“It’s a business arrangement,” Emily felt compelled to say. There must have been a dozen boxes in the back of that wagon; Dorrie climbed up, agile as any man in her practical riding skirt, and began shoving them into reach.
“Sure it is,” Dorrie replied, without sarcasm. Still standing in the wagonbed, she looked Emily over critically. She was a plain soul, too tall and too slender by common standards of beauty, but she radiated some inner quality that made Emily want to know her better. “I reckon those readymades Aislinn sent along will fit you just fine,” she said.
Emily was suddenly self-conscious, uncomfortably aware of her shabby dress, and though it chafed her pride sorely to accept charity, she could hardly wait to see what Dorrie had brought. “How is Aislinn? And the baby?”
“They’re both just fine,” Dorrie said, getting out of the wagon as nimbly as she’d gotten in. “Baby’s delicately made, like her mama, but she’s strong, too. There’s so much life in her, you can feel the heat of it, little scrap of a thing that she is.”
They took the last of the wooden boxes into the house.
“Will you stay for tea?” Emily asked. She would be frightfully let down if Dorrie refused, but she tried not to show it.
“I can’t be gone long,” Dorrie said, as she took a seat at the table, casting a curious glance at Spud, who was still languishing like an invalid on the hearth. “I’m running the store all by myself, with Aislinn in her confinement. Shay’s right; it’s time we hired on some help.”
“Confinement” seemed a strange term, to Emily, for such a wonderful experience as bringing a child into the world. Busily, she rummaged through the groceries until she found a good-sized sack of sugar, and set the tea to brewing. Later, she would bake the rhubarb pies, to serve with supper, but for the moment there was nothing to offer Dorrie but tea.
“Where’s home?” Dorrie asked. By then, Spud had crept over to rest his head on the bench beside her, and she was gently stroking his head, but her kindly gaze was fixed on Emily.
She didn’t know exactly how to answer the question. She’d never in her life had a real home, until now. “Here,” she said, at some length, and in such a quiet voice that Dorrie leaned forward a little to hear it. As far as she was concerned, the ranch was indeed hers, whether she became Tristan’s wife or not.
Dorrie seemed satisfied with the reply. “Looks like this dog met up with a bee-stung grizzly,” she observed. “Poor creature.”
Emily recalled how Tristan had taken care of Spud, touching him gently and murmuring soothing words, even when the animal growled and bared his teeth. “Tristan says he’ll be all right,” she ventured.
“Of course he will,” Dorrie confirmed.
After that, they drank tea and chatted a while, and Dorrie told the whole story of Shay and Aislinn’s courtship, complete with dynamite and gunfire. It was, Emily thought, better than one of her books.
Perhaps an hour had gone by when Dorrie stood up and said she had to be on her way. She’d locked up the store before she left, and folks were bound to be breathing on the windows, which were impossible to keep clean, with all those fingers and noses pressed against them every day. And that was reckoning without the dust from the road which, according to Dorrie, never seemed to settle.
From the doorway, she pointed to a large brown-paper parcel, tied with twine. It was resting on the far end of the table, fat and intriguing. “That’s from Aislinn,” she said.
“Please thank her for me,” Emily said.
Dorrie nodded and was gone.
Sorry to see her company depart, Emily set herself to unpacking the provisions and putting them in their proper places. There was flour, coffee, tinned vegetables, sacks of potatoes, turnips and onions, and a lot more besides, so the task took a long time. Emily saved Aislinn’s package for last, and approached it cautiously when everything was done.
“It won’t explode,” Tristan remarked, from the doorway behind her, startling her by his presence. He’d put his shirt back on, at least. That was a mercy, because seeing him without it did unseemly things to Emily’s insides.
She turned back to the package and took a step toward it. She was expecting a plain dress or two, well-worn and probably out of fashion, but her sense of anticipation was tremendous all the same. She wanted to draw out the experience as long as she could, even though it shamed her not a little to accept a gift of that sort. She wanted so much to provide for herself, but there was scant hope of that until the wool and mutton were sold.
