Theresa Michaels

by The Merry Widows Sarah

  One look at his hard-set features silenced her need to know why he stopped. She could ask, she thought she could even plead to know—shocking as it seemed that the reason was important—but she knew he wasn’t going to answer her.

  Her hand curled around the edge of the table. Her breath shuddered out of her. “Why? Why did you—” She broke off, shaking her head. She wasn’t going to ask, yet she couldn’t stop herself.

  “Did your elders teach you nothing? It is not for a woman to ask a man.”

  Only the lingering taste of the gentle kiss quieted her temper. “Maybe that’s true among your mother’s people, but it isn’t among mine.”

  “You lie.”

  He said it calmly, looking so directly at her with a dare to deny him in his gaze that her breath hissed out from between clenched teeth.

  A cold and very cynical smile that never reached his eyes curled the corner of his mobile mouth. The mouth that moments ago had teased and tantalized her.

  “My grandfather was an educated man. He wanted me to see and learn all I could about both worlds, Apache and white. I traveled with him to St. Louis, and then to New Orleans. I was very much in the company of charming and very curious white women.

  “Hungry women who did not shrink from bedding a half-breed. As my grandfather wished, I added to my education. I learned about deceit, and the lies they whispered with no more thought than you used when you wielded your rifle to protect your home from me.

  “They live with their lies, as tightly bound with them as they are in their bone corsets and layers of clothing. They never asked why. To ask is to show a willingness to hear the truth. I learned well from them.”

  Resentment, hot and flaring, added an edge to her voice. “But you never let me finish my question. I only wanted to know why you kissed me, not why you stopped.” Pride made her lie. She lifted her chin, pouring a challenge into her gaze, a challenge that dared him this time to answer her with the truth.

  His hand pressed tightly along his thigh. “How long since your husband died?”

  Confusion clouded her gaze. “Four years,” she answered.

  “In that time did you take a man to your bed?”

  Sarah dug her fingertips into the wood of the table.

  “No. There has been no man. But if you think I intende—”

  “What I think, widow woman, is that you better go back to your house. It is safer for you there.”

  “Safer? Perhaps. But only for a little while. Then you’ll be there, too.”

  “With my sons,” he reminded her.

  “Yes, with your sons.” Humiliation beat aside all other feelings. She went around the table, heading for the door. There she stopped and looked back at him.

  “I answered your questions. Truthfully, too. Now, you answer mine. How long since your wife died? Have you taken a woman to your bed?”

  “I have had no bed since she died. And no need to bury myself in a woman’s heated softness.”

  Sarah wanted to push, just a little bit further. She prided herself on a lack of fear, of being able to cope with just about anything. He stood watching her, much the way he had the night before in the hallway. There was enough distance between them that should have made her feel safe. But safe wasn’t what she felt.

  She thought he could spring across to her in moments.

  But even that didn’t stop her.

  “And now, Rio Santee? Have you a need now?”

  “Are you hungry enough to hear the answer?” he whispered, his voice low and insinuating. “The truth or a lie. It is your choice.”

  Sarah stared at him. She felt as if some wild stranger had taken over her body. Then common sense reasserted itself. She could feel shocked color flood her face. She jerked around and ran to escape him.

  Chapter Nine

  For Sarah there was no real escape from Rio. Not

  later when he joined his sons for supper, or while he sat in the kitchen as she cleaned up.

  Not even after she helped settle the boys for sleep in the parlor and retreated upstairs to her bedroom.

  She wasted no more time thinking about it, for she couldn’t order him from the house. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if anything happened to him or his sons. The weather was enough threat to make that possible, but there were men hunting them. Men who had killed, and likely would try to kill again.

  The hot-water she had brought up earlier had cooled to a comfortable warmth for washing. She might be alone, but she couldn’t chase Rio Santee from her thoughts. Couldn’t rid herself of the taste of his warm mouth against her own.

  What was wrong with her?

  The man still grieved for his dead wife. One’s love. That’s what he called her. She was supposed to be mourning her husband.

  Damn him!

  He had driven her to lie to him.

  And taunt him.

  Where had that come from?

  Sarah looked up then, the washcloth pressed against her belly. She bared her thoughts as her body was bared.

  With a cry she threw the cloth into the washbowl and turned away from her reflection. She slipped into a flannel nightgown, then her robe.

  She had not wanted him to stop kissing her, she thought with dismay.

  Why? Why this man? Why now when everything was falling into place for her? Contentment, if not happiness, was hers.

  She paced the small confine of her room, her arms wrapped around her waist.

  It was need. Loneliness and need. She was no better than Mary or Catherine. She had lied to them. Lied every time she told them she had no desire, no need to have a man share her bed, her body and her thoughts, and her dreams.

  Oh, Lord.

  But nothing really happened. Just a kiss.

  He’d wanted to prove she was no better than those other curious women…

  No! She could not lie to herself.

  Maybe at the end his words had been calculated to make her believe that, but not at first. Not when he had stroked her cheek, not when he feathered his lips over her face, not when his lips covered her own.

  Gentleness. So unexpected from a man like Rio.

