When the biscuits were done, she made a plate for Deacon, filled two tin mugs with hot coffee, and carried them upstairs on a tray.
The old cowboy sat with his legs stretched out, arms folded, and head down, mustache fluttering with each snore. She nearly laughed, but instead backed from the doorway and loudly cleared her throat, entering as he shuffled and sputtered.
“That smells mighty good, ma’am.” His standard comment at every meal.
She set the tray on the bureau and handed Deacon his plate and cup.
“Ain’t you eatin’?”
“Coffee is what I need right now.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, about to give her a cowboy comeuppance, but she cut him off. “I’d really prefer you called me Mae Ann. Every time you say ‘ma’am,’ I feel like you’re talking to my mother.”
He chortled and lifted the coffee to his mouth for a quick sip. “Just seems proper, you bein’ the missus and all.”
Proper? If he only knew how improper the whole situation was. She walked around to the other side of the bed, grateful that he didn’t know. “Thank you for milking the cow.”
He nodded, his mouth full of biscuit and bacon.
“If we plan a schedule for chores, one of us can always be with him.” She risked sitting on the edge of the tick and succeeded in not tipping Cade to the floor. “I’ll not leave him unattended.”
Deacon snorted and washed his mouthful down with more coffee. “Ain’t it a fact? He’d roll hisself down them stairs if he thought he could get away with it.”
She shuddered. “My thoughts exactly.”
Deacon sopped his egg yolk with a biscuit and finished off his coffee. “Let me take the first day watch since the herd’s faring well and most of the calves have dropped. You take the second. We’ll switch off until night, when I’m sure Cade’d rather have his wife with him than the likes of me.”
Heat prickled from her chest into her neck, and she prayed Deacon wouldn’t notice her unbecoming blush. “That’s a wonderful idea. I’ll put on a stew so we can serve ourselves between watches, as you call them.”
As soon as Deacon finished, she stood to gather his dishes, a bit light-headed. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s dinner, and the image of herself tumbling down the stairs convinced her that at least a biscuit was in order.
Deacon leaned over Cade and held a finger beneath his nose, frowning. “You got a hand glass?”
“I did, but …” It had gone the way of her money and reticule. Another thing she’d not get into now, but she knew why Deacon asked. Looking about the room, she settled on the chest of drawers. “I’ll see if I can find one.”
Like an interloper, she opened the top drawer and removed a beautifully carved wooden box. She lifted the lid to find a cluttered collection of things a woman would value, topped by a lovely gold ring, Cade’s mother’s wedding band, no doubt. She slid it onto a finger and pushed other items aside in her search for a small mirror. Finding none, she returned the ring, set the lid, and placed the box in the drawer.
The second drawer contained a woman’s undergarments, an old sachet—its fragrance long spent—and at the back, a matching porcelain-backed brush and mirror set with hand-painted violets in lavender hues. Her fingers brushed across the lovely artwork, so delicate and intricately detailed. Cade’s mother must have been a fine lady to have had such accessories. Or dearly loved by her husband. Perhaps he’d given it to her as a wedding gift.
Whisking away the idle fantasy, she returned the brush and gave Deacon the mirror, which he held beneath Cade’s nose until the glass fogged. Deacon huffed out his satisfaction and laid the mirror on the side table. Mae Ann preferred her method of checking Cade’s breathing.
By late afternoon, there had been no change. No fever, thank the Lord, but no response either. The aroma of a savory stew meandered up the stairs and into the room, teasing Mae Ann’s empty stomach. The morning’s hastily eaten biscuit was a mere memory. She dashed to the kitchen for a bowl and on her way back grabbed the padded footstool from her chair by the hearth—a much more comfortable way to spend the night against the tick rather than growing stiff on the floor or in that unforgiving chair.
When daylight followed the sun over the western range, she trimmed the nearest lamp, wrapped herself in a quilt from the bed across the hall, and settled onto the footstool. Cade’s scent lingered on the quilt, and she pressed it against her face to catch her welling grief. If only he wanted her to stay. Readjusting herself, she laid her arm alongside his to cushion her head. If he stirred, she would feel his movement and waken.
