by Carol Arens
Or perhaps not. Now that she knew something of the man, it might not have made a difference...but the plain truth remained: she did not have the kind of beauty to turn a man’s head. The only person who thought so was Melinda and that was only because her cousin loved her.
“Just because you don’t trust me does not mean you need to insult me.”
“To be clear, Rebecca, that was a compliment, not an insult. Why do you get so fired up over being praised?”
Because...because... It hit her all of a sudden, a blow to the heart... She wanted him to think she was pretty...to really think it.
“I’m going back to the house.”
“Wait while I get my coat.”
“I’m capable of walking from here to the house on my own.”
At the barn door, she felt the weight of his coat settle about her shoulders. It smelled like straw, coffee and newborn calves. She yanked the door open and the cool scent of wet trees and mud rushed inside.
From behind, his hands clamped down on her shoulders. His large, warm fingers turned her gently. It was impossible to deny the thrill that raced through her. She had to look up at him. It made her feel dainty, the way a woman ought to feel in a man’s presence.
“I was not insulting you. You are beautiful.”
“So are giraffes and elephants.” Why could he not let her go peacefully on her way?
She didn’t mind that she wasn’t attractive. For an independent woman, strength of character was beauty.
He nodded. “Hippos and camels, as well. But Rebecca, none of them have lovely green eyes that make a man’s heart skip over itself.”
He touched her cheek, traced the arch of the bone under her eye then down to where it curved near her mouth.
With a gentle tug he drew his thumb over her bottom lip. How... What—
“Not a single one of them have lips that make a man forget caution all because he wants to kiss them.”
“N-no,” she stammered because her mind had turned mushy. “I do not suppose they—”
All at once he lowered his head and placed his lips where his thumb had been.
He smelled so... And his mouth felt so... And she was so...so hot. And confused, like her rational mind had fled and left behind a body that sparked everywhere Lantree touched her. Which was quite a few places since his hands were not idle.
It was good that her mind was not in control. She did not want it to be. What she wanted, wickedly wanted, was to feel his mouth where his big hands were kneading her breasts, making her nipples pucker to hard little nubs.
She leaned into his touch, and her breath hitched under his fingers. She only hoped that he did not notice how she was trembling.
How could her body feel as alive as the lightning striking outside while her mind was foggy? How was it that she wanted to strip off her clothes in order to be consumed by a man who “wanted to like her”?
In the next instant, there was cold space where his chest had warmed hers. He held her at arm’s length, gripping her elbows.
She was out of breath and he could not seem to catch his.
“Never believe that you are not beautiful, Becca.”
Drat the man! Of all the times to spout nonsense.
She yanked free of his hold, stomped out of the barn then slogged toward the house.
Behind her, his boots kept pace.
Remaining a dignified spinster had just become a whole lot more difficult, now that she’d had a taste of what could be between a man and a woman.
Chapter Eight
Three days after the mistake in the barn, the storm finally moved on. Lantree got up before the sun because there were bound to be a dozen things that needed repairing.
Straightening two tipped fence posts and fixing a leak in the roof of the henhouse would keep him busy until Barstow had breakfast prepared. He’d gulp it down quick then ride out to see how the cattle had fared.
Normally, he wouldn’t be grateful for the extra work that the storm had caused, but this morning he welcomed it like a stall welcomed a good sweeping.
Fresh air and extra chores might help purge the haunting going on in his mind...and his body. Maybe lathering up a hot sweat would make him forget how sweet it had been to hold Rebecca in his arms, how her lips had been pliant and willing under his.
It might, but it probably wouldn’t.
He shook his head and stepped onto his front porch. Predawn stars speckled the sky. The day would dawn bright with sunshine...a good day to work hard.
A lamp was already burning in the kitchen of the main house. Barstow must have gotten up early, knowing there was much to be done.
Since Lantree hadn’t taken the time to light his stove to make coffee for himself, he was grateful that Barstow always brewed it first thing.
He’d grab a few swallows then head to the barn.
Entering the kitchen through the side door, he had a smile of appreciation ready for the cook.
Hellfire and brimstone! His grin landed smack on Rebecca as she sat at the table, her hair unbound and cascading over her shoulders in a silky fall.
He hadn’t seen her since the incident. It had seemed prudent to keep to himself for a while, let things settle in his mind...let his body cool off.
Unfortunately, all the isolation had done was increase those feelings and, no doubt, get everyone wondering what was going on with him.
When anyone questioned him he fired back with “Can’t a man have a meal in his own house once in a moon?”
“It looks like it will be a lovely day,” Rebecca said casually, as though she didn’t recall how the earth had shifted when they’d kissed.
He had expected a frown of accusation from her, or a maidenly blush at the least.
But no. She simply smiled and offered to pour him a cup of coffee.
