Winter's Touch

by Hudson, Janis Reams

  “Gussie, please, child. Call me Gussie. Or Aunt Gussie, if you prefer.”

  After a short hesitation, Winter Fawn nodded. “All right. Gussie.”

  Gussie beamed at her. “Good. But I meant what I said. As Carson’s guest, you should not be working.”

  “She’s been helping me, Aunt Gussie,” Bess explained.

  “And I’m sure she’s been a big help. But I’m here now, so she need do nothing more than relax and enjoy herself.”

  “I couldna,” Winter Fawn exclaimed in horror. “Da and Hunter help Carson. The least I can do is help around the house.”

  The woman took the spoon from Winter Fawn’s fingers and gave the oatmeal a vigorous stir. Smiling, she said, “We’ll see, child, we’ll see.”

  “Mrs. Win— Gussie,” Winter Fawn said slowly. “I am no’ a child.”

  Gussie laughed heartily. “Do forgive me. At my age, everyone seems like a child to me. I meant no disrespect, I assure you. And I must say, I just adore that Scottish burr in your speech. It’s simply delightful.”

  Completely disconcerted, Winter Fawn stepped aside and made way for Gussie before the stove.

  “If you’re still of a mind to help,” Gussie said, “you two girls could set the table. I assume that Mr. Rivers and Mr. Johansen will be joining us?”

  “Aye,” Winter Fawn said, looking at Bess for a clue as to what was happening.

  Bess merely smiled and turned to get the bowls from the cabinet.

  While the girls set the table, Gussie continued to rattle on. She was quite certain that she made no sense whatsoever to them, for she certainly made no sense to herself. But she didn’t know what else to do but talk and keep busy. If she stopped talking, stopped doing, she was very much afraid she would break down and weep. She had never believed in public displays of grief, yet she felt the terrible anguish over Lucille’s death building inside her.

  She had thought—hoped—the trip west would ease her heart, and for a few days it had. There had been so many new sights, and she was here now and overjoyed to be with her family again, even if this rough homestead was not what any of them were used to. Since the war, she had learned to hard way that people—family, friends—were so much more important than fine things or nice houses.

  Gussie wasn’t sure why losing Lucille seemed so hard on her. The death certainly had not come as a surprise. Lucille had been ill for months, and they had both known what was coming. And Lord knew, Gussie had lost others, and probably would again. But she had dreamed of Lucille last night, of their girlhood together, and now tears threatened to choke her. All she knew to do was keep busy, and so she would.

  Lord, but she was carrying on like a magpie. She couldn’t seem to stop, nor did she have any idea what she’d been saying.

  Winter Fawn had never heard anyone talk so much in her life. She sensed in Gussie a frantic need of some sort, but could not imagine what it might be. And it was none of her business.

  By the time they had the table set, Megan had come downstairs. As was the custom they had established during the past days, the child carried her hairbrush to Winter Fawn.

  Winter Fawn led her to the sofa and carefully undid yesterday’s braids. Using the brush, she gently eased the tangles out, then rebraided the soft black tresses, using the lengths of pink ribbon that Megan had brought downstairs with her to tie the ends.

  This was one of Winter Fawn’s favorite things to do. Someday she would have a daughter of her own whose hair she would braid. Or perhaps a son, she thought with a smile, who would think it unmanly to let his mother braid his hair.

  “There.” After tying the last bow, Winter Fawn lifted the end of one braid and tapped it against Megan’s little nose. “You are all beautiful again.”

  Megan giggled, then pressed a tiny kiss to Winter Fawn’s cheek. “Thank you, Winter Fawn.”

  Winter Fawn closed her eyes briefly to savor the sweet affection. “You’re welcome.”

  The men came in a short time later and took their places around the table.

  “Carson,” Gussie said when everyone was seated. “Would you say grace, please?”

  Innes paused with a biscuit halfway to his mouth. His eyes bugged. He dropped the biscuit as though it were on fire. His face turned as red as his beard.

  “Yes ma’am,” Carson said with a smile.

  Grace, Winter Fawn quickly realized, was a prayer. She was ashamed to realize that she had not given thanks to Man-Above in days, and she had so much to be thankful for. Until coming here it had been her habit, as it was with all of Our People, to give thanks throughout the day for all the blessings, the small as well as the large, that came her way.

  By asking Carson to pray, Gussie had raised herself a notch in Winter Fawn’s estimation.

  After the prayer, everyone grabbed for food as if someone had fired a shot to start a race.

  Innes eyed the new woman carefully before deciding it was now safe to eat. A fine-looking woman, she was, but soft, he figured. Those dainty white hands had never seen hard work. She wouldna last a month out here afore wantin’ to hie herself back to civilization.