  Hunger. So unexpected from herself.

  She was so alone. All she could do was to avoid temptation. She was good at that. She had made herself be. Strong. Guarded. Protective of herself in order to survive.

  The cold forced an end to her restless pacing. She climbed into bed and snuggled deep beneath the covers. She closed her eyes, tired of thinking.

  Rain dripped from the eaves, wind whistled through the cottonwoods near the house.

  “Let the storm continue,” she prayed. “Let every track they left be wiped clean. Let them be safe.”

  And she drifted into sleep, wondering why her prayer was for them to stay and not go. What had happened to the need to protect herself?

  Rio lay with his head cradled on his folded arms, staring up at the ceiling. He’d counted to thirty, then heard the floorboard creak above him.

  Her room.

  It appeared the widow could no more find her way to sleep than he could.

  The fire was banked for the night. He had refused her offer to sleep upstairs, and so had his sons.

  Gabriel had abandoned his favorite sprawling position to sleep cuddled at his side. He could not seem to get close enough, for he stirred in his sleep, his small body pushing against his father’s.

  Lucas couldn’t make his bed any farther and still have the warmth of the fire. The boy blamed him still. It showed in every sullen word, every damning look.

  He wrestled for a moment with the temptation to get up, but he realized almost as soon as the thought occurred to him that he couldn’t do that.

  She might hear him moving around.

  She might even come down those stairs.

  They’d be alone again.

  Only you, trickster Coyote, could have directed my steps here.

  Only you could put such temptation in my path.

  “But I canno
t blame you for the lies I spoke to her.”

  He lay there listening to the rain, and the wind and the occasional snap of green sap licked by fire.

  And Rio listened for the whisper of ghosts.

  She came to him in the night, giving him no peace while her death lay unrevenged.

  She, who had brought peace to his soul and joy to his heart.

  A quiet sigh escaped his lips. He missed her so. She had left behind an empty place inside him that would never be filled.

  He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep. The floorboard had ceased its creaking. Perhaps the widow, too, had given up her restless thoughts.

  Would that he could.

  But he was too filled with sorrow. It was a living thing, this empty darkness that never left him.

  And then the image of Sarah’s face swam against his eyelids.

  And he knew he lied to himself.

  There had been no sorrow when he gazed at her. None when he reached out and touched the softness of her skin. None when desire to taste her mouth won over his promise not to touch her.

  How long, she had asked.

  Too long. Much too long since he’d lost himself in an eagle’s soaring flight, in the heat and the hunger to become one.

  From tormented memory came his beloved wife’s face. A forbidden thing to think of, to speak of, to wish to see. But he heard again the words of their marriage blessing.

  Now you will feel no rain, for each of you will be shelter for the other.

  Two made into one.

  Now you will feel no cold, for each of you will be warmth to the other.

  Hands clasped, holding tight.

  Now there will be no more loneliness, for each of you will be companion to the other.

  Eyes locked, gazing deep into hearts, into souls.

  Now you are two bodies, but there is only one life before you.

  There was need, and promises, and love…waiting…just waiting…

  Go now to your dwelling place to enter into the days of your togetherness.

  And the waiting was over. Passion waited yet, and joy. Such incredible joy to join as one.

  And may your days be good and long upon the earth.

  But his good days had ended. Too soon. Much too soon night had come.

  And if he continued to walk this path, his days would not long be on this earth.

  And what of your sons? Who will guide the path they are to walk? Who will teach them the ways of the People? Who will teach them to survive where white men rule?

  And the widow? What is to become of Sarah?

  She is strong.

  But what if they come here looking for you?

  Would you see her beaten? Bleeding? Broken? Cast down like that ravening pack’s leavings?

  She is a white woman! They would not dare to touch her!

  And who will stop them? You have brought this trouble to her home. You will be less than a man to leave her.

  And if I stay and they come here? How much of a man will I be if I cannot protect her?

  Will you leave her rifle? Will you take it to save yourself and your sons? There is no other weapon. You have searched twice now and found no other.

  Leave me! Leave me be!

  He arose in a controlled rush, snatched hold of his shirt and almost ran through the darkened hall into the kitchen and out into the night.

  Upstairs, Sarah sat up. She heard him leave the house. There was no doubt it had been Rio.

  What demons refused him sleep and drove him from the house?

  She thought about going after him. Thought about it, then decided against it.

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. There was too much at risk.

  Heartache, for one.

  But she dreamed the warning had come too late.

  Sullen-eyed clouds hung over most of the morning and by afternoon released torrential rains on a land drowning in water.

  Rio worked all morning widening the trench he had begun around the house. Now he worked to dig one around the barn. The board path lay under inches of muddy water.

  Sarah too had put restless energy to work. The horses couldn’t be let out. No, she had refused to let them out, but they also showed signs of temper from their enforced confinement. She had walked each one up and down the center aisle of the barn until her legs threatened to give way. Two of the mares were in foal, and she worried about them.