That just went to show how little he knew about her. It didn’t seem likely, but maybe she was more experienced at kissing than he had first thought.
“No, thank you,” he said about the coffee, even though he did want some. But not as much as he wanted to be on his way. “I thought Barstow was up, just wanted to say good morning to him.”
“He was under the weather last night, so I told him to sleep in.”
“What were his symptoms?” Hell, as soon as he kept to himself, someone got sick. “I’ll see to him.”
“He said to tell you not to bother him.” Her smile twinkled. If she had felt any angst over their intimacy it didn’t show this morning. “It’s just a sore throat.”
“That’s good. If it gets worse, send someone for me.” He tipped his hat, forcing himself to remember that not every complaint turned into an epidemic. “I’ll be on my way, then.”
But...not before he set something straight. He paused with his hand on the doorknob. He turned around quickly enough to see that Rebecca’s smile had sagged.
It was back in an instant though, which told him that it had not been a genuine smile at all.
For some reason that made him feel better...and worse.
Hell.
“Rebecca, I want to apologize for the other night. I was not a gentleman.”
“No more than I was not a lady.”
“You are every bit of a lady. I took advantage and for that I am sorry.”
“You and I seem to have a long history of apologies between us, Lantree.”
He walked back to the table but didn’t sit down.
“Most of them from me,” he admitted.
“The truth is, I lingered in the barn far past the time it was proper to do so...and I think we were elated over Francie’s babies.”
“The time was ripe for...” The time was ripe for many things but none of them suitable. “Well, for friendship.”
“It was, wasn’t it? We both know where we stand on anything deeper than that, so...” She extended her hand. Her fingers were lovely, long and slender. “Let’s shake on being friends.”
That was fair, but what devil made him hold on to her a moment longer than he should have, long enough for Hershal to wander into the kitchen and see them touching.
“Lantree and I have decided to be friendlier to one another, Grandfather. Amicability is ever so much more pleasant than strife.”
Hershal nodded, then turned in an attempt to hide his smile.
Lantree saw it but he didn’t think that Rebecca had.
“I’ll just take some coffee and get to work.”
“Grandfather,” he heard Rebecca say as he was going out the kitchen door. “I’d like to visit Grandmother’s grave...and my father’s.”
Lantree froze midstep and stared at the skyline, which was still an hour from full daylight.
Hershal had not visited the gravesites, not since the day he had shoveled dirt onto Catherine’s coffin.
“Another time, perhaps,” the old man answered. “The graveyard is a long way from here and it’s rough going.”
Lantree closed the door and walked toward the barn and his waiting chores.
Rebecca deserved to visit her father’s and her grandmother’s resting places, but he was certain that Hershal would never take her.
Maybe Lantree would, one day. One day when enough time had passed that he was not worried about being alone with her. When he was sure that it was friendship and friendship only between them.
* * *
It was understandable that Grandfather did not wish to visit the family plot. Some pain wrenched the heart so severely that all one could do was distance oneself.
Two days had passed since she had asked him to take her to the cemetery. He had not offered, so she would not ask again.
That did not mean that she was not going to go on her own. For all the men’s talk about how dangerous the area was, she had only witnessed beauty.
This was her home now and she would not spend her life frightened of going beyond the yard. By the saints, the more familiar one was with one’s environment, the safer one was in it.
Of course, if anyone knew she was venturing out, they would forbid it. Nonetheless, venturing out was what she was going to do.
It had been an easy thing to find out from Tom where the cemetery was located and an easier thing to get Jeeter to saddle her a horse for a ride around the paddock, or so he thought. He would discover her deception soon enough, but she would be long gone by then.
For now, here she was free and on her own, ready to enjoy the bright, warm day.
Her goal was simple. Ride to the cemetery, play a tune for Grandmother and one for Father, then be home before anyone missed her...or if they did miss her, before they could find her.
Life was grand in this bold, beautiful land. No one was going to keep her from enjoying it.
She rode the gently paced horse through green woods, over quiet streams and across meadows alive with yellow, orange and lavender flowers.
Cattle dotted the meadows, grazing serenely. If there was danger at hand, they would be the ones to know it.
Tom’s description of the location of the cemetery had been accurate. She’d followed the sun west and come across the landmarks he had mentioned. At noon, according to the sun, she came upon a large boulder, at the foot of which was the cemetery.
A stone wall had been laid around the two graves lying side by side. She got off the horse then tied it to a tree a short distance from the burial plots.
Taking the violin from the saddle pack, she sat down upon the low wall, gazing at the names and dates carved into the rock.
“Thank you for the gift, Grandmother,” she said.
She didn’t mean the violin alone, but the love of creating music.
“Grandmother, did you feel it inside? Like you didn’t even need sheet music to remember how to play a piece?”
Rebecca imagined that her Grandmother was sitting beside her, nodding.
