by Lynda J. Cox
The cow chewed her cud, shuffling a little when Amelia placed the stool next to her. A moment later, the rhythmic swish-swish of milk squirting into the bucket disturbed the quiet of the barn. Finished with Buttercup, Amelia approached the other cow. “Good morning, Dolly.”
Dolly bobbed her head, a trick Amelia had taught her a long time ago. “Are you going to give me a little more milk than you did yesterday?”
Dolly bobbed her head again. A few moments later, Amelia pushed away from the cow. She sighed and peered down into the half-full bucket. “You didn’t tell me the truth. This is less than yesterday. I think you need to have a baby again, Dolly. You’re drying up on me.”
Amelia put the bucket-and-a-half to the side, untied the two cows, and shooed them out the doors. Back in the cabin, she placed the half-bucket from Dolly on the table, and covered it with a clean piece of cloth. Even though Dolly wasn’t giving as much milk as usual, the cow’s milk had more butterfat in it than Buttercup’s ever did. She needed to churn out more butter.
Amelia measured out oatmeal and set a small pot onto the stovetop to boil. Oatmeal, eggs, bacon, and toast sounded good to her that morning.
Saul wandered into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and parked his bottom in a chair. He propped his elbows on the table, and dropped his chin into his cupped palms. “What’s for breakfast, Amy? I’m hungry.”
“Are you awake enough to eat it?” She smiled at him. “And Saul, lately you’re always hungry.”
“I’m always awake enough to eat too.” He yawned, belatedly covering his mouth when Amelia glared at him. “Sorry, I forgot.”
Amelia tousled his hair. “Why don’t you go wash your face, comb your hair, and put your clothes on? By that time, I should have most of breakfast ready and you can wake Jenny then.”
“Okay.” Saul padded from the kitchen. The tail of his nightshirt dragged the floor, gathering dirt along the hem. She should scold him for wearing another of their father’s nightshirts, but she didn’t have the heart to do it. Too soon, she knew, he would grow into the garment.
Amelia sighed. The floors needed to be mopped again. How had her mother ever managed to do everything that needed done? There was always laundry to do, floors to sweep and mop, dishes to wash, animals to care for. Amelia squared her shoulders. And complaining about it wasn’t going to get any of it done either.
She went out to the smokehouse. The empty hooks were a vivid reminder that they had to find the funds to purchase another hog for butchering and curing in the fall. She returned to the kitchen but halted just inside the door. Colt Evans sat at the table, a bed sheet wrapped around his waist.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed.”
“I know,” he admitted with a quick smile, “but the chamber pot was missing, so I need directions to the little house.”
“I’m so sorry.” Heat flashed up her neck and face. “I forgot to bring the chamber pot back into the house. Go on back to bed. I’ll go get it and bring it in to you, Mr. Evans.”
He shook his head, and a shock of that blue-black hair fell over his brow. He shoved it away in a gesture that reminded her of Saul. “I’m up and walking and I’d like to stay that way. Just point me in the right direction.”
Amelia nodded out the door. “To your left.”
“Thank you.” He paused in the doorway. “Where did you hide my clothes? I can’t wander around wrapped in a bed sheet, and I doubt you want me strolling around buck naked.”
“I’ll find you something to wear. My father was a little larger than you, but I think we can manage with his clothes.” Amelia waited until he went out the door, and then went to her bedroom to gather up some clothing for him. Pulling open a drawer of the old bureau, she gave in to the crippling sense of loss for a moment.
All her father’s clothing lay neatly folded in the drawer, as if he would be back at any moment. She pulled out a pair of trousers, a shirt, and a pair of socks. It was probably too warm for a union suit. She lifted her father’s shirt to her face and breathed deeply of the faint, lingering scents of pipe tobacco, talcum powder, and saddle soap.
She turned and found Colt blocking the passageway between the bed and chest of drawers. He held the bed sheet wrapped around his waist, clutching it closed with his wounded arm. “I’d like my own clothes, if you don’t mind.”
