Now he left his chosen spot and walked to where she stood, alone and bereft, watching as the final shovelful of dirt was tamped atop the grave. Where the raw ground spoke of a man buried beneath the weight of earth, and the sorrow of the woman who wept.
For the tears had begun. Now that it was over, now that the visitors were on their way back to their everyday existence in Ripsaw Creek, she found hot rivulets coursing her cheeks and sobs forcing their way from her mouth. Her hand lifted to halt the torrent, but to no avail. A handkerchief pressed into her fingers and she grasped it from J.T.’s hand, mopping at the visible signs of grief, even as she hugged the pain to her bosom.
“Come on, Chloe. There’s nothing more for you here.” His words were harsh, but his hands touched her with gentle care as he turned her from the grave, and she allowed it, walking at his side to where the buggy waited at the foot of the hill. His curved palms touched her waist, lifting her, and she fell onto the seat in a twisted mound of fabric as the skirt of her dress tangled around her legs.
“Let me help you,” he said quietly, tugging and straightening the mess of her skirts, tucking the voluminous folds around her legs. It wasn’t worth arguing over, and she allowed him to fuss, then sat upright, looking straight ahead as he climbed to the buggy seat and took up the reins.
The ride back to the ranch was silent, Chloe having eschewed the idea of a gathering afterward in which food would be eaten and trite phrases of comfort strewn in her direction. The buggy halted before the back door, and J.T. lifted his arms to her, grasping her waist to bring her to the ground before himself. He held her there and she was silent, looking dully at the front of his black coat.
He’d found a white shirt to wear with a black string tie, and on the homecoming trip had undone the tie, allowing it to hang beneath the stiff collar. His chest rose and fell as he inhaled sharply, and she shook her head, an abrupt movement as his words erupted.
“Chloe—”
“No, please don’t say anything. I don’t think I want to talk to you right now.”
His hands fell from her and he stepped back. “Do you want me to move to the bunkhouse?” he asked, his voice totally without emotion.
She looked up at him, shaking her head. “I can’t put you out of the house. You own half of it, remember?”
“All right.” He nodded and bowed his head, a gesture she thought smacked of sarcasm. His mouth was firm, a harsh line that offered no words of argument, and as she moved past him, he followed her to the porch, politely held the door for her to enter the kitchen, then stood silently as she swept across the floor toward the hallway.
From behind her, Tilly’s voice was choked. “How’d it go, there at the end? I couldn’t stand to watch any longer, J.T., once they were fillin’ in the grave. I had Micah bring me on back to fix dinner.”
“We stayed till they were done,” he said. “Where’s Micah?”
And then Chloe was inside her bedroom and the door closed behind her, muffling the words spoken in the kitchen. She leaned against the portal, her eyes closing, their lids scratching against her eyeballs and yet, the tears were gone. She’d shed them all, she realized. Now she would put aside the mourning and find work to do.
The black dress was a pile of dingy rags on the floor within moments, and she scooped it up, rolling it into a ball to be burned. The sight of those yards of funeral attire was an abomination, and the sooner they met the trash fire, the better she’d like it. Her movements more vigorous now, she stripped from her undergarments, petticoats cast aside as she found trousers and a shirt in her drawer.
Long black stockings rolled down her legs and sailed across the room toward the bundle she’d tossed next to the door. She sat on the chair to draw plain cotton footwear into place, then tugged her boots on over them. As if in a dream, she looked around the room, searching for any trace of funeral attire she might have missed, then placed J.T.’s handkerchief amid the tangle of stockings and black petticoat and dress.
Passing through the kitchen, she carried the bundle of clothing against her chest, refusing to meet Tilly’s gaze, only looking at the floor as she strode to the back door and shoved her rump against the frame to push the screen door open. A murmur followed her into the yard and she ignored it. J.T. stepped from the porch close behind her and she paid him no mind, intent on locating a spot that would suit her purpose.
“Chloe.” He called her name, his hand touching her shoulder as he paced next to her. “What are you doing, Chloe?”
She shrugged the weight of his palm aside and hesitated inside the barn door. “Willie, are you in here?”