And if he woke out of his mind and frantic like the man from the rooming house, she was prepared to physically restrain him.
As if she could.
~
Cade’s head pounded. The whole herd stampeded through it, and his right shoulder throbbed. Frowning, he opened his eyes and grimaced against the pain. His left arm lay pinned against something soft and unfamiliar, and he pulled it free to rub the back of his head. The stampede rounded anew, striking hard where his fingers pressed. Where was he?
A pale rectangle hung to his right like the window in his bedroom, but he didn’t go in there anymore because … he wasn’t sure.
He blinked several times, trying to focus. The warm weight he’d felt earlier meant he wasn’t lying next to a fallen tree for protection from the cattle. The ground beneath him was also soft. He felt for his neckerchief to cover his mouth and nose and found it gone—as well as his shirt.
The shock drove him upright, and swirling pain shoved him back down.
“Cade,” a woman’s urgent tone whispered at his ear. “Cade, can you hear me?”
The herd split in two, circled around his head on both sides, and joined up again in the middle. He pressed a hand against his forehead, but it did no good. He couldn’t catch the leader to turn them.
An arm slipped under his neck, and a cold spoon touched his lips, tipping liquid between them. He coughed, spooked the cattle, and sent them crashing back the way they had come. Another spoon against his lips and he knocked it away, hearing it clatter. Where was he that the ground was first soft, then hard?
The woman’s gentle tone resumed. “This will help the pain, Cade. Please take it. The doctor left it.”
Again the arm, the spoon, the liquor-like substance. Doctor? Too weak to resist, he swallowed the gall and slumped against the pillow. That was it. A pillow. He cut a glance at the gray light and found it brighter. It was a window. His window.
Fingers combed through his hair, and he caught the wrist in a fierce grip. Welling dark eyes looked down at him above a quivering smile, and loose hair fell against a familiar cheek. He loosened his hold. “Mae Ann?”
Her full smile pushed a tear over her lashes and she swiped at it. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes!”
She leaned in and kissed his temple, and the sweetness of her lips against his skin cooled the throbbing. He caught her against him with his good arm and held her close until the sound of spurs on hardwood pulled her from him.
“Well, that’s just about the pertiest sight I ever did see.” Deacon clomped to the bed, sending maverick steers running through Cade’s skull with every stomp of his boots.
Mae Ann blushed and backed away. He’d rather look at her than Deacon’s bushy mug.
The man hooked his thumbs in his belt and gave Cade a smooth once-over as if figuring his price for market. “Fair to middlin’, I’d say. How do you feel with that knot on your noggin?”
“Don’t make me laugh, old man. It hurts.”
“Guess that tells me what I need to know.” He reached for a small bottle next to the bed and held it at arm’s length to read the label. “You had any of this yet?”
“Two spoons,” Mae Ann said. “Most of two spoons.”
Deacon cocked a bristly brow. “Most?”
A smile stole across her lovely face. “He wasn’t exactly cooperative about his medicine.”
Deacon s
norted. “I can ear him down for you if you want.”
She laughed outright and the music washed through Cade’s soul like a summer stream, clear and fresh, but he met his foreman’s threat with a dare of his own. “I’d like to see you try it.”
Mae Ann stepped between them, her skirt brushing the tick. “Another time. No roughhousing until Dr. Weaver says it’s safe, which means bed-rest all today and tomorrow until he returns.”
“How long have I been here?” The cattle slowed and milled in a circle, and Cade’s eyelids grew heavy. “What happened?”
“You recollect climbin’ to the loft?”
Cade pulled at his memories, but they churned with the herd, spinning just out of his reach. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “The loft? Yeah, I think so. Went up there to think. I think.”
Deacon huffed. “That’ll teach ya to overtax your brain box.”
Spurs sang out the door and down the stairs, and all Cade wanted was to cradle Mae Ann against his chest again and sleep.