He was standing so close to her, she had to look up to see his face. He stood a full head taller, and she had never been accused of being short. “I’m sorry, Mr. Evans, but your shirt was ruined when Dr. Archer cut it from you, and I can’t get the blood stains from your trousers. I tried. I scrubbed them twice with strong lye soap, but the stains are set. They’re ruined.”
His brow lifted with his slight smile and he tipped his head to the clothes in her hand. “Then I guess those will have to do. Where are my boots?”
“They’re drying still. I had to wash your left one out, because so much blood ran into it.” She held the trousers, socks, and shirt out to him. “Do you need some help?”
A predatory grin split his face. The depths of his eyes took on a new, disconcerting heat. “This is a new one on me. Most times, women are asking if I want help getting out of my clothes.” He shook his head and a shock of silver-shot ebony fell over his brow again. With a grimace, he shoved it back. “No, I think I can manage on my own.”
Amelia ducked her head to hide the heated color searing her cheeks. He took the clothes from her and she fled.
She went back to the kitchen and began to fry the bacon. The water boiled for the oatmeal and she started that cooking as well.
“It smells really good, Amelia.”
She whirled. Dressed in her father’s black shirt and trousers, Colt seemed to fill the tiny kitchen. Any vulnerability she might have seen on his face when relaxed in sleep was gone. Even without a gun strapped to his thigh, this man was danger embodied. Uncertain what to say, she smoothed her suddenly damp palms down the front of her apron.
“I’m not going to bite you.” Amusement danced with bright glitters in his eyes and tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Amelia’s mouth went dry and her heart hammered. “Breakfast isn’t ready yet,” she finally stammered.
“Is it all right with you if I sit?” He gestured at a chair behind him. “You seem very uncomfortable with me being in the same room with you.”
“Please, sit down,” she managed, forcing away the desire to run from him.
“I know there isn’t any coffee so I won’t ask for any.” He pulled a chair from the table, wincing when he moved his bandaged shoulder. He lowered himself into the chair and cradled his left arm to his stomach. His breath hissed in through clenched teeth and his tanned face blanched.
When he sat, he didn’t look quite so imposing and his obvious pain stilled her fear. “I think if we put your arm in a sling, it would keep your shoulder from moving quite so much and you’d be more comfortable.”
“That’s probably a good idea.” He scratched his cheeks and chin, his fingernails rasping on the stubble. “I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to shave with only one arm.”
Without thinking, Amelia said, “I can give you a shave after breakfast.” She clamped her hand over her mouth for a second. “You probably don’t want me to shave you. You might be cut.”
His smile revealed white, even teeth that contrasted starkly with the dark stubble. “I’ll take my chances, la—Amelia.” He scratched his chin again. “Worst that can happen is I’ll get my throat slit. But if you don’t give me a shave, I’m not going to get rid of this face hair, and it’s itching like the devil.”
“Mr. Evans!” Saul plunked himself across the table from Colt.
Amelia winced. If Saul had brushed his hair that morning, it had been with a rake. His idea of being dressed seemed to mean the tail of his shirt hung out from the waist of his trousers. He looked more like an urchin without any supervision or guidance than the young man her parents would have wanted him to be. S
he wondered if he had even wet a washcloth to try to fool her into thinking he had washed his face.
“You’re walking,” Saul said in a bright voice. “Maybe Amy will give you your gun and you can show me how to shoot it.”
“No.” Amelia was startled to hear her denial echoed by Colt Evans.
“Come on, Amy.” Saul’s mouth twisted down into a pout. “I can’t even go hunting if I don’t know how to shoot.”
“Absolutely not,” Amelia said through clenched teeth. “I forbid it.”
Colt glanced down at the table and then up at Saul. “Kid, you don’t hunt anything edible with a revolver. You use a rifle for that. You want me to show you how to shoot a rifle, I’ll be glad to do that. But my gun ain’t ever going to find its way into your hand.”
A motion at the doorway caught Amelia’s attention. She smiled and held her hand out to her sister. “It’s okay, Jenny. You can come in here.”