“Ma’am?” The youth stepped from outside the back door and approached. “What do you need, Miss Chloe?”
“I want to set a fire. Bring me some kerosene and a match, please.”
Willie’s wide eyes veered from her to seek silent advice from J.T. and to his credit, the bigger man only nodded and stood aside. The kerosene lantern was lifted from a peg and Willie followed as Chloe walked the length of the barn, out into the sunshine and across from the corral, where the manure pile and a trash heap used for burning household refuse lay.
Without ceremony, she dumped her burden atop the pile and motioned to Willie. Obligingly he dribbled kerosene on the clothing, then stepped back as she took the box of matches from him. “Go away,” she muttered darkly, and the youth retreated swiftly, casting a last look at J.T., who waited in the doorway.
“Don’t set yourself on fire,” he said mildly as Chloe struck a match and dropped it to meet with the sodden fabric. The kerosene drew the flame like a wick, and the dress caught fire with tiny licks of gold, following the trail of the liquid Willie had poured upon her clothing. She watched as though mesmerized and, as the heat began to rise, felt J.T.’s hand on her elbow, drawing her away from the pyre.
Her eyes burned, seared by the smoke, and she blinked a bit, then peered through her lashes, coughing once as the wind blew a waft of acrid haze toward her. The ashes lifted on a stray bit of breeze, then settled against the trash beneath, and the fire caught hold with gusto, burning the various bits of paper and leavings Tilly had sent out after breakfast.
“Come on,” J.T. said harshly. “Whatever you hoped to accomplish is done with, Chloe. You’ve buried Pete, and probably yourself with him. But there’s no point in standing here getting all smoked up and choking yourself on the remains.”
“I’ll do what I want to,” she said stubbornly. “I got along before you got here, and I’ll still get along after you leave one of these days.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He turned her to face him and she was forced to look up into his eyes, his hand beneath her chin in a gesture that offered no tenderness. “I told you a long time ago, I’m in this for the long haul. You’re my wife, like it or not, and I’m here to stay.”
“So stay, then,” she said, and felt her jaw harden as his fingers softened their touch. “You do your work and I’ll do mine. As to being your wife…” she closed her eyes against the power of his dark, penetrating glare “—it’s all legal and binding, I suppose, but I don’t have to…” She could not say the words, couldn’t even imagine the deed. And yet, should J.T. push for his legal rights, she could not deny him.
“No,” he said agreeably, “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Chloe. I can only hope you come to your senses one of these days and open your eyes to the truth. Before it’s too late.”
She spent long hours with the horses, the knowledge that the sale of those animals would put her operation in the black, once J.T. made the arrangements for buyers to arrive. The cattle herd was once more at the northern edge of the Double B, and the men rotated position, staying on the range for days at a time, then coming back to the ranch proper to take chore duty.
Chloe’s skin took on the hue of copper, where her sleeves were rolled high above her elbows and the sun touched the skin of her throat and the nape of her neck. She wore the same braid sometimes two or three day
s in a row, only scraping the flyaway tresses from her face and pinning them in place. Muscles ached at night, but she was uncaring, just thankful for the blessed sleep that possessed her when she placed her head on the pillow.
And behind her in the wide bed, long hours after she sought the comfort of pillow and quilt, she felt the presence of J.T., never touching, never speaking, only there. He was gone when she awoke, and only the impression of his head on the pillow and the rumpled covers he left behind gave notice of his presence.
It was too much trouble to order him into another bedroom, she decided, after the first night. He obviously was not interested in conducting a marriage in the bed they shared, and for that she was grateful. The distasteful idea of denying him his rights made her shudder, but the thought of his hands on her body was beyond imagination.
She’d loved him. Of that there was no doubt, and deep within her soul, she loved him still. But the barrier of what he had allowed to happen was an obstruction she could not deny.
“You ready for breakfast?” Tilly asked as Chloe stood in the kitchen doorway. It was another bright day, the sun above the treetops in the east, and Chloe tugged at her belt, noting the need of another hole to be punched in the leather.