~
Thank you, Lord—thank you. Mae Ann’s silent offering winged from her heart on two levels—that Cade lived, and that the laudanum sent him back to sleep. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about him trying to get out of bed for a few short hours.
Deacon returned after milking the cow, smelling of animal hide and the manure that edged his boots. She’d not chide him, so grateful she was for his help and Cade’s waking. Instead, she fried him a steak and took it upstairs with a cup of broth in case Cade woke on his watch.
She hadn’t washed or changed clothes in two days, so while Deacon was busy with breakfast, she gathered what she needed and carried warm water to Cade’s room. It would now be her room, as it should have been from the beginning. A long soak in the tub downstairs was what she craved, but such luxury could wait. Revived by her morning ablutions and fresh clothing, she braided her hair and hurried downstairs to do as much as possible in what little time she had.
Strong coffee braced her as she paused at the window, and it set her racing mind into a more reasonable pattern of thought. Cade’s accident gave her a brief reprieve from his intent to ship her off. It also got him off his feet and out of the thick of things, and she intended to make the most of it. His arm would no doubt be in a sling for some time, and he could use her help more than ever.
After adding to the stew pot, she headed for the hen house. Cricket and Ginger were in the near corral, and the sight of them stopped her in her tracks. The rose clipping. She’d forgotten all about it, and it had been how long since Travine Price slid the shoot into a raw potato and wrapped it in a wet napkin?
She ran to the tack room, uncertain which saddlebag she’d carried that day, so she went through each one until she found the bundle. The napkin had dried, but the little stem remained firm and green—not wilted or dry—just as Travine promised. Mae Ann held it against her heart, awash with more thanksgiving. This was the perfect opportunity to plant it.
And she’d not tell Cade. If it rooted and thrived, as she prayed it would, he’d find it someday and perhaps count it a blessing. Perhaps guess that she had planted it and think well of her.
She left the egg basket in the kitchen and hurried out the back door with a small pail of water and a trowel. As if sensing her intentions, Cougar ran ahead of her across the open field toward the small rise. She marveled at her strength of limb and lung, for she would not have been able to hike so hurriedly when she first arrived. Colorado had been good for her, with its clean air and food for the soul. She had flourished, and she believed the rose would do so as well.
Billowy clouds hung against the sky like freshly washed petticoats, adding to a sense of new beginnings. A small picket framed the matching plots, and she easily stepped over onto revered ground and knelt between the crosses. The bottom of the tree had been limbed, and morning sun slanted in, warming the earth.
She loosened the soil, planted the cutting—potato and all as Travine had directed—and patted the dirt around it. A small thorn snagged her finger, and she jerked her hand away as a red bead formed at the first knuckle. She sucked it between her teeth and with her other hand, pushed the soil into a shallow bowl. She pressed her fingers in as if investing herself in a family she’d almost become a part of. Then she emptied the pail around the cutting and watched the dirt drink it in.
Sitting back on her heels, she drew a deep breath. A breeze soughed through the big pine, and she looked up into its spreading arms, a protective canopy from the ravages of summer’s heat and winter’s blasts. No wonder Cade had picked this spot.
I made a vow before God and man that I would protect you.
The words snagged her heart and drew blood as quickly as the thorn had from her finger.
It was in Cade’s very nature to be protective, and everything he had done on her behalf stood as proof. From giving her his sister’s hat and gloves and boots, to teaching her to ride and begrudging her solitary visit to the Price farm. Why couldn’t he see that he had indeed kept his vow?
She stood and brushed off her skirt, taking in the ranch buildings below and the vast grasslands that spread in every direction like the sea around an island. A cloud passed before the sun, casting the hill in shadow, and a cool wind licked the back of her neck. With a sudden sense of premonition, she looked north toward poor Henry’s even poorer farm, and movement drew her eye to a distant rise. She squinted, trying to make out the object, whether man or beast or both. The fine hairs on her neck rose as she watched the silhouette drop from view behind the crest of the knoll.
