Sarah

by Raine Cantrell

  “And I promise you the flapjacks won’t be, either.”

  She knew how work helped keep the dark thoughts at bay. Work had become her salvation.

  She set to work in the kitchen with a vengeance that would have impressed Mrs. Horace Pettigrew, the town’s most notorious busybody. Not that the woman did a lick of work herself. She’d even hired several boys to walk her spoiled little dog, Posie, after someone remarked that the animal was so fat from the bonbons she fed him it was a wonder he hadn’t died.

  Sarah rarely was a target of the woman’s wagging tongue, but Catherine had come in for her share until she married Greg Mayfield, a prize Mrs. Pettigrew had earmarked for her youngest and only unmarried daughter.

  The heavy cast-iron skillet sizzled when she tested it with a few drops of water.

  “Tell me, Gabriel, how would you like yours? Big ones or little?”

  He chose small ones, as she knew he would, for she had at the same age when her grandmother offered the choice. She also was rewarded with another smile.

  “I will stay with you,” he said with a glance toward the window. It was black as night out there now, except where the faint bluish light of lightning showed.

  “Lucas said the Thunder People sent the storm to show how angry they are with the white men that take gold from the earth. You are white. But I am half-Apache and will protect you.”

  “You are gallant and brave, Gabriel, just like the knights of old.”

  “I wish to be like my father. But what is a night of old? Night is when the ghost people come. I do not wish to be a ghost.”

  “No, nothing like that.” She spelled the word for him. “When I was a little girl my grandmother used to tell me tales of a great king. His name was Arthur and he had many brave soldiers. They called them the Knights of the Round Table.”

  She finished a stack of flapjacks for him, then made another larger one for Lucas when he was drawn into the kitchen.

  At Gabriel’s urging, she told them stories as she remembered her grandmother telling them, dragging from memory all the drama and pageantry that accompanied the knights’ feats of daring.

  A year ago, she wouldn’t have been capable of sharing these hoarded precious moments. Her great-grandfather had been a schoolmaster, and he instilled a love of reading and history into his daughter. Sarah knew her mother had shared in that love, but she died when Sarah was born.

  Only a slight redness remained on her palm, but no pain. She got the soup started, then salvaged what she could of the beans as the boys enjoyed the cookies she had made.

  Water to wash their muddy clothes was heating on the stove. A few minutes later they returned to the warmth of the parlor.

  Sarah almost called them back. She had no desire to be alone. She found it strange that neither boy asked where their father was. Not that she wanted him back inside. Not now.

  She had directed all her energies during the past four years to rebuilding a new life for herself. It had not been easy. She had had to quell all needs in herself beyond the need to live on. She had friends, a home she loved, her precious horses, and family.

  Her cousin Mary, and Rafe, Beth, his daughter from his first marriage, and now their infant son who she had helped bring into the world. There’d been no pain for her then, she was too caught up in Mary’s joy at giving birth after years of being barren.

  And there was Catherine, the dearest of friends who always made her laugh, married to a wonderful man who couldn’t seem to give her enough. Her frequent letters were a cause for laughter, filled as they were with her coping with a socialite’s life that Greg’s sister Suzanne had introduced her to. Then there were the women’s causes Catherine rallied to fight, and the farmhouse she and Greg were building on New York’s Hudson River.

  Sarah had found her own peace. There were a few men in town who had attempted to court her, but she discouraged most of them. Buck Purcell was the most persistent, but even his offer of marriage couldn’t tempt her. She allowed him to escort her to church socials, danced with him, and even flirted a little, but the banker seemed to be resigned to the fact that he was not going to marry one of the merry widows of Sierra County as the townspeople of Hillsboro named them.

  She had no desire for marriage. No need for it Passion belonged buried with a young, innocent girl’s romantic dreams.

  And no man was going to change her mind.

  Not even one whose grief touched a matching chord in her soul.

  Chapter Eight

  Sarah left the soup simmering on the stove. She washed the boys’ clothes. She hung them on twine strung from the two armless parlor chairs in front of the fire. Lucas had replenished the fire before he had fallen asleep, his brother tucked close by his side. She covered them with another quilt.

  She returned to the kitchen where she filled two metal canteens with hot water. The rain had settled to a light fall. She intended to go out to the barn and see for herself that her horses were all right.

  The hot water was to make a warm bran mash, for the storm showed no true sign of ending, and she worried over getting outside again.

  She tied her floppy-brimmed felt hat on with a scarf and slipped into her slicker. Slinging the canteen straps over her head so they rested across her chest, she flipped the latch. The door required all her strength to open it The wood had swollen from the rain pounding against it.

