Theresa Michaels

by The Merry Widows Sarah

  “I’m wise to your tricks. They tried to get me to say things at the mission school. I wouldn’t do it.”

  “Lucas, I really meant my offer to help.”

  His chair scraped back, and he mumbled something about work.

  Sarah watched him stomp into his muddy shoes, ignore the slicker and slip out the back door.

  The thin shirt he wore was no protection against the rawness of the day. Just those few seconds when the door was opened chilled the kitchen.

  She didn’t know if she should go after him or leave him be.

  The thought of hearing Rio repeat his cruel words was enough to set her to work with a vengeance.

  The kitchen had been Mary’s province while she lived there. But now that Sarah was alone, she rarely cooked large quantities of anything.

  She tried not to take out her frustration on the dough. Overworked biscuit dough made for hard biscuits. Once they were rolled out and shaped, she set the tray in the oven to bake. Minutes later, the corn bread pans followed.

  She wasn’t much for baking fancy cakes or pies, but she knew from Ramon that he loved cookies. Weren’t all little boys the same when it came to having sweets?

  There were slim pickings in the pantry.

  “Oatmeal, dried applies and raisins. And honey.” The honey was a hoarded treat, as was the small supply of sugarloaf. Without Mary’s sewing and herbs to trade, or Catherine’s eggs, Sarah had to watch how she spent her money. She had almost half of the five thousand dollars that Rafe had given her against the debt he felt he had owed Judd. Two Tennessee-bred mares and the prize Appaloosa stallion, as well as repairs to the roof, had taken the other half.

  But she had known that building a herd of good breeding stock would take time and money.

  During her trips back and forth to the pantry, she noticed that the wood box was filled to overflowing. Another reason to thank the thoughtful Mr. Santee. But it served as a reminder to check on the fire in the parlor.

  Once there, Sarah heard the rain coming down harder. She took three of the fire-warmed blankets back to the kitchen with her. The three of them would be wet and cold when they came in.

  She worked faster, trying to keep at bay the questions crowding her mind. But the conversation with Lucas—if she could call it that—left too many gaps.

  Rio had had a ranch where he saddle-broke wild horses. It went a long way toward explaining how he had heard of her. She had been buying green-broke stock for almost two years and schooling them for either cutting or riding horses. With the town’s population swelling, there was a growing demand for good horses.

  And if he knew about her, his ranchero couldn’t have been located too far away.

  Sarah laughed softly. “How far is too far in the territories? He could have settled up in Colorado, or south in Texas, even farther west than the Arizona territory.”

  The biscuits came out of the oven, and the cookies went in. The dry ingredients for flapjacks waited for the small pitcher of buttermilk to be added.

  Every few minutes she checked the window but there was no sign of Rio or his sons.

  Sarah knew she should be the one out there. They were her horses. It was her land.

  She poured out another cup of coffee for herself.

  She sipped the black brew. The mere thought of getting into an argument with that square-jawed man was enough to keep her inside and away from him.

  If he had been alone, she’d be tempted to lock him out. Not that locking the doors had kept him out of the house last night.

  What was it that Catherine had said to her? Something about both she and Mary opening the door to strangers and finding love?

  “Foolish notion. Thought so then, and even more so now.”

  The questions started coming again. She knew he’d been in jail. His son claimed that white men took his ranch. Had he killed one of them? Who had taken the boys to a mission school?

  And who were they that shot at them?

  Were men after him? Was she harboring a wanted killer? There were moments last night when she could swear he was capable of violence. And yet she had to temper those thoughts with the thoughtful things he’d done today.

  The very least she could do was feed them. And hot soup was the best thing she could think of. He had returned both the half-wheel of cheese and the remains of the smoked ham. She sliced off all the meat she could from the bone, fetched potatoes, dried peas, onions and rice from the pantry. Two jars of canned tomatoes and dried herbs—a few of the many gifts Mary and Rafe had given her for Christmas—were all she needed for the soup.

  “Now for the kettle.”

  Sarah dragged a chair into the pantry. She wedged it tight against the shelves. The kettle was stored on the top shelf since she had no need of the large kettle when cooking for herself.

  She climbed up and reached for the heavy cast-iron pot. Rio grabbed the kettle with his left hand. His right arm snaked around Sarah’s hips as she wobbled on the chair. One of her hands grabbed hold of the shelf and the other clamped on his shoulder to keep herself from falling.

  “What did you think—”

  “What I thought doesn’t matter, Mr. Santee. You almost made me fall, yanking the kettle out of my hands like that.”

  Sarah glared down at him. If she moved an inch to the left his face would be flush with her breast.

  His shoulder-length hair was plastered to his head. Water dripped from the cloth tied around his forehead. His mud-strewn clothing was soddenly molded to his muscular body. His boots were caked with mud. An earthy, masculine scent filled the small pantry.

  Sarah told herself there wasn’t one reason his appearance should make her stomach react with a funny little flip-flop.

  She snatched her hand from his shoulder and clung to the shelf. She was uncomfortable with his ease in cutting through her guard. Not only did he make her totally aware of his dominating male presence, but he made her aware that she was smaller and female.

