by Sharon Ihle
"Please do not send me away." If it would have done any good, Lacey would have thrown herself down on her knees. Relying instead on the fabricated story she and Kate had agreed on to explain both their former lives and any accidental references Lacey might make regarding St. Josephine's, she said, "With me fresh from the hospital and all, maybe I could be of some help when her time comes."
"You're a trained nurse?"
Careful not to tell a boldfaced lie, Lacey merely hinted at her previous calling. "I worked right alongside Nurse Quinlin for a good long time." And she had, helping out with the newly admitted children by reading stories to them. "May I stay with you, please?"
Just then, with a considerable amount of effort and a deep, miserable groan, again Taffy took to her feet. That was enough for Hawke to make up his mind. Glancing briefly toward the spyhole he'd drilled directly above each foaling stall, he shrugged slightly, then turned his attention back to Lacey. "All right. You can stay, but you've got to do exactly what I tell you."
"Aye, sir!" She could hardly contain her excitement. "And I'll not be in your way 'tall."
"We'll see." Grumbling to himself, Hawke spun around and walked back over to his mare.
Watching as he fit the halter over the head of the distressed animal, Lacey quietly let herself inside the stall. Taffy, she noticed, seemed to be having difficulty breathing and her engorged sides were heaving in a most uncomfortable-looking manner. After a moment, and speaking in a more gentle, caring voice than she'd ever heard him use, Hawke gave her his first instruction.
"Come here; Lacey. I want you to hold Taffy just like this."
Quicker than a hare, she was at his side. Then, following his lead, she slipped her hand between the halter and the horse's huge round cheek, and clamped her fingers tightly around the leather straps.
"Hold her still if you can and talk to her in the most gentle way imaginable." Dragging his hand across her damp coat, Hawke slowly walked alongside Taffy's heaving body until he'd reached her hindquarters. Then he issued a few more instructions. "Make her feel like she can trust you and that everything is going to be all right. I'm going to examine her now, and I don't want her getting upset or excited. Understand?"
Watching Hawke with one eye and the mare with the other, Lacey said, "Aye, and she'll not be having a worry from this nurse. 'Tis Kathleen Lacey O'Carroll come to save you from the trouble of bringing your babe into the world, lass. 'Twill be over before you know it." Wincing as she saw Hawke's arm disappear inside the horse, Lacey went on with her babble, segueing into an old Irish lullaby.
His examination complete, Hawke cursed under his breath as he said to Lacey, "Christ almighty, no wonder she's having so much trouble. One of the foal's legs is caught behind her pelvic bone. How's she doing up there?"
Staying in tune with the lullaby, Lacey sang her answer. "The lass's eyes are closed and her bottom lip is hanging down. I do believe the poor dear has fallen asleep. Imagine dozing whilst I've been feedin' her up with false music."
Hawke knew better than that, but he kept the information to himself; Taffy was exhausted, not sleeping, and probably dying to boot. If he was going to save either of them he had to dislodge the foal immediately, even if it meant breaking its leg. Slipping his hand back inside the birth canal, he gave Lacey another order. "What I've got to do now will hurt her a little and she might bolt, so don't stand directly in front of her. Keep singing the way you are, and whatever you do, don't cry out or startle her."
"Do not give another thought to me or the lassie," she sang in a gay Irish lilt, even though the force of Hawke's manipulations caused the mare to wobble forward, nearly falling. Her eyes wide with both fright and fascination as she watched the struggle to bring the foal into the world, Lacey went on singing, this time tossing in a few sayings in the middle of the lullaby.
"Oh, the south wind is soft and mild; a good wind for the seeds, but the north wind is cold, bone-chilling in your Wyoming. 'Tis a good thing, this wind, for when it blows, the darlin' wee horse puppies are born."
With a dull "pop" followed by a loud sucking sound, the foal's leg finally cleared the pelvic bone, allowing the animal to move along the birth canal and break through the birth sack with its head. With a final contraction, the foal shot none too gracefully into its owner's waiting arms. Staggering under the newborn's weight for a moment, Hawke fell to his knees and eased the slippery animal down into the straw. After quickly cleaning the filly's mouth and nostrils, then making certain that it could breathe easily on its own, he jumped to his feet and checked his mare.