  She struggled to close the door after her. Her footing was solid, thanks to Rio widening the board path she had laid when the rains first came. There was plenty of cut lumber from the two henhouses that Catherine and Greg had built as a result of a building contest between them.

  “Some contest,” she muttered, ducking her head as she made her way across the yard. “They both came out winners.”

  She couldn’t help smiling. As indulgent as Greg was to Catherine’s desires, he had drawn the line in attempting to transport his building effort all the way back to New York. Sarah had the houses torn down after Catherine sold off most of her flock, all but Miss Lily and her chick. They traveled with them and the worst tomcat of all, Lord Romeo.

  But there were plenty of half-grown cats left. Six at last count.

  Sarah saw the light shining through the small cracks in the barn doors. She knew Rio must be inside. She gave no thought to that being part of the reason she had come out there.

  Two lanterns pooled light on the center aisle where fresh sawdust sprinkled the floor.

  She breathed in the steamy warmth mixed with the earthy scents of horses and hay, the damp wood. From the faint odor of soiled bedding that remained she knew that Rio had mucked out the stalls. It was an onerous chore at best. She wasn’t sure though if she was grateful for him having seen to it, or annoyed that he had taken over her domain.

  One of the barn cats, a brown tabby, entwined its supple body around her feet in a bid for attention. She bent to scratch beneath its chin, holding the canteens aside.

  On her right she noted the fresh hay in the cow’s manger. The stanchion rattled as the animal turned to look at Sarah. Placidly chewing her cud, her tail swished back and forth in a whiplike move that revealed her annoyance with Sarah’s unscheduled visit.

  “Don’t worry, girl, I know it’s not time for milking.”

  The four mares poked their noses over the doors to their stalls. At the far end of the barn, in the largest box stall, the stallion snorted, ears pricked forward as he caught Sarah’s scent.

  At each stall she stopped, rubbing the offered velvet nose, or scratching the hard-to-reach place between the ears. She stroked the proudly arched necks and noted that every horse had fresh hay and water. Even the bedding was as thick with the mix of hay and sawdust she preferred as if she herself had mucked the stalls and changed the bedding. Their manes and coats gleamed, showing the care of curry brush and comb.

  If Lucas had never told her that his father had cared for horses, more, loved them, she could see the evidence here for herself.

  From the loft came a m
eow, and she looked up to see one of the half-grown kittens perched on the loft’s overhang like a watchful guard. Sarah made her way to where the warm glow of light spilled from the open door to the tack room.

  From within came a muttered curse, then the sound of hammering. The cat streaked back toward the front of the barn.

  The loft, with its stacked hay, had softened the drumming rain on the roof. The tack room had no such protection. It was aptly named, not only for holding saddles, feed buckets, brushes and combs, horse blankets and halters, bridles and ropes, but for having been an afterthought of the previous owner. The ceiling barely cleared seven feet. A long, rectangle-shaped room, it ran the full length of the back of the barn, and was half as wide.

  The single lantern hung from a hook on the roof post, spilling its light on the far corner where Rio was hammering. The old cluttered worktable blocked her view of him, but she noticed the corner had new boards, ones only partially weathered nailed over the old rough siding.

  Sarah felt reluctant to call attention to herself. She turned to her right, away from him, toward the shelving that lined the short wall. There she straightened the various tins and bottles of Wittemore’s leather dressing, Arabian Night harness oil, Chicago hoof remedy, Mill’s harness soap and Hoppins horse liniment. The shelf below required no fixing, but she made sure that he had put back in order the currycomb, the thick-tooth mane comb, the Mexican rice root brushes and hoof picks. Below this shelf were stored the various hair clippers, shears, horse rasp, file and assorted bits and hobbles.

  She bent over to pick up the awl that had fallen and set it back near the harness needles and trace splicer.

  An old rusted plow leaned in the corner along with a sickle and scythe.

  Sarah frowned. She had never gotten rid of the old miner’s pick and gold pans. Like the hickory-neck yoke she had no use for, they cluttered up the space behind where the manure hook, hay fork, scuffle hoe, rake and shovel leaned against the wall.

  Bridles, including the new hand-braided leather one she paid J. P. Crabtree five dollars for, hung from nails in the wall. There was a larger assortment of nickel-plated bits, too.

  The hammering suddenly stopped. Although there was no sound, Sarah knew Rio was aware of her presence. She felt the intensity of his gaze on her back.