Colt twisted on the chair, a grimace of pain flashing over his chiseled features. Without turning from Jenny’s thin frame and downcast eyes, he locked his intense gaze onto Amelia. Aware of his scrutiny, and that most people considered Jenny simple-minded because of her perpetual silence, Amelia crossed the kitchen and took Jenny’s hand into hers. She waited until Jenny lifted her gaze before she led the child to Colt. “Jenny, this is Mr. Evans. He is our guest.”
Jenny studied his face, and then with solemn dignity rounded the table and sat down. Amelia quelled her shock. Colt Evans was the first stranger Jenny hadn’t backed away from.
Saul asked, “When do you think you’ll feel up to showing me how to shoot, Mr. Evans?”
Amelia whirled. “Saul, that is enough! You do not pester a guest like that.”
Colt dragged his hand through his hair. “Let’s see if I feel up to it tomorrow. Okay, Saul?”
Saul nodded. He lifted his angry, glum face to Amelia. “You’re not my mother, you know. I’m getting old enough to decide what I want to do. You’re only my sister.”
A new stab of pain lanced into Amelia. She was only his sister, and she would give anything in the world not to be in the role of his parent.
Before she could respond, Colt leaned across the table and grabbed the boy’s arm. “You want me to teach you how to shoot a rifle, son, you apologize right now to your sister.”
Saul’s eyes widened. Amelia took a step back from the icy gaze Colt leveled on Saul. Jenny blanched white, her eyes wider than wagon wheels.
Colt added in a low growl, “I mean it. Apologize now, or all deals are off. You don’t talk like that to any lady, but especially not to your own sister.”
Saul dropped his head. “I’m sorry, Amy,” he mumbled.
Colt released Saul’s arm and smiled, his expression softening. “Saul, part of growing up means knowing when to bide your time and when to bite your tongue. It means a well-raised young man does not talk in a disrespectful manner to a lady. Respecting a lady means coming to the table with your hair combed and the tail of your shirt tucked into your trousers.”
“She’s just my sister.” Despite his protests, Saul stood and shoved his shirttail into the waist of his trousers and dragged his fingers through his hair.
Amelia bit back a laugh at Saul’s instant obedience.
Colt ignored Saul’s last comment. Instead, he smiled across the table at Jenny. “Does he talk like that to you too, Miss Jenny?”
Jenny nodded, her long walnut curls bobbing, a shy smile curling her bow-shaped lips. Amelia’s heart lurched. She hadn’t seen a smile on Jenny’s face in months.
Colt leaned back in his chair and winced again with the movement. Amelia hunted through a small cabinet next to the stove. She pulled out a large square of white cloth and folded it into a triangular shape. “Let’s see if putting your arm into a sling helps, Mr. Evans.”
He nodded. Amelia bent over his shoulder and slid the cloth under his arm. She drew the ends up and tied them behind his neck. His thick hair curled around the knotted white fabric. A deep wave marked where his hat normally rested on his head. Again she felt an inexplicable need to smooth those waves.
He released a slow breath of relief. “Thank you. That feels better.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Evans.” She straightened and shoved her hands into the pockets of the apron.
“Colt,” he said, tilting his head up to her face. “My name is Colt.”
Amelia scurried over to the stove, willing her hands to stop trembling and hoping her knees weren’t knocking together so loudly they could be heard. “How do you want your eggs, Mr. Evans?”
“It’s Colt, and I like them scrambled.”
Amelia scooped oatmeal into bowls, and set them on the table. She poured the milk into a large pitcher and set it out as well. If she went about her normal, everyday routine, perhaps her heart would stop its maddened cadence and the butterflies would leave her stomach. “Saul, will you get the sugar bowl and put it out? Jenny, everyone will need a spoon, fork, and a knife.”
Silent as a drifting fog bank, Jenny set eating utensils out for everyone. Amelia’s skin tingled when Colt’s voice rumbled, “Thank you, Miss Jenny.”
Amelia cracked several eggs into a bowl and whisked them into a yellow froth. She poured the liquid into the hot frying pan, listening to the banter at the table. Saul prattled on and on about the injustice of the chores he was expected to do, when all Jenny had to do was feed and water the chickens. Amelia bit her tongue. She could tell Saul a thing or two about the injustices of the workload around the house.