  It was a primitive feeling that rose from deep inside her. She knew it for what it was, something lost within the first year of her marriage. A feeling she had denied, buried and refused to acknowledge.

  Feminine need.

  She met his gaze, stunned by the blast of guilt that swept through her. Here she was, safe and dry, while he had been out battling the elements on her behalf.

  And from the sound of the rolling thunder and rising wind, they were in for another night’s battering.

  The fact that she had never asked him to do it was beside the point. The fact that he never asked for permission was pushed aside, too.

  “You confuse me,” she said, clearing her throat of its huskiness. “Last night you came into my home, threatened my life and made me afraid. Today you’re taking over my chores, making free with my home, digging a trench. You’re acting like a…like a neighbor, friend, hired hand, what? I don’t understand you.”

  “You are a plain-speaking woman.”

  “Lies never served anyone. I can’t abide a liar. You know what I said was the truth.”

  “Would you have given me shelter if I had knocked on your door?”

  “You alone? I would have offered the barn, but with your sons, my home.”

  “My sons make you feel safe?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I do not.”

  Chapter Seven

  His steady, probing gaze holding her own, even with the evidence of fatigue in those cinnamon-colored eyes, robbed her of the will to lie, the will to fight

  “No.”

  It was a breathless, soft admission that Sarah wished to recall the moment she spoke.

  The skin over his high cheekbones seemed to be stretched so tight she thought it might split His eyes moved over her. Intense. Heated. Weighing and judging, while she held her breath.

  He looked at her for an agonizingly long time. Sarah couldn’t bear watching his eyes move over her, so she closed her own. Heat banded her where his arm curved over her hips. A heat that s
pread inside despite the cool damp coming from his wet shirt.

  Her breathing was shallow. She feared taking a deeper breath. His nostrils flared slightly as if he scented her fear.

  “Your hair has a beauty all its own. Black and cool and sleek as a horse’s mane, but more like silk.”

  She braced herself for his touch. It never came. But her nerves were strung tight being confined in this small space with him.

  “No need for you to keep holding me. I’m steady now.”

  “Perhaps I am holding on to steady myself.” He held her gaze with his for a few seconds more. “Stay here. I’ll come back and help you down.”

  He left with the kettle. Sarah sagged against the wooden shelves. He might be out of her sight, but she still felt the imprint of his hand on her hip. She climbed down from the chair, only then becoming aware of the murmuring voices in the kitchen. His sons had been there the whole time.

  She gripped the back of the chair, then roused herself to get out of there before he came back.

  The boys’ blanket-wrapped bodies were disappearing down the hall into the parlor when she looked.

  Rio was filling the kettle with water. By the door lay a pile of the boys’ muddy clothing and shoes. Outside, the dark wind howled, bringing a gloom stealing over the land as rain lashed the house.

  One deep breath sent Sarah scurrying to the stove. She grabbed the oven’s handle and yanked the door open.

  She cried out both from the heat beneath her hand and from the sight of crisp, golden brown corn bread and cookies.

  Rio caught hold of her arm and lifted her hand from the oven’s door. “You burned—”

  “Never mind me. Get the pans and trays out before they are burned.”

  Sarah pulled away. She went to the sink and tried pumping water with her left hand. Her palm was red and stinging as a few dribbles of water touched her skin.

  Once more he came to her aid. He pulled her hand away from the pump. “No water. The cold is the worse thing to do.”

  He bent his head, breathing deeply and blowing his breath over her palm. “If you were frostbitten you would not want to warm too quickly. You cause more pain that way. It is the same for a burn that is cooled too fast”

  A trembling warmth coursed up her spine as he continued blowing softly for a few minutes. She seemed to be on the verge of some discovery, but Sarah, being Sarah, backed away from it. She blamed it on the upheaval he had brought into her life.

  The gentleness with which he held her hand was at odds with the hard look of the man. He worked the pump, then held her hand beneath the water. There was hardly any sting.

  Sarah tried to draw her hand from him, but he wouldn’t let go. She barely managed to stand still as he dried her hand then studied her palm.

  “Do you have something to put on this?”

  “There’s no need. It feels fine. Thank you for what you did.” Once more she attempted to pull away. Once more he held on to her.

  “Do you have something?”

  “Back shelf in the pantry. A small brown crock. It’s a healing salve my cousin Mary makes. But really, I don’t need it.”

  The last was said to his back. Sarah looked at her hand. So much fuss. When was the last time…she couldn’t remember the last act of kindness from a man. A stranger, that is. Rafe no longer qualified. And. if it had been Judd…Inwardly Sarah laughed with bitterness. Judd would not have noticed, or if he did, he would have ignored her.

  She did not want reminders of Judd. Not here. This was her home. Never his.

  Rio’s return to her side was as silent as his leaving. She focused on his square, firm jaw. A very stubborn man.

  She shivered, one of those chilling ones that raised goose bumps. Catherine always said someone walked on your grave when it happened. If Judd were alive he’d take great pleasure walking over hers.

  Rio turned her hand palm up. With a sure, deft touch he spread a thin layer of the salve on her palm. The faint scent of pine rose between them.