  Both Gabriel and Lucas had helped her muck out the stalls. Getting rid of the soiled bedding proved to tax whatever patience she had left. The wheelbarrow became mired in the mud. After the second time she had given up using it, and hauled it out shovelful by shovelful.

  She worried about her few head of cattle, wishing she could saddle up and ride out. A futile wish.

  Since clothing was a problem the boys complied with her request that they stay inside. But the dreary day and lack of something to do left them bored and restless.

  She had no toys or games, but there was the trunkful of books that Greg had left behind. Sarah joined them in the parlor.

  Lucas stood by the front window. One finger repetitiously followed the track of raindrops on the glass. Gabriel lay on his stomach before the fire, arms bent at the elbow, hands scrunched beneath his jaw to prop his head. Every now and then he released a sigh, and Sarah felt for him.

  “I know it’s hard having nothing to do,” she said. “I’m sure at the mission school you had lessons and play time to keep busy.”

  Lucas gave her a sullen look over his shoulder and went back to watching the raindrops. Gabriel rolled over, hands now cradling his head.

  “I can add.”

  “Would you like to do sums?” she asked with forced cheerfulness.

  “Will you yell if I do it wrong?”

  “No, Gabriel. I—”

  “If you had paper and charcoal, Lucas could draw for us.”

  Sarah didn’t know why the notion that Lucas liked to sketch struck her as odd. She glanced at him just in time to catch the brief longing visible at his brother’s request, then he turned away.

  “Paper?” she murmured more to herself. All she had was the small record book used to keep track of chore lists and expenses.

  “You should not ask,” Lucas said to Gabriel.

  “No. No, it’s all right I don’t have any white paper, but I do have…” Sarah broke off as she hurried from the room.

  “She’ll find something. You’ll see. Then you will be happy, Lucas.”

  “And what will you do, little brother?”

  “I will ask her to tell me stories. I like her stories. Better than the ones the mission ladies told us. I don’t want to be a good Christian. It is too hard to give up all the things I like. Mostly,” he added in a whisper, “I didn’t like giving up being with Father.”

  Sarah paused just before the doorway. She heard the last. She wondered who would tell her why the boys had been taken away from him. But questions could wait.

  She went directly to Lucas. “We cut open these Union Paper Company bags. They’re something new our shopkeepers in town have begun using. We can get charcoal from the fire. Or you can use my pencil.”

  She practically shoved the things into the boy’s hands when he made no move to take them. With a bright smile, she turned to Gabriel.

  “While Lucas draws, would you like me to read you a story?”

  “Tell me one.”

  Sarah joined him on the floor. “I think I told you most of the ones that I know.”

  “Tell me again.”

  She couldn’t resist his smile. This youngest child of Rio’s had a sunny nature. And when he smiled, his eyes reflected its warmth. She sat with her back resting against the leg of the settee and within minutes Gabriel cuddled by her side. She resisted the urge to see what Lucas was doing and went on with her storytelling.

  One story led to two, and by the time she finished the third, Gabriel was restless. She was about to suggest milk and cookies in the kitchen when he jumped up.
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  “I want to see, Lucas.”

  Sarah added her own plea. Gabriel reached him first, snatching the brown paper from his hand.

  “Give it back, little brother.”

  Gabriel shoved it behind his back, skipping out of his brother’s reach. Lucas started after him.

  “Gabriel, if Lucas doesn’t want to share his drawing that’s his choice. Give it back to him, please.”

  “He never shares them. I want to see it.” Gabriel walked closer to Sarah and the fire.

  Sarah’s curiosity got the better of her. She leaned toward the younger boy to see the drawing. Whatever she expected, it wasn’t to see a rendering of herself.

  “Lucas,” she whispered as Gabriel handed over the rough-feeling paper. “You flatter me.”

  “You do not like it.”

  “No. No, that’s not true. I’ve never had anyone sketch me. I don’t even have a tintype. But this, oh, Lucas, you are a talented artist. You should be studying. I never did well with the lessons I had, but my friend Catherine was very good.”

  She looked over at Lucas. “As good as she was, you’re better. Much better.”

  “I draw what I see,” he said with a defiant air.

  “Then you saw me with very kind eyes, Lucas,” Sarah replied softly. She traced the image of her face with one finger. He had captured strength in the bone structure, but there was a soft loveliness in the eyes. Was this truly as she appeared? She could not ask him. His pride was as prickly as a barrel cactus.

  “May I keep this?” she asked.

  “Keep what?” Rio demanded, entering the room with an armload of firewood.

  Gabriel gave no one time to answer. Once more he snatched the drawing and ran with it to his father.

  “Look! Look at what Lucas made. He’s mad at me again. Mad because I showed it to the lady.”

  Rio dumped the wood by the fire. He wiped his hand down the side of his pants before he looked at the drawing.

  He studied for so long that Sarah grew breathless waiting to hear his praise. She noted that she didn’t wait alone. His oldest son watched him with a look of raw hunger for approval. She had to fight to keep still. She wanted to stand by the boy with her arm around him and reaffirm her pleasure in his work.

  Some dark, swirling emotion filled Rio’s gaze. His eyes went from the drawing to his son, then settled on Sarah.