Perhaps she ought to say something to her father...but what?
“I’m sorry your life went so wrong, Papa. I suppose you thought that leaving me and Mama was best for you back then. Well...I forgive you if that’s any comfort.”
Having said what she could, she lifted the violin from its case and began to play, something for Grandmother. Something lovely and inspiring.
Next she played something for her father, but it was melancholy, because the tunes she played tended to reflect what she was feeling at the moment. Perhaps with time she would play something lovely for Papa.
When she was finished, she set the violin back in its case and secured the clasps.
Wind rustled through the treetops. She closed her eyes and listened. She wanted to spend the rest of her life on the ranch, where even the elements made their own kind of music.
With the sun shining warm on her face she was convinced that the men of her new family had greatly exaggerated the danger.
Then she heard a noise that seemed out of place. She strained to listen.
“I’m telling you, I heard music,” came a voice carried lightly by the breeze. The speaker was still hidden in the dense growth of trees.
She stood up suddenly because she recognized the voice. How long had it taken for Mike to spend all of her money? she wondered with a great deal of bitterness.
“You hear a heavenly choir to go with it?” another man declared, his tone mocking. “Come to think on it, we’re near the Moreland graveyard...and you know what they say about Catherine Moreland.”
Second by second the sound of feet tromping through the underbrush became louder. There would not be enough time to reach her horse.
“It’s got to be her.” The way Mike said “her,” with a sneer, indicated that an encounter with the men would not be friendly.
The only thing to do was dash behind the boulder and hope that the men moved on.
“I say we cut some trees,” the other man said, apparently ignoring Mike’s mention of “her.” “It’s what we came for. Smothers won’t be offering top dollar forever.”
“The trouble with you is that you ain’t got no vision.”
From the sound of the voices they had to be near the stone wall. She pressed against the boulder, wishing that she had worn her brown dress instead of the bright yellow one.
“What I see is that this trip has been a waste of time. We haven’t got a single tree into the river and floated it down to the mill. I regret that I ever came along.”
“You won’t regret it when you’re a rich man.”
“Wouldn’t regret being handsome, neither, that don’t mean it’s going to happen.”
“I’ve got a plan.”
Rebecca had a sickening feeling that this plan involved her.
“What do you aim to do, Mike? Offer Smothers leaves instead of logs?”
“There you go again, no vision.”
“What I see is lumber ready for the cutting.”
“What about that horse over there? You see that?”
It had been a vain hope that they would not notice Clara munching the grass.
“What? By doggy, where’d that come from?”
“It was there to see the whole livelong time.”
“I reckon we wouldn’t get enough money for the nag to make it worth getting hanged as horse thieves.”
“It’s not the horse we’re taking. It’s the woman.”
“What woman?”
“The one who was playing the violin, you half-brain!”
“I’d like to see you catch a ghost.”
“I don’t reckon ghosts ride mortal horses, do you? It’s Moreland’s granddaughter we’re
going to take.”
“You certain it was a mortal woman playing the music? Hope so, since old Moreland might pay good hard cash to get her back...sure more than he would a ghost.”
“Not as much as Smothers will give us for her.”
“Why would he give good money for Moreland’s girl when he can have any whore cheap?”
“Think about it. He gets hold of her, marries her, then he’s the one who inherits the ranch. He’ll have all the trees he wants without having to pay a cent...and we don’t have to work up a sweat cutting logs.”
“The mayor is in a hurry. Could take some time for him to inherit.”
“Could...or could not... Old men die all of a sudden and no one knows why.”
Surely Mike was not talking about murder! But what else could he mean? Since he was clearly discussing kidnapping, why not killing, as well?
“Hey, girlie!” She hadn’t noticed in their earlier encounter how evil Mike’s voice sounded, but she did now and it made her stomach turn sour. “Come on out.”
“We don’t mean you any harm.”
“You dimwit. If she’s close enough to hear us and she likely is, she’ll know that’s not true.” It sounded like Mike was at the wall now. “Let’s make this easy, Miss Lane. Come along peaceful-like and we won’t hurt you. Try and run...well now, that’s a reason for punishment, and as I recall we have unfinished business of a personal kind between us as it is.”
“Oooo-eee!” the other man yelped. “I hope she runs!”
Well, by the saints, she was not going to stay where she was.
The trouble was, if she ran, it would make noise. On the other hand, she didn’t have time to move stealthily away from her pitiful hiding place.
The one and only thing she could think to do was to make them believe she had fled in another direction.
Thankfully, the wind came up and rattled the treetops, giving her cover noise to remove her shoes then pick up a rock.
When the blowing stopped, she hurled the rock away from her, then her shoes after it.
“That way!” the one called Dimwit shouted and tramped toward the horse. “She’s trying to get to her mount!”