"How's she doing?" Hawke asked Lacey as he helped Taffy discharge the afterbirth. "Eyes open yet?"
It took her a moment to answer, and when she did, Lacey was no longer singing or making nonsensical rhymes. She was astounded by the sight of the foal and its fierce struggles to rise up from the bedding straw, amazed by all she'd witnessed in these few short moments. She'd just taken part in God's most glorious miracle.
Tears spilled down from her eyes as Lacey pressed her own cheek against Taffy's, hugged her and said, "The lass is trying. She's a wee bit tired right now but I can feel that she's trying her best to come 'round."
Hawke heard the warble in her voice, and at first, thought she might be too nervous or upset to remain in the stall. Then he glanced up and saw that she'd wrapped her arms around the mare's neck, and that Taffy had taken her up on the offer by resting her weary head on Lacey's delicate shoulder. Both of their eyes were closed in quiet tranquility.
No longer concerned about Taffy's reactions to a stranger's presence in her stall, Hawke moved up beside Lacey and lightly tapped her on the back. When those blue eyes flashed open, he saw such a warm serenity and keen sense of wonder in them he almost took her into his arms to celebrate the success of the difficult birth. Hawke managed to restrain himself, but did let her know how grateful he was for her help.
"Thanks for keeping Taffy so calm. She trusts you now you know." Lacey glanced up at him meeting his gaze, then favored him with a smile that brought the golden sparkle to the surface of her clear blue eyes. Startled by their continued impact on him, Hawke looked away and had to clear his throat before he could speak again. "Will you be all right if I leave you alone with these two for a minute? I've got to mix up some gruel for Taffy, and get some doctoring supplies so I can finish up with her and the foal."
Glancing at the mare, Lacey impulsively kissed the top of the animal's nose. "We'll be just dandy. There's no need for the angels to be laying a soft bed for this lass. She'll be runnin' and snortin' 'fore you know it."
Although she was obviously new with horses, her confidence, as well as Taffy's, was enough to reassure him that he could go about his business. "I won't be long. Just call me if she tries to lay down or does anything that doesn't seem right to you."
After Hawke let himself out of the stall, he took another look over the door at his best brood mare and the curious woman beside her. She'd surprised him, this Irish miss, not just over her willingness to learn, but because of her natural abilities with the horse. That in itself was almost a good enough reason to consider keeping her on, but why would a woman like that consider life with a man like him? he wondered again. What the hell was wrong with her?
* * *
Once they finished drying the little black filly with one of the blankets, then made certain that Taffy had recuperated enough to take an interest in her foal and begin nursing her, Hawke and his new assistant returned to the house for their very late breakfast. There they discovered that Lacey had left the pan which contained the meal too close to the burner. Not only were the bottoms of the biscuits burned black, but the ham was dried out, and the towel Lacey had used to cover the pan was scorched at the edges. Left unattended much longer, and the material might very well have burst into flames, catching the curtains afire and putting the entire house in jeopardy.
Hawke said nothing to her about the near disaster or the ruined breakfast. He couldn't, not on the
heels of what she'd done in the barn. What he did do after fetching her a leather thong for her hair, was set her down on one of his mahogany chairs, pour two cups of coffee, and deposit the pan of dried-up food at the center of the table.
Taking the chair opposite her, he gave her a plate and utensils. "Believe if or not," he said, trying to make her feel at ease, "I've been forced to eat food I burned a lot worse than this. I think breakfast can be salvaged." To demonstrate, Hawke chipped the top portion of three biscuits away from their moorings, stabbed a slab of ham, and dropped it all on his plate. After smearing a biscuit with a thick pat of butter, he popped it in his mouth and groaned with satisfaction.
Giving him a shy smile as she finished tying her hair back the way he did—at the nape of her neck—Lacey sawed the tops off a couple of biscuits and began to munch on them. They tasted a little like charcoal and had the consistency of a dirt pie, but grateful that he was taking it so well, she pretended to enjoy the scorched meal.