  Sarah thought of his remark about her hair being silky. She could say the same about his lashes. They were long, the same light brown as his hair, but with lighter tips that curled upward. She felt foolish noticing such a thing about him. She stepped back, physically and emotionally. Her boots grated on the gritty floor.

  “Leave it unwrapped. Your hand will heal faster. And I’ll clean the floor.”

  “I…I talked to Lucas,” she blurted out, stopping him in his tracks. He did not turn around, did not make a sound, but she saw the rigid set of his shoulders.

  “He told me about your ranch. How you lost it. Are those the men who followed you? Did they shoot at you? I need to know. We have the law now in Hillsboro.”

  The words burst forth like a dam giving way. “I have a right to know if they’ll come here. I have a right to know why you were in jail. I want to know why they’d even try to kill you if they already have your land.”

  When she finished she sucked in a deep breath, but felt as if all the air were gone. There was such a dangerous stillness to him that she backed away although he had not moved.

  “I have a right to know,” she whispered.

  The ensuing minutes of silence were rife with hostility. Sarah decided she would ask nothing more, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of hearing her plead with him for answers.

  “Something’s burning in here,” Lucas said from the doorway. “Gabriel’s hungry. He wanted another biscuit.”

  Sarah looked from the boy to his father. Rio had not moved. She practically shoved a handful of biscuits at Lucas. Now she smelled the scorched beans, but one look at Lucas’s eyes and she knew he hadn’t been talking about them.

  “Take these. I’ll make flapjacks and call when they’re ready.”

  The boy stood in the doorway. He clutched the blanket wrapped around him along with the biscuits. His eyes bored into his father’s back as if he willed him to turn around. As suddenly as he had come, he left them.

  Rio got to the stove and removed the pot of beans before Sarah did.

  “I’ll scrape these out and start another pot,” she said without looking at him.

  “No. I will do this. You have done enough.”

  “It’s my kitchen.”

  “And your food. But you labor to feed me and my sons.”

  “Next you’ll accuse me of giving you charity just like Lucas.”

  “He had no right to speak to you so. But it is true. You said you went to the reservations—”

  “This isn’t the same at all,” she protested.

  “No. This time we have come to you.”

  “You harbor as much resentment as your son.”

  Sarah moved to the table. She poured the milk into the bowl and, one-handed, started to mix it in.

  Rio came near and put his hands on the rim of the bowl, holding it steady for her. Sarah looked up at him, but his gaze was cast downward.

  “Those questions I asked you, I want them answered. Why can’t you tell me what brought you here?”

  “It is trouble that will not touch you.”

  “Oh yes, it will.” She dropped the spoon and covered his hands with hers. “I have the right to know if I’ll be murdered in my bed because someone is after you.”

  Rio’s hands tensed beneath hers. “You will not be harmed.”

  He spoke through gritted teeth. Sarah wasn’t going to back down again. “That’s not what you said last night.”

  “I never threatened to—”

  “You threatened me. The what and how or why doesn’t matter.”

  He looked up then, straight into her eyes. In some ways Rio reminded Sarah of a wild horse—strong, solitary, self-sufficient. Until man and his greed to possess destroyed what he could not tame.

  “Tell me. Please,” she whispered.

  “You cannot change what is past.”

  “I know that, but I can listen. Maybe even help.”

  “There is no help for this.” He threw his head b
ack, eyes closed, his throat working. He felt the strength of her hands holding on to his.

  Rio opened his eyes and stared at the flickering shadows cast by the coal-oil fixture as the darkness of the storm made the light appear brighter in the warmth of the kitchen.

  He looked down into eyes lit with a black fire, intensely passionate eyes that pleaded with him.

  “They wanted the land. My grandfather’s land. My white, half-Irish grandfather. He knew he was dying. He had made out his will, but he wished to file the deed in my name.

  “The law, the white man’s law did not allow for half-breeds to own land. He said he would fight to have the law changed.

  “There was no fight. He died before he had one letter answered. They waited until I was from home with my sons. Then they came. To burn our house, our barn and fences. They drove off my horses, they slaughtered my stock. They skinned my stallion.

  “And they murdered…” Rio yanked his hands from under hers and turned away. He stood, spine rigid with tension, his hands clenched at his sides.

  Sarah moved without thought to come up behind him. Her hands hovered for a few seconds then came to rest on his back. She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t think of anything to say. All the words of comfort would be meaningless.

  “I killed two of them.”

  “Is…is that why you were in jail?”

  “No. The killing came after. There are three left. I had to get my sons back. Once they are safe I shall hunt them down.”

  She sensed there was more that he wasn’t telling her. She couldn’t press him. His voice was tight, she almost felt the tension vibrating in his big body.

  “Rio, I—”

  He spun around so quickly that Sarah had no chance to evade the hands that grasped her shoulders. Her head rocked from the way he shook her.

  “So now you know. Tell me how you will help me escape the justice that waits for me? Tell me any white person will believe I had a right to their lives after what they did to me and my sons? Tell me, iszáń. I wish to hear the sweet, lying words that will ease my spirit and bring peace to those who have gone.”