“I’m not very hungry,” she said, distracted as she looked down at the loose fit of her trousers. “These pants don’t fit the way they should,” she said, tugging them higher.
“You’ve lost weight,” Tilly said flatly. “You don’t eat enough to stay alive these days.”
“I eat plenty,” Chloe said disagreeably. “It’s too hot to stuff myself.”
“Well, you’re looking like the wrath of God, is all I got to say,” her aunt stated harshly. “You’ve got J.T. on a tight leash, and the men steer clear of you, and I’m not sure you even like me anymore.”
“Don’t be silly,” Chloe said, hurt rising within as she considered Tilly’s words. “You know I love you, Aunt Tilly. I couldn’t run this place without you.”
“Hell, I know you need me,” Tilly said. “I just don’t think you give two hoots and a holler about anything or anybody but yourself anymore.”
The pain increased as Chloe absorbed the taunt, and she halted beside a chair, her fingers gripping the back. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “I didn’t realize you felt that way.” She slid the chair from the table and slumped onto the seat. “I’ll have something to eat if there’s anything left over.”
“I saved you a plate, just like always,” Tilly told her, sliding the warm offering from the top of the stove. Scrambled eggs, surrounded by bacon and topped with a slice of toast were piled high on the plate, and she dumped it with a decided lack of ceremony in front of her niece.
“Grab a fork and dig in,” Tilly said, turning back to the sink. “J.T. said to tell you he’ll be out on the range today, in case you’re interested.”
She was. For the first time in two weeks, she felt a twinge of guilt as she chewed and swallowed, aware of Tilly’s displeasure with the state of affairs in this household. “What’s going on out there?” she asked, sipping at the cup of coffee that appeared by her plate.
“Nothing special. Just deciding which part of the herd he’s going to take to the stockyard and put up at auction.”
“Don’t I have any say in that?” she asked, thinking of years past when she’d trailed behind her father and Hogan as they culled the steers from the herd.
“Apparently he didn’t think it mattered to you. You haven’t said two words to him since the funeral,” Tilly said accusingly. “I guess he figured you were content to work with the horses and drive yourself into the ground walking and grooming them and suffering in silence.”
“Suffering in silence.” Chloe repeated the words beneath her breath. “Is that what you think this is all about?”
“I dunno as I care,” Tilly said, casting her a look of disgust. “I just know you’re not the girl I thought you were. You’ve taken out your anger at Pete on the best man that ever rode this ranch, and you don’t give a good gol durn about how much you’ve hurt him or anybody else.”
“My anger at Pete?” Her voice rose on each syllable, and Chloe pushed back from the table. “My brother’s dead, Tilly. And for all I know, J.T.’s gun held the bullet that killed him.”
“For all you know, it could have been half a dozen other men,” Tilly said sharply. “You’ve chosen to blame J.T. instead of leveling your anger where it belongs. And I, for one, am sick and tired of your shenanigans.” She banged a kettle on the stove and turned to pump vigorously at the red pitcher pump beside the sink. Water spewed forth and splattered into the dishpan, and Tilly swiped her hand across her face.
“Well, I guess I know where I stand,” Chloe said. Aware of her aunt’s anger, unable to admit her own wrong, she sailed from the kitchen and off the porch, kicking at a clod of dirt as she headed for the barn.
And then she halted, looking up into the blue sky above, where puffy clouds formed overhead. The sun licked down and she blinked at the brilliance of its glow, feeling the sharp tears that formed as she inhaled the morning air. Life was for the living, her father had said once. And then he’d died, leaving her to carry on.
Now she was left to move ahead once more. And life was passing her by, the rest of the ranch continuing to prepare for the days ahead, the men guided by J.T., the herds of horses and cattle following the regime set for them by his program. It would not do, she decided, to be left trailing in the dust.
“You gonna be helping me today?” Lowery asked, leading his latest project toward her. “This one needs a good, long, cool-down.” And indeed the horse showed evidence of a hard training session, she thought, his nostrils flaring, his shiny coat slick from the hour he’d spent beneath Lowery’s weight.