Hawke quickly dispatched the rest of the food on his plate, then washed it all down with his coffee. Watching her as she delicately picked at her ham, he said, "I've been thinking about a name for the new filly. I thought I might even name her after you."
Taken completely by surprise, Lacey choked on a piece of biscuit. After a swallow of coffee and the shudder the foul drink always sent through her, she said, "'Twould be a grand honor your naming the babe after me. Were you thinking of Kathleen or Lacey?"
He shrugged. "I'd forgotten about your other name, but I think Lacey sounds nice and it's different, too. Does it mean something special in Ireland?"
"'Tis a surname, my mother's actually. Most folks do not use it the way I do, but at the hospital, there were a lot of Kathleens. I took the name Lacey to avoid confusion." Which reminded her of that same problem here. "I'm grandly flattered to know you're considerin' naming the babe after me, but might it be a wee bit confusing once we're wed—you know, with two Laceys and all?"
Hawke stared at her a moment, his heart beating like a stampede. Wed, as in his... wife? He'd been so intent on doing Caleb a favor by bringing the Irish woman to his ranch, that Hawke had practically forgotten the reason he was "testing" Lacey. Now that she'd brought the subject up, he decided it was about time he set her straight.
"You can't be serious about marrying me."
Surprised by the blunt statement, it took Lacey a moment to respond. "Of course, I am. Why else would I be here?"
"If you mean here in Wyoming, I suppose because you traveled to America with Miss Quinlin looking for a husband. I understand that, I guess, but what I don't understand is why you'd consider me." He stretched his forearms out on the table, exposing his skin up past his wrists. "Respectable young women don't go around trying to attract half-breeds like me, much less think of catching one as a husband. Are you blind, or haven't you bothered to take a good hard look at me?"
She gulped. Of course she'd taken many hard looks at the man, and each time she did, she felt herself slipping under a new kind of spell, bewitched. Even now as he stared at her from across the table, the intensity of those silvery green eyes contrasting against his smooth cinnamon skin and rich sable hair, she felt the pull of something new and wonderful. In fact, in many ways, and especially after what had occurred in the barn, Lacey almost felt as if she were already a part of Hawke and his ranch.
"Aye," she finally murmured. "I see you and think you're a very pleasant-looking man, but I do not know what you mean by half-breed. Is it something to do with your kin?"
"To put it mildly, yes." Not sure whether she was serious or teasing him a little, he uttered a short, harsh laugh. "My mother was the daughter of an army captain at Ft. Laramie, and my father was an Arapaho scout for the troops. That makes me what we call here in America, a half-breed. Now do you understand?"
"Only where you got your nice dark skin—from the Indian side of you, I would guess. I do not see what this has to do with our getting married, though."
Hawke leaned back in his chair and shook his head. He'd never met anyone without prejudice of some kind, and he had a hell of a time believing that he'd met such a person now. Miss O'Carroll wanted something from him—what he didn't know—but he didn't believe for a minute that something was a lifetime tied to a half-breed. Testing her further, he told her a little more about his background.
"I'm not only part Arapaho, but a bastard." Her eyes flashed with shock or surprise at this news. So there was a little prejudice in her soul, after all. "My parents were never married, not that my mother would have considered living with a savage like my father, and as you might imagine, my birth wasn't exactly cause for celebration. You still so sure I'm the kind of man you're looking for in a husband?"
Lacey did not care for his defensive attitude or his tone, even though what Hawke had shared about himself didn't matter to her one way or another. Was his rancor caused by embarrassment, or was the just trying to chase her off? Too new at dealing with folks in the world "outside" to be sure of her instincts, Lacey decided to ignore the subject of his heritage altogether and work instead on getting their earlier sense of togetherness back. To do that, she thought a return to the subject which had brought them together in the first place would work best; the horses.
"All this idle chatter isn't getting that wee filly named. How would you like to call her, Colleen dhas? 'Tis a fine Irish name which means pretty girl."
The change of subject told Hawke that any further discussion about a marriage between them was over. Maybe the Irish miss understood prejudice better than he thought. "I've got a better idea," he said, not as relieved as he thought he'd be. "Why don't I call the foal, Irish?"