After another glance at Tristan, she removed the string and folded back the heavy paper, slowly and very carefully. What she found inside made her draw in a sharp breath—dresses, beautiful dresses that showed hardly any wear at all. There was a white one, embroidered with tiny pink and green sprigs, and a black one, made of crisp, rustling sateen, softened by a collar and cuffs of delicate ivory lace. Another was bright yellow. There were lovely linens, obviously new, and stockings as well.
Emily was all but overwhelmed. Her knees went flimsy and she had to sit down on the bench next to the table to recover herself.
Tristan’s hands came to rest on her shoulders, and though she knew he had meant to comfort her, the contact had an electrifying effect, rather like taking hold of a lightning rod during a storm. When she stiffened, he released his grasp, to her regret, but did not step away. She was very conscious of him, as hard and warm as the wall of a blast furnace. “I’ve got some business in town later today,” he said. “Would you like to go along, and pay a call on Aislinn?”
The suggestion was a welcome one; she turned to look up into Tristan’s face, smiling. “You don’t think we’d be intruding?”
“Shay will be insulted if we don’t make a fuss over that baby, and he’ll be looking for us. Why don’t you wear that yellow dress?” The blue heat in his eyes drew a flush to her cheeks, and she barely kept herself from covering them with her hands.
“I was going to bake some rhubarb pies,” she said, and immediately felt stupid.
He grinned crookedly. “We won’t be leaving for a few hours,” he told her. “I’ve got things to do here.”
She swallowed, and nodded, and was both relieved and bereft when he finally left the house to return to his work.
The rhubarb pies were cooling on the table when Tristan returned, in the middle of the afternoon, to say he was ready to head for Prominence. He’d evidently cleaned up in the bunkhouse, because his hair was damp and freshly combed, his boots were shined, and he was wearing a fresh cotton shirt and black trousers. The ever-present .45 rode low on his hip, an ominous reminder that there was a dark side to his nature.
Emily had changed while the pies were in the oven, and she was encouraged by the light she saw in Tristan’s eyes as he looked at her. She grew flustered by his attention, however, and her hands trembled as she reached up to make sure her hair, wound up in a careful coronet at her nape, was firmly in place.
“Best put those pies away,” Tristan said, with amusement in his voice. “If Spud doesn’t get them, Polymarr or the kid will.” He didn’t wait for her to do it, but instead wadded up a pair of dish towels to protect his hands and stashed them, one at a time, inside the oven, which was now barely warm.
“Do you think they’ll be safe here, with the sheep? Mr. Polymarr and Fletcher, I mean?” In some ways, Emily had been holding her breath, figuratively speaking, ever since the confrontation with the Powder Creek men. She almost wished they’d attack, and get it over with.
“Black Eagle and the others will look after things,” he said. He had a lot of confidence, it seemed to her, in people he didn’t know very well. Like her, for instance. Was he assuming that she was giving up her claim to the ranch by marrying him? Was that the true reason for his hasty proposal?
“Why should they?” She knew little enough about Indians, and she certainly sympathized with their plight, but she’d heard plenty of stories about their propensity for stealing.
His expression was gr
im, even hard. Here again was the dark Tristan, the inner twin to his normally sunny persona. “Because they’ve got families on the reservation, going hungry. They need what they earn.”
Emily felt as though she’d been reprimanded, but that was of no consequence next to the starvation of a displaced and cheated people. “You care about them.”
“Somebody ought to,” he replied. “Are you ready, or not?”
Not for the first time in her life, Emily wished she’d kept her observations to herself. She followed him outside and hurried to keep up as he strode toward the buckboard, which was already hitched and waiting beside the barn. “I care, too,” she protested, setting spaces between the words because he was moving so fast that she practically had to run to keep up.
“Do you?” He helped her into the wagon seat, went around behind, and climbed up beside her. “Then give them some of those damn sheep.”
Emily was silent while he disengaged the brakes and brought the reins down lightly on the horses’ backs. The buckboard lurched forward, and she hung on to the hard wooden seat with both hands. Finally, she found the words to form a reply. “I’ll give them as many as they need,” she said, “if you hand over the same number of cattle.”