“Not now,” she said distractedly. “I’m going up to the north range and check on the herd. Tilly said that’s where J.T. went this morning.”
“Yeah, he did.” Lowery watched her from beneath beetled brows. “What’s got into you, Miss Chloe? You haven’t ridden out in weeks.”
“Well, then it’s about time I did, don’t you think?” she asked sharply. In moments she had whistled down her mare and saddled the feisty animal. Unused to being ridden over the past days, the horse shifted and skittered beneath her touch, and Chloe welcomed the battle to be fought with the saucy mare.
Head bowed, tail a flag in the breeze, the mare set off, and Chloe felt the first surge of life through her veins explode with a vigor that erupted in laughter. The mare stretched out, straining at the bit, and Chloe gave her the freedom she demanded. It was a hard ride, and she bent over the animal’s neck, eyes narrowed against the wind, her hat flying behind, caught only by the rawhide strand that held it.
At the top of a rise, she drew up the reins and the mare pranced between her legs, eager to set off again, but Chloe tugged her hat into place and looked north from beneath its brim, seeking moving specks across the horizon that would pinpoint the whereabouts of her herd. Nothing moved beneath the glittering sunlight, and she loosened the reins, allowing the mare to pick her way down the slope and across the lush pastureland.
Rain had blessed them with grass, abundantly thick on all sides, and Chloe noted flowers blooming, watched as a line of trees appeared to delineate the stream flowing from north to south at the eastern edge of the property. She veered in that direction, thinking of the horse between her knees, and then followed the shallow stream to where it deepened into a pool of water the men were wont to use as a bathing area.
Sliding from her horse, she led the mare to the edge of the stream, her hearing attuned to the sound of birds and the splashing movement of running water ahead. The mare bent to drink, tossing her head so that the water spewed and silvered in the air. And all was alive and luxurious suddenly, the lush surroundings impelling Chloe to step closer to the cool stream. She bent to dip her hand into the sparkling flow, above where the horse drank, and she wet her face, then rubbed her hands together, watc
hing as the dust of the ride disappeared into the water.
To her left, a shadow moved and she looked up quickly, aware that someone watched from beneath low-hanging branches. Long feet, calves that melded into thighs and then formed the loins of a man met her vision, and she lifted startled eyes to meet the gaze of the man who stood silently before her.
“J.T.” She breathed the sounds beneath her breath, and his mouth formed a sardonic smile of welcome.
“Well, well,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know I’d find you here.” His hand motioned toward the pool behind her and she glanced back at him quickly, noting the drops of water that dwelt in his body hair, the slick sheen of moisture he wore. “I couldn’t resist the idea of a swim,” he told her. “It was a hot and sweaty morning. I needed cooling off.” And beneath his words she heard a tinge of danger.
“Cooling off?” Her thoughts were confused as she sought another target for her attention. His body was ropy with muscle, strong and tall, and she felt a rush of apprehension as she considered her position. Alone, with a man whose eyes were carefully stripping her clothing aside as he watched her. A man with the power to toss her to the ground, should he want to, and press his perfect body against hers in a dance of male possession.
“I haven’t had much relief from the tension you’ve managed to generate lately, Mrs. Flannery.” He took a step toward her and she retreated, stumbling on a small hillock. One hand flashed out and grasped her arm, and he jerked her upright, hauling her against himself. “And now you’ve shown up and offered me a chance to—”
“I’m not offering anything,” she said harshly. “I rode here to water my mare, and I had only begun to enjoy the peace and quiet, when you made your presence known.”
“I was here first,” he reminded her softly, although his eyes were hard, dark orbs, rimmed by shadows. His face was gaunt, she thought, dark with the sun, but the bones were taut beneath the flesh, his nose a sharp blade above an unsmiling mouth. “On second thought, maybe I won’t wait for an offer,” he said, his hands lifting from her waist to snatch her hat from her head. Long fingers pierced the plaited strands that circled her head, and he tugged and pulled at her pins, dropping them onto the ground as his hands made short work of the braids.
A Marriage By Chance Page 19