  “I do hope,” Gussie said, looking around the table, “that y’all will forgive me, but I am used to taking charge of a household. I will undoubtedly make a few suggestions to change the way things are done. If I overstep my place, Carson dear, please do tell me.”

  “Aunt Gussie, your place is wherever you want it to be.”

  “Why thank you, dear heart. But you’re used to my ways, you and Bess and Megan. I do not wish to offend the others.”

  “Miz Winthrop,” Beau said dramatically, “I do hereby grant you permission to change me any way you want.”

  “Why thank you, Mr. Rivers. Perhaps you’ll allow me to give you a haircut.”

  Innes snickered, expecting to see a look of horror on Beau’s face. But instead, the man beamed a smile at her.

  “Allow it? Miz Winthrop, I will become your servant for life if you cut my hair.”

  Gussie chuckled. “How you do go on. Whenever you have time, you just come on up to the house and I’ll make sure my shears are sharp. Mr. MacDougall, I could trim your beard for you.”

  Innes choked on a piece of biscuit. Bloody hell, you could, woman. “Dinna fash yerself on my account, ma’am. My beard and I hae grown accustomed to each other.” There. That should put her in her place. If there was one thing Innes didna care for, it was a meddling female.

  “I declare,” Gussie said with a smile. “It would be no trouble at all for me to trim it so that it’s short and neat.”

  Innes saw the determination in those blue eyes and panic slid up his spine. Grabbing his bowl and spoon, he stood and backed away from the table. “I’ll, er, just be takin’ this out onto the porch to finish.”

  Beau, Frank, and Carson roared with laughter as Innes made his escape.

  Soft? Had he thought her soft? She was too damned bossy to be soft. Bloody, bossy, woman.

  During the next several days, Winter Fawn’s ambiguity regarding Gussie continued to grow. She could not decide if the woman was a gift from Man-Above, sent to make life wonderful, or a curse placed upon her by some evil spirit. All she knew was that until Gussie’s arrival, Winter Fawn had felt useful, needed. She’d felt a part of the ranch. An important part, she admitted.

  Now she felt…useless. In the way. Terribly, terribly unneeded.

  Gussie never gave any indication that she did not genuinely like Winter Fawn. While she did occasionally cluck her tongue when Innes came in smelling of the contents of his flask—the clucking of the tongue, Winter Fawn learned, indicating disapproval—she was unfailingly kind and warm to Winter Fawn, and to Hunter.

  All I need do, Winter Fawn repeated to herself, is tell her I want to feel useful.

  No, that would not work. She had tried that. Perhaps it was the word “want” that was insufficient. Perhaps if she told Gussie that she needed to feel useful, the woman would relent and share some of her work.

/>   But Winter Fawn had yet to find a way to say the words that would not cast fault on Gussie for taking away her chores. Winter Fawn did not want to hurt Gussie. Even though by taking over the braiding of Megan’s hair each morning Gussie had unknowingly hurt her.

  And she could not say anything to Bess, because Bess was so very pleased to have her aunt with her, taking over the responsibilities, teaching her, shooing her off to spend time simply being a child.

  As miserable as was, Winter Fawn did not know what to do. She stood on the porch and gazed off toward the bluffs to the north and east. Maybe it was time to consider returning to Our People.

  Carson saw her there on the porch when he walked from the barn to the well for a drink of water. He saw her unhappiness in the way her shoulders sagged, had seen it the past few days in the shadows in her gray eyes. Was Gussie working her too hard? Had his aunt said or done something to upset her?

  The way Winter Fawn stared out toward the northeast worried him. Was she thinking of leaving? Returning to her people?

  The thought tied his stomach in a knot. She couldn’t leave. He wasn’t ready for her to leave. Might never, he realized slowly, be ready for her to leave.

  He wasn’t in love with her. Of course he wasn’t. So why should the thought of her leaving make cold sweat break out between his shoulder blades?

  He liked her. He enjoyed her company.

  When was the last time you shared her company?

  Now he was being stupid. He shared her company every day, every time he stepped foot in the house.

  Shared. Yes, shared. With a half dozen other people around all the time. He wanted her alone. He wanted to touch her, hold her, kiss her. Every day he fought back the wanting. Every day he told himself it was a passing thing that he would get over. Yet every day it grew inside him, the need to make her his.

  But it was only physical, he was sure of that. And therein lay his problem. She was not a woman to be used for a quick roll in the hay.

  What if that’s all she wants from you?

  The question brought him up short. She had been willing enough in the mountains. Eager, even.

  And hot.

  Oh, yeah, she had been hot. Hot enough to singe the willpower right out of him, otherwise he would never have done what he did that last morning on the trail.

  Maybe he’d been holding himself back for nothing. She was a grown woman. Should she not be allowed to make her own decision about who to give herself to, and when?