His blue eyes were narrow with suspicion as he looked down at her. “Do you mean that?”
She swallowed. She thought of the money she’d lose in wool and mutton sales, and mourned it, but the specter of starvation was far worse. She wouldn’t be able to put a bite of food in her mouth, knowing that others were going hungry, practically at her elbow. “Yes,” she said.
A grin broke over his face like a sudden sunrise. “Good,” he said, “because I gave them twenty head this morning.”
The true meaning of sacrifice impressed itself upon Emily. “You did not.”
“I did,” he insisted, fairly bursting with appreciation of his own generosity.
Emily sighed and bid a score of perfectly good sheep a silent farewell. “Will it be enough?” she asked, at great length. “To sustain them, I mean?”
Tristan was solemn again. “Probably not,” he said. “They’ll share with all their friends and relations. That can thin down the stew quite a bit.”
After that, Emily was quiet, her mood dampened.
It was only when they reached the edge of town that her spirits rose a little. She hadn’t been a part of a community since before the sheep came into her life, and it was lovely to see people striding along the wooden sidewalks, leaning in doorways, talking in front of the livery stable. She couldn’t help noticing, though, that a few of them pointed fingers in their direction, and that Tristan’s jaw was now set in a hard line.
They soon arrived at Shay and Aislinn’s gate, and Emily thought the place was even more beautiful in the bright light of day, though it didn’t have the same sturdy substance, she decided, as the ranch house did.
Shay called to them as Tristan was lifting Emily down from the wagon, and she saw him crossing the street from the marshal’s office. His star-shaped silver badge gleamed on the lapel of his knee-length black coat, his hair was ruffled, and his grin was wide.
“Aislinn will be pleased,” he said, coming to an easy stop before them. He nodded politely to Emily. “Ma’am,” he acknowledged.
“Emily,” she corrected.
He beamed. “Emily, then,” he replied. Then he headed for the gate, unhooking the latch and standing back so his guests could pass. When they entered the front parlor, Emily was amazed to find Aislinn out of bed and neatly dressed in a black sateen skirt and starched white shirtwaist, the baby making a little bundle in her arms.
Her dark hair was swept up and held in place by tiny ivory combs, her brown-amber eyes sparkled, and her face glowed with happy color.
“Tristan—Emily—I’m so glad you came to call.”
Tristan bent to kiss Aislinn’s forehead. “All right,” he said, with a soft gruffness that Emily might have begrudged, had the situation not been special, “let’s have a look at this niece of mine.”
Proudly, her eyes shining with motherly pride, Aislinn drew back the edge of the blanket to reveal a small, downy head, covered in fair hair. The child was delicate and lovely and yet, as Dorrie had said, there was a lively vitality about her, a distinct presence, even though she was but one day old.
Tristan lowered himself to one knee beside Aislinn’s chair and grinned up at his brother. “Now here,” he said, “is a breaker of hearts.”
Aislinn laughed tenderly. “No,” she said. “She will be kind, our Mattie. Kind and generous and sweet.”
“And smart,” Shay put in, taking Emily’s arm lightly in one hand and ushering her to a nearby chair.
“Well, that goes without saying,” Aislinn replied. Tristan got up, and she held the baby out to him. “Will you hold her?”
Tristan blushed and retreated a step, something Emily could not have imagined him doing before that moment. “I don’t think I’m ready for that quite yet,” he said.
“Coward,” Aislinn challenged.
He would not be moved by insult, good-natured or otherwise, and perched on the edge of the settee, hat in hand, as if ready to bolt for the door. Within a few minutes, he and Shay went outside together, ostensibly to enjoy a celebratory cigar.
Aislinn smiled at Emily as warmly as if they’d been friends forever and said in a conspiratorial tone, “They’re hiding out there.”
Emily laughed. “Yes, I think you’re right,” she said. Her heart was warm and full. She looked down at her lovely yellow frock. “Thank you for sending me some of your things.”
