by Carol Arens
Her grandfather! It had to be.
The portrait must be of her grandmother. She would give anything to see an image of her mentor.
“I do see it, sir,” came a voice, this one young and sounding fearful.
“Before she died she charged me with guarding her trees. I carry that obligation close to my heart. Promised I’d shoot anyone who cut one of them down.”
“He’s young for shooting,” she heard Mr. Walker say, his voice sounding casual. “Maybe you ought to send him home in the dark.”
“Shooting would be kinder, Lantree. My wife’s ghost has been known to scar a man for life.”
Lantree...she liked that name. She would enjoy using it if she and Mr. Walker ever became friendly enough for that familiarity.
“It’s got to be against the law, shooting somebody over a tree,” the young voice declared, but with a quaver. “And I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Look hard at the face in the portrait, boy. Hers is not one you want to meet in the dark, especially when she’s riled. Those eyes look scary now, but when they fill up with blood... Well, son, you don’t want to see it.”
She’d learned something about her grandfather already. He stretched the truth...and quite possibly, he was a bully. And very clearly he set great store by trees.
“I reckon I won’t shoot you.” Her grandfather’s voice dripped with regret. “As long as you deliver a message to that scallywag Smothers.”
“The mayor?” The young man sounded surprised.
“Don’t play dumb.” This from Lantree Walker. “You are working for him.”
“I’m only building a house for me and my bride.” He sounded sincere to her.
“I reckon he’s lying, don’t you, Lantree?”
“Shifty eyes say he is.”
“If my eyes are shifting it’s because I’m looking back and forth between the two of you and that snake-haired thing on the wall.”
“Snake? Wouldn’t insult the late missus if I were you. You’ll only feel her eyes on your back when you hightail it back to town.”
“I ain’t going to Coulson.”
“Why should we believe that?” said Lantree Walker.
She really did like his name. She would no longer call him Mr. Walker, in her mind at any rate.
“Because I know things.”
“And, as an offer of good faith, you’ll share them with us.” This from Grandfather.
“Could be. If you’ll call off your dead wife. Let me go home to mine in peace.”
So, he did believe in ghosts after all.
A cold breeze stroked the back of her neck. She did not believe in ghosts, but that would not keep her from looking over her shoulder if she were walking through the woods tonight.
“Catherine Rose says she’ll stay in her portrait if you have something important to share...and if you keep your saw off her trees.”
“I do know something about Smothers. I’m not involved, but I was approached. Only because of my size, mind you. The mayor is looking for big men—poachers, you’d call them—to go after your trees. The ones close to the river so they can get in and out during the night real fast like, so as you won’t notice.”
“Smothers wants to build a whole town. I reckon we’d notice,” Lantree Walker said.
There was silence for a time, then some rustling. She desperately wanted to go inside the barn and see what was happening.
She pressed her ear closer to the door.
“Let’s have a look at that bruised eye,” Lantree said, his voice sounding softer all of a sudden.
She turned her head, listening with her other ear.
“No permanent damage. It will be colorful for a time, though.”
“You a doc or something?”
All at once the barn door opened inward. She lost her balance and stumbled forward.
Praise all the saints, she did not go down. She righted herself and with as much dignity as she could manage under the circumstances, she faced her grandfather.
White eyebrows slanted downward over blue eyes. White hair stuck out at angles on top of his head as though he had been yanking it.
The tree thief inched along the sidewall of the barn.
“Lantree,” her grandfather said, his frown softening while he looked at her face, “did you take my advice and finally marry a wife?”
“I’ve been gone all four days. Where would I get a bride in that amount of time?”
“Coulson, where else? She does look gently used.”
By the saints!
“I have not been used at all,” she declared with a proper lift of her chin.
Apparently, her actual occupation was something that she would have to make clear to every male she met in these mountains. Perhaps she would take to wearing a needle and thread in her collar permanently.
By George, was there a woman in Coulson who was not a professional giver of comfort?
“She’s not my wife.”
“Why then did you bring her here?”
Her grandfather peered closely up at her, his expression slowly changing from curiosity to astonishment.
“Are you... No... But I think... Could you really be...?”
He reached for her face, as though he wanted to touch her, then he dropped his hand to his side. His eyes moistened.
Perhaps he recognized someone in her. His son...or his wife.
She glanced at the portrait they had used to scare the thief.
By George, she had been traveling for some time, but she hoped she did not look like Medusa, with snakes growing out of her head instead of hair.
The captive had inched his way to within three feet of the barn door.
“Hershal, this is Rebecca Lane, your granddaughter.” Lantree made the introduction, although she was sure that at this point it was unnecessary.
The tree-napper rushed out of the barn, into the dark.
If he was foolish enough to believe that the portrait in the barn was the late Mrs. Moreland, she could only say heaven help him on his long run home to his wife...or to Coulson.
“Of course it is. I should have known. It’s like I’ve seen a ghost.”
