Anora's Pride

by Kathleen Lawless

  “Not in any particular hurry,” he drawled, as he dismounted in one fluid movement. He approached Callie and passed her the rope. “I'd feel right more comfortable, though, if you'd put that shotgun down. Firearms have a habit of sometimes going off unexpectedly.”

  “Not in my hands.” Callie replied. Cautiously she accepted the rope, warm from his touch.

  “You've got a nice spread here,” the man continued, glancing at the cozy log cabin and nearby barn. Smoke drifted lazily from the chimney and was soon lost in the blue of the tireless September sky.

  When he tipped his hat back she saw that his eyes were an identical blue. Broad of shoulder, lean of hip, the stranger was even more impressive on foot than astride his mount. He had to be nearabouts the tallest man she'd ever seen. A full, dark mustache rode his upper lip above a jaw shadowed with several days’ whisker growth. He looked hard, Callie thought. The way a body needed to be in order to survive in this raw, untamed land.

  Yet she found she wasn't fearful, having already learned the hard way that fear rendered a body weak. Marriage to Bert had taught her that, and a few more things besides.

  “Mind if I water my horse while I'm here?”

  “Help yourself,” Callie said. “Best water in the state.”

  She made no effort to still the note of pride that crept into her voice. And why should she? She'd practically broken her back for what little she had. Her homestead. Her livestock. Her independence. An independence that had only truly become hers when she'd buried Bert last May.

  “Don't mind if I do.” Spurs jangled as man and horse moved to the well. Callie stood on the porch, cradling her shotgun in one arm and hanging onto the rope with her other hand. “You'll need to be mending that hole in your fence, lest you lose the rest of your livestock,” he added.

  “It's too late to go out now,” Callie said. “I'll see to it first light.”

  “Yep. Sun'll be down soon.” Having watered his horse and drunk his fill, the stranger refilled his canteen. As he turned to face her, Callie had difficulty looking away from the silvered water droplets beading on his mustache. When she finally did it was too late; his horse had cropped the colorful head off every nasturtium she had so carefully started from seed and lovingly transplanted.

  “Can't you control your animal!” Callie exclaimed as she stomped down the steps.

  “Well, ma'am, I—” He pushed his hat toward the back of his head and glanced down at the spoiled flowerbed. Then he shrugged. “What's done is done. I'm truly sorry. I guess old Marshall here was just plumb sick and tired of hay and oats.”

  “Nothing for it.” Callie turned away, feeling the hot dryness behind her eyelids. She knew it wasn't reasonable to feel this way over a handful of flowers that would die anyway, come first frost. It was just so damned unfair. Bert was dead and buried, and still she wrestled with feelings of not being allowed to have one single thing that was hers and hers alone.

  She was mistress of her own domain, free to plant a hundred more nasturtiums next spring if she wanted to. And no begging for a few miserable pennies to buy seed, the way she'd been forced to do in the past. She truly was free!

  “Ma'am?” The stranger was facing her. “Did you hear what I said?”

  Feeling suddenly reckless, Callie stood the shotgun on the ground alongside her. No need protecting herself and all that was hers; obviously she was in no danger from this man. “Did you say something? I'm afraid I was woolgathering.”

  “Yes'm. I said I was of a mind to see to mending the fence for you. My way of putting things to rights between you and Marshall here.” He gave his horse an affectionate pat on his satiny nose.

  “You needn't bother,” Callie said. “You did me the service of returning my property. Besides, flowers are an unnecessary indulgence out here.”

  “I thought they lent the place a right homey air.”

  “Did you, indeed?” Callie started to bestow a smile on the man but stopped just in time, reminding herself she didn't care what he or any other man might think. “Well. I'd best be seeing to my chores. Thank you again.”

  “Pleasure.”

  She was halfway to the cabin when the deep rumble of his voice halted her. “I was wondering, ma'am. Would your husband object if Marshall and me was to take shelter in your barn for the night? It'd be a sight more pleasant than sleeping out in the open. I could stop and fix your fence on my way out in the morning, by way of payment.”

  Instinctively Callie opened her mouth to refuse, then paused. Didn't the scripture verses clearly state, “I was hungry and you gave me to eat. I was cold and you gave me shelter. I was thirsty and you gave me to drink"? To say nothing of the fact that the man had ridden miles out of his way to return her lost cow. It would be wrong of her to refuse.

  “Very well, you have yourself a night's shelter, mister. And I will take you up on your offer of mending the fence. I can't afford to lose any more livestock.”

  “Much obliged. Mrs.—”

  “Lambert.” She hesitated before adding, “Mrs. Callie Lambert.”

  “Name's Millar. Rafe to my friends.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Millar. You'll find plenty of fresh hay in the barn.”

  Inside the barn Rafe stripped the saddle and blanket from his mount's back. “Well done, Marshall, old boy,” he murmured as he added an extra measure of oats to the horse's feed. “Couldn't have done better myself.” For although Rafe had arrived with every intention of stopping over at the Lambert homestead, he'd wanted to make his presence seem as casual as possible rather than the purely calculated move of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and didn't allow anything or anyone to stand in his way.