She assessed Emily thoughtfully. “That gown is very nice on you. When I wore it, I looked as though I had jaundice.” Her face was soft with love for her husband and child. “What about you, Emily? Would you care to hold Mattie?”
“Oh, yes,” Emily said, and got to her feet.
Aislinn handed over the child with an easy trust that Emily would always cherish. She held the baby carefully, and sat down, and could not have explained why her eyes suddenly stung with tears. Silently, she offered a fervent prayer that the baby would always be loved and kept safe.
“Shay tells me you and Tristan are to be married on Sunday.”
Emily looked up and met the other woman’s gaze, blinking in vain. Her tears must have been obvious to Aislinn. “Yes,” she said.
Aislinn’s eyes sparkled with innocent pleasure. “Good. Tristan will make a fine husband. Reformed rogues usually do.”
It came as no surprise to Emily that Tristan had been a rascal. He was handsome, and possessed of a potent sort of personal charm. Such men were popular with women, and generally took full advantage of the fact.
Her expression tender, she admired the baby, so small and solid in her arms, and yearned for one of her own. “He’s a good man,” she agreed. Then she remembered the broader situation and concern welled up inside her. She forced herself to look at Aislinn again. “How do you feel about sheep?” she blurted.
Aislinn stared at her, clearly baffled. “Sheep?”
“I have a flock. It’s my understanding that the ranchers and a good number of the townspeople despise the poor creatures.”
Aislinn rose, took the baby from Emily’s arms and placed her carefully in the cradle that stood nearby. After covering her, she sighed and turned back to her guest. “These are honest, hardworking people,” she said. “Give them time, and they’ll come to their senses.”
Emily squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “I’ve had experience with ‘honest, hardworking people,’” she answered with some bitterness. “They acted as though I’d brought some dreadful plague into their midst.”
Aislinn came to stand beside her, and rested one hand on her shoulder. “Was there no one to take your part?”
Emily shook her head, afraid to speak for fear she’d burst into wailing sobs, wake the baby, and make an utter fool of herself.
Aislinn’s fingers tightened slightly. “Well, you have a family now.
Things will be different.”
Chapter 7
TRISTAN HAD BEEN GONE A LOT LONGER than it should have taken to smoke a cigar, but Emily didn’t mind. She and Aislinn exchanged life stories while the men were away, and a lasting bond was formed between them.
When Tristan did return to collect her, he had a thick packet of papers in the back pocket of his trousers and he was sporting an almost insufferable grin. He was pleased about something besides being an uncle, that was plain, but apparently he did not intend to confide his news any time soon. He said fond good-byes to his sister-in-law and niece—Shay was off making his rounds—and squired Emily outside to the wagon without a word.
Unsettled by the silence, benevolent though it was, she tried to make conversation when they were outside of town and moving toward the ranch at a good pace. “Shay and Aislinn are lucky to have that beautiful baby,” she said.
“Yup,” Tristan agreed, still grinning. He didn’t even spare her a sidelong glance.
She cleared her throat and made another, more daring attempt. “I suppose you’ll want children.”
He made a clicking sound with his tongue to speed up the horses. “Yup,” he repeated, and began to whistle softly through his teeth.
Emily gave up, but only temporarily. Whatever his secret was, she was bound to discover it in time. That it was probably none of her business anyway was wholly irrelevant.
Reaching the ranch, she was relieved to see that the sheep were grazing peacefully and that Fletcher and Mr. Polymarr were still in possession of their scalps. She began to hope that the danger from the Powder Creek men and others was past, though she knew that was overly optimistic. The animosity between cattlemen and sheep owners ran deep, and was by no means specific to Prominence and the surrounding area.
Holding the skirts of her prized yellow dress high, to avoid soiling the hem, Emily made her way to Black Eagle, who stood still as a statue in front of a cigar store, his sinewy arms folded. He smelled of smoke and leather and some sort of animal grease. There was no expression at all in his face as he looked down at Emily, but the marks of suffering and sorrow were etched deep into his flesh and bearing. He was gaunt, defeated, but still proud.
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