Cougar whined and she turned to find him ears alert, eyes asking. She gathered the pail and trowel and stepped over the picket to pat his head. “Let’s go, boy. It’s time we got back to the house.”
She’d tend the rose until the day Cade sent her away, but she’d not tell him she planted it. Nor would she tell him that someone watched them like a hawk observing its unwitting prey.
~
Mae Ann held the cup of warm broth against Cade’s resistive lips. He’d slept until noon, then woken disgruntled and in pain and insistent that she sit with him and not Deacon. Had he forgotten he wanted her gone?
She convinced him that broth would speed his recovery and managed to lace it with laudanum, tsking against his complaint that her broth was the most bitter he had ever tasted. As he settled against the pillows she’d gathered from every bedroom and bunched behind him, his brow soon relaxed and he drifted again to that place of healing sleep.
Quickly, she set the cup aside and emptied the armoire of her clothing, took it to the room across the hall, and exchanged it for everything she could find there of Cade’s. She filled the armoire shelves, for the chest of drawers contained his parents’ things, it appeared, most of it his mother’s. Then she lifted one end of her trunk, toed a small braided rug beneath it, and used it like a sled to drag her trunk across the hall. The task was easier than she’d anticipated, but again, she was stronger than before.
After re-placing the rug, she returned to the footstool, content to remain there until Deacon would come to “spell her” at suppertime. Not one moment did she begrudge at Cade’s side, and she spent most of the time memorizing his features as she had done with Henry’s letters.
If only she could capture him in a sketch as some of the women in the rooming house did, drawing images of their loved ones or flowers from happier days. She would draw his strong chin, broad shoulders, and capable hands. The way his hair insistently fell across his brow when he was without a hat. His handsome face and straight mouth—lips that had grazed hers near the fallen cottonwood and set hope fluttering anew for a marriage of love.
But it was not to be, and nothing would be gained by pining over what she could not have. Thankfully, she was not staring at him when Deacon filled the doorway. He had removed his boots and spurs and she’d not heard him climb the stairs, so lost she’d been in her own thoughts. So much for belling the cat.
“How’s our boy
today?”
Did the man know how such inclusive endearments tormented her? “He grumped at the broth and said it was the most bitter he’d ever tasted.” She picked up the corked bottle and held it aloft with one hand, a single finger to her lips with the other.
Deacon’s eyes twinkled and his shoulders bounced with silent laughter as he grabbed the chair and rested his feet upon the cushioned stool Mae Ann had vacated.
“I’ll bring supper shortly, and a mug of broth in case he wakes as a bear once more.” With a final look around the room, satisfied she’d removed all that was hers, she went downstairs.
While a pan of cornbread baked, she sat at the table with pencil and paper, making a list for Deacon to take to the mercantile tomorrow. The doctor would be out to check on Cade, so she’d not be left alone while Deacon was in town—a small comfort against the sense of having been watched. She could not be absolutely certain it was their dark-hearted neighbor to the north, but who else would it be? Her crawling flesh said it was MacGrath on his black horse, biding his time.
That night as she settled on the footstool and stretched her arm along Cade’s side, he lifted his left hand and laid it over her arm. His eyes remained closed and no sound came from his lips. No telling twitch that so often betrayed his hidden humor, yet she wondered if his hold was an involuntary gesture welcoming her nearness. Weary in heart and body, she rested her head upon the tick, relishing the warmth of his hand and not caring that her grief and gratitude blended and bled onto the coverlet, soaking it with her tears.
CHAPTER 18
Deacon left in the buckboard right after breakfast. From Mae Ann’s position at the bedroom window, he looked ill-suited to a wagon seat and envious of the good doctor, who passed him on horseback in the yard. Dr. Weaver tied his mount to the rail, seeming better fit to a carriage. Two men out of their element if ever there were.
Unwilling to leave Cade long enough to greet the doctor at the door, she watched as he untethered his bag from the saddle, certain he would come right in. He disappeared beneath the porch roof, and soon the heavy door hinges creaked his entry.
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