  Callie Lambert wasn't in his way any, but her spread was conveniently close to old man Denzell and his two murdering sons. And even though Rafe had deliberately sabotaged the good widow's fence, he'd put things back to rights tomorrow. He took a considerable amount of pride in putting things to rights.

  After searching out a clean stall, Rafe kicked a pile of hay into some semblance of a mattress and spread his bedroll atop it. Truth be told, he was a sight more comfortable sleeping under the stars than with any sort of roof stretched over him. A roof had a way of making a man feel confined. Pinned down. Not to mention making a man soft. He needed to keep the elements at bay. Rafe propped his shotgun in the hay alongside his bedroll. He had no intention of letting himself get soft, or of staying inside for an unnecessary second when he could be out getting the lay of the land.

  The silence had about the same way of making a man feel hemmed in as a roof did, Rafe mused as he took in the big-sky picture, from the lush valley cradling Callie's homestead to parts south. Parts that included his primary target, the Double D ranch, Denzell's spread.

  Dark green stands of spruce, pine, and fir hugged the undulating slope on the far side of the creek. Timber rights alone must be worth a pretty penny.

  He pursed his lips thoughtfully. Word was Callie Lambert had been widowed four months. How long till some of the locals came courting, he wondered. A pretty young widow with a spread like this would be quite desirable.

  “Mr. Millar.”

  At first he thought he'd only imagined her voice. But when he swung around she was real enough, a soft breeze pushing at her skirts and outlining the slender limbs beneath. Her face was shiny and he guessed she'd been standing over a hot stove. His gaze dropped to the covered plate in her hands.

  “You weren't in the barn,” Callie said. “I fixed you a plate. Didn't want it to grow cold.”

  Three long strides closed the distance between them.

  He took the plate from her, noticing for the first time how the green of her eyes matched the green hillside behind her. She looked younger in the softer light. More vulnerable. Or maybe it was just the absence of her rifle.

  “You didn't have to do that.”

  “I know.”

  The words came at him, as simple and direct as her gaze, unlike the city be
lles with their highfalutin’ airs, stylish gowns, and coy speech and mannerisms. Powdered and coifed and smelling so sweet a man's gut ached, most females were intent on one thing and one thing only: snagging themselves a husband. Making the poor bastard's life hell. He wondered how much the late Mr. Lambert had suffered before going to his final resting place. He also wondered if her wealthy neighbor to the south might be the widow's next target.

  “Would you care to join me?” He indicated a couple of sawed-off tree stumps.

  “I don't think so, thank you.”

  “Suit yourself.” Rafe sat and lifted the towel covering his meal, releasing the homey scent of fresh meat and vegetables in a rich stew broth. “Mind if I ask why?”

  Callie brushed her forehead where strands of gentle brown hair had escaped the confining topknot. It was a futile gesture. “Not one to set idle, I guess.”

  Rafe nodded and dug into his stew, as if unconcerned. “Oh, I almost forgot.” From the pocket of her apron she pulled out a chunk of fresh bread. “I didn't want it to get sogged up on the plate.”

  '''Preciate that.” Rafe ate in silence for several moments, while Callie watched.

  When some comment seemed required, he asked, “You bake this bread, Mrs. Lambert?”

  Callie nodded. Rafe noticed how she worried her bottom lip. Something was sure enough on her mind. He took another bite. Best to let her come about it in her own way.

  “Sure you won't have a seat?” he asked, after several more minutes had passed in silence.

  To his surprise she sat, looking at him in a rather disconcerting fashion. He knew his beard was starting to fill in. He also knew it was likely posters of Luke had been plastered up around town. He understood, though, that she wasn't much of one for going to town.

  “Where you from, Mr. Millar?”

  Rafe managed a careless shrug. “Here and there. No place in particular.”

  “Grew up in Wyoming, myself.”

  Rafe nodded. Waited for her to say more.

  “Got married out there. Mr. Lambert was on his way west when he heard about the Land Act. Husband and wife got twice as much land as a single gent.”

  Rafe bit back a smile and practiced the potent charm that was his trademark. “If you don't mind my saying so, ma'am, I sincerely doubt that's the only reason Mr. Lambert popped the question.”

  Callie frowned. Maybe she didn't recognize a compliment when it came right at her. He tried again. “What I meant was, you're a very attractive woman. Not to mention one hell of a cook. Mr. Lambert is one lucky man.”

  “He's dead.” She issued the words with a suddenness that startled him. Not so much the words themselves but the way she announced the fact.

  “I'm sorry,” he said.

  “I'm not. He wasn't a very nice man. But I wanted to explain.”

  “Explain?”

  “If folks in town were to hear about you stopping here overnight... Well, it wouldn't be seemly.”

  “You'd prefer I not mention this in town, that it?”

  Callie's face cleared like the skies after a thunderstorm.

  “Exactly. Not that I especially care what that mealy-mouthed bunch of busybodies happens to think, but...”

  “I understand. Your reputation is safe with me.”

  Callie rose. “I appreciate that.”

  “Has to be a hard life out here, for a woman alone.”