Colt said, “Tell me again how old you are, Saul.”
“Twelve. I’ll be thirteen in three months.”
“And how old is your sister?” There was a deceptive gentleness to his voice, one that raised the hair on the back of Amelia’s neck.
“Jenny or Amy?”
Colt’s laughter filled the warm room. “Saul, never, ever ask the age of a grown lady. It isn’t polite. How old is Jenny?”
Amelia bit her tongue again. She wanted to point out Colt Evans had asked her how old she was…but maybe, asking in private was another thing entirely.
“Jenny’s seven.”
Amelia scooped the eggs out and glanced over to the table in time to see Colt lean his elbow onto the edge of the pine planks. Incredulity rang in his voice. “You can’t do more than your seven-year-old sister can?” Colt smiled and winked at Jenny, taking the sting from his voice. “I have never heard tell of a twelve, almost thirteen-year-old boy, who can’t do more work than his little sister.”
Jenny’s smile beamed across the room, her dark eyes twinkling with mirth. Amelia brought her attention to the sizzling bacon and blinked away tears. In less than ten minutes, Colt Evans had coaxed two smiles from Jenny.
After breakfast, Amelia sent Jenny and Saul from the house with orders for Saul to hoe the vegetable garden and Jenny to weed the small herb garden. She cleared the plates from the table. “I’ll start some water heating for your shave, Mr.—”
“Colt. My name is Colt,” he interrupted.
She froze for a moment near the stove. “I would feel very forward to address you by your given name, Mr. Evans.”
His laughter boomed through the room. Amelia whirled. His head was tilted back and the strong cording of his throat stood out in relief. “Amelia, you didn’t have a problem taking care of me while I was unconscious and naked as the day I was born, but you think it would be forward to use my given name. There is something that doesn’t add up there.”
She twisted her apron between her hands, staring at the floor. A moment later, Colt caught her chin in his palm and tilted her head to him. She hadn’t heard him cross the floor. Her breath caught in a mingling of fear and some nameless anticipation.
“My name is Colt. Try it, Amelia. Colt.”
Amelia’s skin burned with the light touch of his fingers and her heart hammered against her breastbone. She wet her parched lips.
“It’s a simple name, really. Four little lette
rs. Colt.”
Her throat was frozen. She was falling into the depths of his gray eyes. The pad of his thumb brushed along her lower lip. The butterflies returned to her stomach and that curious ache renewed. She shook her head, freeing herself of his gentle hold. She staggered a step away and broke the spell.
“I still have my father’s shaving things. Will that be all right, or do you have your own?”
Amelia risked a glance at him. He was studying her. She couldn’t look away from that intense scrutiny. At long last, he said, “If the razor’s sharp, your father’s things will do.”
Amelia set a pot of water on the stove to heat. She went into her bedroom and in the trunk at the foot of the bed, found her father’s straight-edge razor, razor strop, shaving mug, and brush. She carried them into the kitchen. Without looking at Colt, she handed the razor and strop to him. “Perhaps it should be sharpened.”
A second or so later, the rhythmic zip of the razor along the strop broke the silence. How many mornings had she woken to that sound, and the sounds of her mother’s soft, hushed voice as her parents shared a peaceful moment alone before anyone else joined them in the kitchen?
She dipped her finger into the water. It was warm enough. She carried the pan to the table, draped a towel around his neck, and swished the brush into the water. Swirling the brush in the mug, she lathered the long, soft bristles.
Amelia applied the lather to his cheeks, chin, and throat, until he appeared to have a heavy, thick, white beard. She picked up the razor and hesitated. “Are you sure you want me to do this?”
He caught her wrist. His thumb moved in a light caress over her palm. A delicious chill shivered up her spine, and her breath caught in the back of her throat. His smile lanced into her. “Don’t slit my throat and anything else will be fine.”
Amelia pulled her wrist away. She bit her lower lip, tilted his head to a side, and dragged the blade down his hollowed cheek. The rasp of the razor over his beard stubble was a familiar sound. How often had she sat at this table, watching and listening to her father shave? She wiped the build-up of lather on the towel and made another stroke down his cheek.