  She turned but didn’t look toward him. A few steps took her to the table. She lifted the cribbing muzzle that she had used on one of the mares who tended to gnaw on the wood side of her stall. The habit was finally broken. Spurs and washbasins, strap hinges for the stall doors, all lay in disarray.

  Her hand fluttered over objects, not touching any, just a small indication of how nervous she was. He could say something. But then, so could she. It was hard, after that scene in the kitchen, to know what to say.

  “The boys ate. They’re sleeping in the parlor.”

  The canteens she still carried bumped against the table. Sarah seized upon the reason she had come out here.

  “I intend to make a warm bran mash for the horses. It’s chilly enough in here and with the rain continuing I don’t know—”

  “This is your place. They are your horses. You need not explain anything that you do.”

  “Well, no. I know that. I was just being polite. Just making conversation. Talking. You’ve done a lot of work out here.”

  “I need to keep busy. When there is time on a man’s hands he thinks too much.”

  “Or remembers too much,” she added in a soft voice.

  “Yes, that, too. When one is helpless to stop the things happening around him, work is the only ease for the mind and body.”

  “That’s just as true of women.”

  She could hear him stacking the lumber he didn’t use. The rain dripped heavily from the eaves, and the world seemed to shrink down to this space. The faint, restless stampings of the horses came to her ears, but beyond that it was quiet.

  She began clearing a space in front of her. Rio set the large basin down. Sarah looked up at him.

  “I…I’m sorry that I made you rake up painful memories. I hated it when others did that to me.”

  Rio felt it again. Her strength coming up against him. Her eyes, black as her hair, sharp and measuring at the same time, but warm with compassion.

  “Yes, you know. You have lost your husband. You do understand what it is to grieve for the loss of one’s love.”

  Sarah averted her head. She did nothing to dispel his notion that she still mourned Judd’s loss. Yet grief was in her throat with a taste all its own. Swallowing only lodged it deeper, so it lay cold and heavy where no warmth ever touched.

  “It is not the Apache way to speak of the one who is gone. But then, I was not raised to only follow my mother and grandmother’s ways. No one left behind is ever free of the memories,” he said in a husky voice. He found himself strangely compelled to offer her comfort, even more, to confess the reason for his anger with her.

  She stood still, with all the wariness of a wild creature set to flee. He lifted one hand, turning it so that the backs of his fingers brushed against her cheek. He didn’t miss her slight flinch, even as she stood her ground while he repeated the gentle stroke.

  “I was wrong to return your kindness with anger, iszáń.”

  She held his gaze, unable to look away. His touch was only an offer to comfort, but she didn’t feel comforted.

  His touch heightened her senses to a startling degree. The pounding rain echoed the beat of her heart. The heat of his body seemed to envelop her into a tightly drawn space where there was room for none but the two of them. Even his features appeared tightly drawn with an intensity that mirrored her feelings.

  Sarah wasn’t aware of breathing deeply, but she had taken his scent inside her. Sweat, horses, the damp of his clothing. Scents that warmed, then heated sharply to a sexual maleness releasing a primitive call to her.

  Every moment whispered a warning that he was dangerous to her. But she didn’t heed it, she could not.

  Her whole being filled with waiting. Her pulse pounded. Her gaze slid down to his mouth, then lower to his throat.

  It was harder to breathe. The air was heavy, like that of summer when heat lightning danced and thunder rumbled in the far-off hills. Hot and sticky, flicker and fire, but without bringing the needed relief.

  She felt a shiver course down her spine and was drawn to look up at his eyes. The intensity was still there, waiting, it seemed, for her to decide. What? she wanted to cry out, but speech was beyond her, for his gaze was suddenly hot.

  His hands came to rest on her shoulders, and they were strong, heavy male hands. She knew he was going to pull her closer, close enough for bodies to touch, close enough for lips to meet.

  Run, Sarah.

  And she didn’t heed this warning, either. She stood, waiting, knowing she’d open her mouth to his willingly. Hunger too long denied was a powerful force. More powerful than Sarah could fight at that moment.

  Then his mouth covered hers.

  She’d expected something more harsh, forceful, with a need to master. She knew his strength and his violence, could have tasted, taken what she wanted from that.

  But Rio surprised her. His lips touched hers for a moment, feathered across her cheekbones, then moved on to brush gently against her brow before returning to her mouth.

  He tasted her softly, teasingly.

  Sarah sensed his holding back. She moaned deep in her throat, half longing for the hunger she had waited for, half hoping for a fierce, savage demand she could resist.

  But this gentleness, this coaxing, left her aching for more.

  And Rio left her aching, pulling back, then he stepped away from her.

  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 intended—”