Oh, my. She couldn’t help glancing once more at the portrait. Rebecca was no beauty, but surely—
“A lovely vision of my past, is what I meant, Rebecca. That—” he indicated the portrait with a nod of his white head “—is to scare trespassers.”
Her grandfather opened his arms, clearly waiting for her to rush into them.
She glanced at Lantree, who was staring at the barn floor, nudging a pebble with the toe of his boot.
Apparently, Grandfather was coldhearted in the same way that the house was a cramped cabin.
“I know I’m a stranger to you, Rebecca, but to me you are—” His eyes glittered.
Family, she knew he meant. She felt it, too.
She stepped into his embrace gently when she wanted to launch into it. She was not a tiny thing and he was an old man...not frail, but not robust, either.
For all that they were strangers, there was a bond between them.
Her name was Catherine Rose.
* * *
Lantree walked up the front porch steps behind Hershal and Miss Lane, carrying the birdcage in his left hand and a large bag of flour under his right arm. Barstow always wanted his flour first thing on coming back from town.
His boss grinned up at his granddaughter and she smiled down at him. Chances are she was walking into his heart as neatly as she was his home.
That could be dangerous. Then again, she might be just the person to bring joy to his sundown years.
Coming across the threshold, Lantree paused to look at the familiar portrait hanging over the m
antel.
The lady gazing down had been older than Miss Lane when the portrait was painted. Still, the high cheekbones were the same...the eyes an exact match in color. No, he thought as he studied the painting, the resemblance was more than mere pigment. The artist had captured an expression, an angle of the chin and an arch of the brow that was common to both women.
If Miss Lane hadn’t knocked the sense out of him that first night, he might have recognized her then.
Watching the old man stop ten paces into the main room of the log house then turn to kiss his granddaughter’s cheek, Lantree could only imagine the emotion brewing behind his grin.
Joy, certainly, but more than that, he sensed that Hershal felt he had been granted a miracle.
They had all talked about Rebecca Lane coming one day, but it had been castles in the sky. No one, except maybe Hershal, had expected her to actually walk in the front door.
In the end he had to look away from them because he felt like an intruder on a very private moment.
He didn’t like feeling like an intruder where his boss was concerned.
Until Miss Lane had stumbled her tall, lovely self into the barn, he had felt like a son to Hershal. They had grown that bond between them over the years.
Now, here stood the real kin, wiping tears from her cheeks...and his.
“It’s about time you got home from Coulson!” Barstow’s voice bellowed from out of sight.
Heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway leading from the kitchen. Hearing him come down the hall one would guess that the cook was a giant of a man. But he stood only five feet tall, and was half that much around the middle.
“Haven’t baked a pie in an age!” He rounded the corner, his large nose leading the way. He stopped abruptly, nearly stumbling over his small feet.
Hershal let go of his granddaughter and pivoted toward Barstow.
“Bake six!” he exclaimed. “One for each of us.”
Hell and damn if Hershal hadn’t just killed the fatted calf. Extravagance was rare in the mountains since restocking supplies meant a weeklong trip to town.
“Strike me bald!” Barstow waddled across the room. He caught up Miss Lane’s hands in his, lifted one and kissed her fingertips. “You can only be our Rebecca.”
Did it really take one minute for a stranger to become “our Rebecca”?
“You are your grandmother stepped off her portrait,” Barstow said, then sniffled.
The cook had been with Hershal for thirty-five years, going with him from city, to country, then finally here to the wilds of Montana.
Lantree set the birdcage on the hearth in front of the softly glowing fire. The feathered critter was shivering and, for once, silent.
“Lantree,” Barstow ordered, “bring in our Rebecca’s things while I trot upstairs and ready her a room.”
That would be something to see, Barstow trotting. Sometimes the lamp shades trembled when he crossed the room.
“What is that?” The cook halted with one hand on the banister and one foot poised in the air. He stared at the birdcage.
“Not a green chicken!” Miss Lane hurried toward the hearth and opened the cage door. “Come on out.”
Screech cocked his head from side to side, seeming to consider the wisdom of such a move.
Rebecca puckered her mouth and made loud kissing noises to coax the bird out.
He ought to look away, but how could he? No man with healthy red blood thrumming in his veins could.
He blinked, shook his head.
She kissed the air again.
Backing toward the front door, he squeezed his eyes shut, but that didn’t do a damned thing to block out the moist smacking sounds.
“Isn’t that...” he heard Hershal ask.
“Couldn’t be... Not possible,” Barstow answered.
He opened his eyes to see the bird perched on Miss Lane’s arm and Barstow approaching one slow, cautious step at a time.
“Looks like him,” Hershal said.
“All birds of his species look like him,” Barstow answered, scratching his head of thick black hair. “But may I ask where you came by him?”
“He was with me when my mother left me with my aunt. I guess we’ve had each other all our lives.”