"Faith, and I would consider that a grand honor!"
"You helped bring the filly safely into the world. It's the least I can do."
"Irish." Lacey repeated the name, then laughed. "I do not know if that be such a good idea after all—the lass is black as the devil's heart. It might be bad luck to name a black horse after my homeland, Erin."
Her gentle laughter was as lyrical as the song she'd sung to Taffy, and the sound warmed him far more than Hawke would admit to himself. Hardening himself against that feeling, he said, "She won't be black for long. She'll start to dapple out like her father in less than a year."
"Dapple out? I do not know the meaning of this."
"She'll begin to turn gray with white spots—dapples, I guess—and her mane and tail will turn silver. The older she gets, the lighter gray she'll turn. I'll introduce you to her sire later and you'll see what I mean. I named him Phantom, because he's so hard to see on a foggy morning."
"Aye, and I think I'm already understandin' what you're sayin." Lacey paused, picturing the little filly all grown up. "I like the name, I do. It means she'll soon be resembling a fine Irish mist."
Hawke raised his coffee cup to her. "That sounds even better. Irish Mist it is then, in your honor."
* * *
For the next couple of hours, Lacey stuck close to Hawke helping him in any way she could. As most of his business was conducted in the barn around the new mother and her babe, the work was neither difficult nor beyond her limited capabilities. Hawke drove her back to Three Elk Ranch after that, and an exhausted Lacey barely kept her eyes open long enough to help Kate prepare another batch of biscuits.
The following morning when Hawke came back to retrieve her, again Lacey carried her basket of rags and towels, and as before they concealed the previously baked batch of biscuits. This time, the plan worked beautifully. Hawke, who'd been sullen since their discussion about his heritage, was mightily impressed with her talents in the kitchen and breakfast was a complete success. She spent that day trying to make the living room and kitchen of Hawke's home a little more presentable, mainly by using most of her time cleaning the mud and dirt off the floor. If she hadn't learned another thing during her life at the hospital, she had learned how to scrub floors.
The next morning when she awakened, every muscle in
Lacey's body ached, and it was all she could do just to crawl off of her lumpy excuse for a bed. But, armed again with her basket of goodies, she managed the trip back to Winterhawke Ranch, and even began to feel a little better by the time they arrived.
As they stepped into the kitchen, Lacey set her basket on the counter and asked, "Will you be wantin' ham with your biscuits again, then?" She was already headed for the back door and the porch where the icebox was kept, when Hawke's answer stopped her in her tracks.
"Not today." He rubbed his belly. "I ate so many of your biscuits yesterday—every last one of them by the time I turned in last night, in fact—that I can't face them again this morning."
She whirled around and stared at him in shock. "Oh, but they do not cause me a moment's trouble. I do not mind making them, really."
"Thanks for the offer, but I churned butter last night and have some nice fresh buttermilk out in the icebox. I'd love some flapjacks made out of it."
"Flapjacks?" she repeated, her heart in her throat. "I ne'er heard of such things."
Hawke took the coffeepot from its warming burner and poured himself a cup. "Maybe you know them as pancakes."
"Aye, pancakes, I do know," she said without thinking.
Donning his hat, Hawke started for the door. "Let me know when they're ready. I'll be doing chores in the barn."
She couldn't think fast enough to come up with a reason to stop him, or an excuse as to why she couldn't prepare the breakfast he wanted. Lacey just stood there in terrible shock as Hawke strode on out to the porch, then banged his way through the screen door.
Pancakes! How was she to work her way out of this one? What in all that's holy did a person mix together to come up with the skinny little cakes? Once the shock of what she must do left her system, Lacey took a large mixing bowl down off the shelf and made her first real attempt ever at the art of cooking.
An hour and several aborted recipes later, she settled on a blend of flour, milk, and salt, then, remembering how much she liked the sweet flavor of the pancakes at the hospital, added a cup of sugar and a good measure of molasses. Lacey whipped and whipped the batter, smoothing it until the muscles in her arms cried out with pain before she decided it was silky enough to be the right consistency.
