in her lap, not sparing him a glance. “Grandma, would you say grace, please?”
Slade lowered his head along with the women. When was the last time he’d bowed his head in reverence while someone blessed a meal? As a child, his mother insisted that they pray over the food, at least as long as his father wasn’t around. And when she thought she could get away with it without a beating, she’d scrubbed them up good and taken them to meetings anytime a preacher bravely ventured into the lower part of town. The memories of those long-ago days had grown hazy.
He hadn’t attended a brush arbor meeting since he’d found his father dead in an alley behind the Golden Chance Saloon in Galveston. Even his mother’s gentle admonitions to forgive and forget couldn’t penetrate the cold, hard knot festering down deep inside.
“Dear heavenly Father, thank You for the food we’re about to eat, and bless the hands that prepared it. We give You praise for our health and happiness. Your will be done. Amen.”
He looked up to find Mariah staring at him with a bemused expression. His gaze flickered over the smooth planes of her face, across her full lips, to her hair, and back again. She dropped her head as a becoming shade of crimson flooded her cheeks.
Warmth exploded in Slade’s chest, shocking in its intensity.
He’d come seeking revenge, but a longing for something more swept over him. Something he’d glimpsed in the shimmering depths of Mariah Malone’s brown eyes.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I TOLD YOU not to ever come here.”
Emmit’s flat black eyes bored into Red. He hated it when his half brother looked at him like that. Like he was too stupid to live. It had always been that way. Red was big and rawboned and a little clumsy. Mostly he liked being big. Being stocky came in handy working cattle. But Emmit always made him feel like a big, dumb ox.
As soon as Emmit had shown a talent for cards, Red’s ste
pfather had started grooming his son to follow in his footsteps. Red stayed with his mother, but he longed to be included in their excursions. They’d be gone for days, sometimes weeks, coming back with fancy duds, their pockets flush, full of tales of the places they’d been and what they’d seen. The more worldly and sophisticated Emmit became, the more backward and uncouth Red felt.
When Emmit had gotten in trouble with the law six years ago, their ma had scraped up enough money to pay the fine and begged Red to keep him out of trouble. He’d been bailing him out ever since.
“Something’s happened.” Red paced back and forth. “Something you should know about.”
“What is it?”
“Miss Malone sold the ranch.”
“What?” Emmit straightened. “Who bought it?”
“He’s not from around here. Name’s Slade Donovan.”
“Does he know anything about ranching? About cattle?”
“I think so.” The knot in Red’s stomach mushroomed and threatened to consume him. “He could cause trouble. A lot of trouble.”
One time, and one time only, Emmit had promised. But one time led to two, then three, and now the whole thing had been going on for way too long.
He scowled. Some big brother he’d turned out to be. Emmit had managed to dig himself into a pit deeper than ever before.
And this time, he’d pulled Red in with him.
A rolling flush swept up Mariah’s neck. Now would be a good time for the kitchen floor to open up and swallow her. Slade Donovan had caught her staring at him. And to make matters worse, he’d stared right back. Why had she been watching him when she should have had her head bowed in reverence for the blessing? She had no excuse, other than the fact that his presence dominated the kitchen, making the space feel small and intimate.
Had the harshness she’d seen in the line of his jaw softened to something akin to regret and longing? She focused on her plate. Surely she was mistaken. What regrets could he possibly have?
Heart pounding, she stole another glance at him, noticing the sweep of thick lashes across his sun-darkened cheekbones and the tiny lines feathering out from the corners of his eyes.