  Callie opened her mouth as if to speak, then seemed to think better of it. She glanced around her, an expression of satisfied pride on her face. “Nothing's too hard when you're fixed on something you want.”

  Rafe thought briefly of the Denzells, of other times, things he'd wanted in days past. The lady had herself a point. He stood, not quite sure of what to do with his empty plate. “I couldn't agree with you more.”

  When Callie started toward the cabin it seemed only natural to fall into step beside her. “You never wanted to settle down someplace?” she asked. “Work the land, put down roots?”

  Rafe laughed. “I'm afraid we Millars are a rootless bunch. Hardly remember my ma or my pa. My brother and me raised ourselves.”

  “How terrible.”

  “I've seen folks grow up worse off.”

  “Whereabouts have you been?”

  “You name it, I've seen it. Riverboats down south. Goldfields in California. Trapping up north. Boston. New York. New Orleans. Mexico.”

  “I was so happy to finally get here, I don't expect a body'd ever get me to move again.”

  “Rough trip?” Rafe asked.

  A shadow crossed Callie's face. “You could say that.”

  Abruptly she changed the subject. “I got a pot of coffee on the stove. You like some? Or there's more stew.”

  “Coffee sounds like just the ticket.” He paused at the bottom of the steps. “You want I should wait for you out here?”

  He saw the hesitation march across her features. She scanned the skyline where the sun dropped low on the horizon. Then she said, “I guess there's no harm in you coming inside. “

  Following her in, Rafe took a seat at the scrubbed pine table. The smell of freshly perked coffee permeated the air above the cooking odors. The cabin was neat, if sparsely furnished. He took note of the many homey touches, from drying flowers and herbs above the ugly black stove to the cheerful red-and-white gingham at the window above the sink. Amazing, really, that she kept the place going inside and out. She must be a tireless worker. Obviously her home meant everything to her. Rafe couldn't imagine feeling that way about anything. Maybe he had once, but...

  Across the table, Callie wondered what sudden thoughts brought the frown to his face and the shadow to his eyes. She filled two mugs and pushed one in front of Rafe, then placed the milk jug and sugar bowl within easy reach, wishing she'd taken the time earlier to make an apple brown betty, like she'd planned. But she'd been busy putting up preserves before Rafe—Mr. Millar, she corrected herself quickly—arrived.

  They sipped their coffee in companionable silence for several minutes before he spoke. “You get on all right with your neighbors hereabouts?”

  Callie, intently stirring her coffee, jerked so abruptly that the hot liquid sloshed down the sides of the mug and onto the table. She jumped up and grabbed a rag, glad of an excuse to delay her answer. Not that she was duty-bound to say anything, but she preferred talk to the thoughtful silence between them.

  “Neighbors, you say. Let me think.” She busied herself rinsing the rag and hanging it on a line strung above the stove. “There's a big homestead to the south. Family by the name of Denzell. Matter of fact, the Denzells are my only neighbors. He's bought out near everybody else.”

  “That a fact. Wonder why?”

  Callie searched his face for hidden motives behind his question, finding none. But she kept her guard firmly in place. For all she knew, Mr. Millar could have been sent here by Denzell to feel her out, him not being the type to take kindly to the word “no.”

  “Land-hungry, I suspect. He came by right after Bert died and offered to buy me out, too. I suppose he thought I might be glad of an excuse to move on.”

  “I take it he was wrong.”

  “Yup.”

  “How'd he take it? Your refusing his offer?”

  “Mind if I ask why you're so interested?”

  “Sounds like the man I'll wind up talking to about a job, if I stay. Pays to know who you're talking to.”

  Callie nodded. “Denzell wasn't too worried. Said one winter out here alone ought to be enough to change my mind.”

  Rafe's blue eyes settled on her in a disconcerting way. Suddenly Callie found the room uncomfortably warm.

  “Sounds almost like a threat.”

  She jumped up. “I don't think he meant it that way. More coffee?”

  Rafe took the hint and rose to his feet. “No, thank you, ma'am.”

  Up close, Callie realized she'd never been face to face with a man who emanated such power. She felt positively tiny alongside him, even after sh
e straightened her back and rose slightly onto her toes.

  “There's warm water for washing on the stove, if you've a mind,” she said. “Can I get you anything else? A blanket or a pillow or anything?”

  “Marshall and me'll make out just fine. Thanks again for letting us stop over.”

  Callie watched him depart with a comfortable roll to his step. He seemed like a man who knew himself well and rested easy with that knowledge.

  So why did something about his presence make her feel skittish? Maybe because he didn't suit the role of a drifter so much as that of a man with a purpose. A purpose to what end? Callie wondered. Then she told herself it really didn't matter. Come tomorrow he'd be gone.

  ~*~

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  A word about the author...

  The author of fifteen romance novels and an avid reader, Kathleen Lawless has always written the types of stories she enjoys reading. The mother of three, she makes her home in Southern British Columbia, near the mountains and beaches that provide daily inspiration and fuel her passion to write.

  As evidenced in her work, she embraces the outdoors, art, music, and travel. She believes red wine and chocolate are basic food groups, and knows first hand the aphrodisiac power of raw oysters.

  Visit her website:

  www.kathleenlawless.com

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