“Was he ever called Kiwi Clyde, do you know?” Barstow asked, his face beginning to look eager.
Barstow had mentioned his bird many times. It seemed that the cook had never really gotten over Hershal’s son stealing his feathered friend when he ran away from home so many years ago.
From what Lantree could tell, the absence of Kiwi Clyde had been felt more sorrowfully than the absence of the son.
Of course, the bird had not chosen to leave and, as the story went, the son had snuck away, stealing a great deal of money along with the bird.
“Aunt Eunice always called him Screech because, well...you’ll come to find that he excels at it.”
“A screecher, eh? I’d bet that bird is our Kiwi Clyde,” Hershal insisted. “Little Kiwi Clyde was Barstow’s bird. My son made off with him in a coldhearted way...but that’s the way the boy was. We can talk about him later if there’s things you want to know, but for now we need to prove that Screech used to be Kiwi Clyde.”
“Can’t figure how you’ll do that,” Lantree observed.
“Did you remember the peppermint sticks from town?”
“I sure did, just like you said.”
Barstow clapped his hands together. “Go fetch them, son, we’ll know soon enough.”
In going out the door, he passed close by Miss Lane. Her womanly scent caught him in the gut, turning him every which way of uneasy.
He’d been around women, professionally and personally, but not even his fiancée had made him react in such a primal way.
Could be it was Miss Lane’s size. He considered the possibility while he dug through a canvas bag for the peppermint.
He huffed out a breath, knowing that was not the case. It had always taken more than physical perfection to arouse him.
Dallying with women was not something he took lightly.
By and large, sweet, feminine ladies were tiny things. His fiancée had been only five feet three inches tall.
During intimate moments he had always held back. Hell, he could never let down his guard and get lost in the passion for fear of injuring her.
There wasn’t much satisfaction in indulging in an act that might result in injury.
At least physically, Moreland’s precious granddaughter was his match. In part, that’s what had him riled up down below, but not all.
Maybe if he— But no... Serious commitment, and that was the only kind he wanted, was not for him.
He grabbed the peppermint sticks then took the porch stairs two at a time. It didn’t matter how tall Miss Lane was, she was a declared spinster and he was an avowed bachelor. And that’s how things needed to remain.
He strode into the house to find Barstow scratching the bird’s neck.
Funny, he never knew birds liked that. This one seemed to be in a pleasure trance.
“Here we are!” Moreland strode forward and plucked a peppermint stick from his hand. “We’ll soon know if this is our boy.”
“Clydie want a candy?” Hershal asked.
The bird snapped out of his trance. His pupils flared.
“Here, yummy!” Bumbling instead of graceful, the bird flew from Miss Lane to Hershal.
“Mmm yummy! Here!”
Barstow plucked the candy away from Hershal and held it before the bird.
With a squawk, he snatched it, and then curled his toes around the treat. The critter seemed happy enough, nibbling and making contented sounds.
“Do you give him peppermint often?” Barstow looked at Rebecc
a, clearly hoping that the answer would be no. That the reunion with the treat would prove that this was his lost bird.
“No, never. Aunt Eunice would not have permitted it.” Miss Lane arched a fine brow. She smiled. “It’s quite clear to me that Screech can only be your Kiwi Clyde.”
The bird was lost in bliss. Barstow was lost in bliss.
If this was not the missing bird, no one was going to say so.
Hershal clapped one open hand on his chest. “I say call the others in from the bunkhouse, open a bottle of wine and we’ll give three cheers to Rebecca and Kiwi Clyde’s homecoming.”
Lantree would make that toast but he’d only give two cheers. The last he’d hold in reserve until he knew that Miss Rebecca Lane meant no harm.
Chapter Six
Rain tapped on the window beside Rebecca’s bed. She watched while a drip rolled down the pane. It caught a companion then together they rushed down the glass. For some reason this reminded her of happy times with Melinda.
She hadn’t expected to be homesick. Although it wasn’t that she missed home so much as she missed her cousin.
There was so much she wanted to share with Melinda. If only she could send a mental message to her, the way they had practiced doing as children.
She closed her eyes tight, pictured her cousin in her mind, then concentrated on three images.
The first was of the nights she had spent sleeping on the lower deck of the River Queen. In the beginning, bedding down in the open with livestock and feedbags for company had been adventurous. The boat’s rocking and the noise of the steam engine had lulled her to sleep. Later on, the engine just sounded loud and the constant rocking was not pleasant. Still, she always had a lovely view of God’s great starry canopy. And she never had grown tired of the sound of the water slapping the side of the boat.
Next, she sent images of the nights she had spent sleeping on the ground close to the campfire. She had kept Screech, now known as Kiwi Clyde, tucked close to her at all times for fear that something would creep out of the darkness and snatch him. The same as on the boat, there had been the stars, constant and beautiful.
Tonight, she couldn’t see the stars because of the rain.