  She had wanted him once. Maybe if he could get close to her again, make her want him again, she would not get that sad, faraway look in her eyes that made him think she was leaving.

  He hung the dipper back on its hook and straightened his hat. He didn’t have much time to waste. He and the men would be heading out before dawn in the morning to round up more cattle to brand. They might make it back tomorrow night, and they might not. He could not leave without at least talking to her for a few minutes. Alone.

  He crossed the yard and stood just on the ground at the edge of the porch. Their positions, with him on the ground and her on the porch, made her a few inches taller. He tipped his head back and found her gray eyes there, dark and pensive, waiting for him.

  “You’re all alone,” he said.

  Winter Fawn gazed at his sweat-streaked face and knew she had never seen a more handsome man. “So are you.”

  His smile came quickly. “I am. But you’re the one who usually has a little shadow following you around everywhere.”

  Winter Fawn couldn’t help a smile of her own, but it faded quickly. “Your aunt insisted that Megan take a nap.”

  His smile, too, disappeared. “Are you unhappy here, Winter Fawn?”

  She supposed she should not have been surprised by his question, not with the way she had been moping around feeling sorry for herself. She felt ashamed. He had so much on his mind trying to get the ranch going. Her father had explained enough of the white man’s ways that she thought she understood about cattle and branding and money and land rights—although how any one person thought they could own the land, she could not fathom. But white men thought it, and acted on it, so she supposed that meant they had to worry about it. Carson did not need to worry about her, too.

  “I am fine, Carson.”

  “You looked sad just now.” He stepped up onto the porch and towered over her. With a gloved hand, he stroked her cheek. “I don’t want you to be sad.”

  The look in his eyes took her breath away. It was the same look he had given her in the predawn light that last morning on the trail. She read the memory of what had happened there in his eyes. Without thought, she gave in to the yearning in her heart and leaned toward him. His name was a whisper on her lips.

  He leaned down closer, until his breath brushed her cheek.

  From inside the house, Megan’s voice rang out. “Winter Fawn, where are you?”

  Carson straightened and dropped his hand to his side. “One day,” he said softly, “there will be time for us.”

  The promise in his voice, his eyes, stayed with her long after he walked away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  With the men gone, there was less work to be done. Winter Fawn was more miserable than ever. Not only was she almost totally idle for the first time in her life, but she missed Carson. Every night she lay awake remembering the promise in his eyes that day on the porch.

  What did it mean? What would happen when he returned?

  Was he all right? Did he have enough to eat? Was he warm at night?

  The questions raced through her mind over and over until she thought she might scream in frustration.

  The fourth night of his absence, thunder rumbled in the distance, teasing her with the threat of another storm. Closer and closer the thunder sounded, until she knew it would soon be directly overhead.

  Knowing she would not sleep, she tossed the covers aside and crawled from the bed. The cotton gown fell to her ankles, and she ran her hands down the soft fabric. While she preferred the feel of soft fur against her bare skin, white people did not sleep in furs, nor, she had determined, did they bare their skin anywhere outside of the bath tub. Since she felt obliged to adhere to white ways while in a white man’s house, she was glad the gown Bess had given her was so comfortable.

  The thunder came as a sharp clap now rather than a low rumble, and was accompanied by a flash of lightning. The storm was getting closer. Maybe if she were not upstairs, with the feeling of being perched high in the air, she would not feel the presence of the storm so much.

  Although why she should think so was beyond her. One could not be closer to the earth than in a tepee, and she had never felt safe there during a storm. But anything was worth a try.

  Tiptoeing downstairs as quietly as possible so as not to wake Bess, Megan, or Gussie, Winter Fawn made her way through the darkness to the sofa. She curled up there and, for something to do, she undid her braids and used her fingers to comb her hair.

  The thunder was almost constant now. Her fingers, when she saw them through a flash of lightning, were bent like talons. With a conscious effort, she relaxed them and forced a deep breath into her lungs.

  It was only a storm. She was safe inside these sturdy walls. It couldna hurt her.

  But it was not for herself that she feared storms. At least, not her own safety. It was her heart that was in danger of breaking, because she greatly feared the loss of another loved one. Her mother. Her father.

  Her father had returned, but he always left again.

  Storms took people away.

  He was out there now in the storm, her father. Along with her brother. And Carson.

  Man-Above, keep them safe. Please do not take one of them into the storm.

  Carson was ten yards from the house when the sky opened up and dumped on him. Cursing, he sprinted the rest of the way to the porch.

  At least they’d finished. They had beat the brush and rounded up fifty-four head of cattle. There were more out there, and
he would find them. But for now, they’d slapped the Double D brand on another fifty-four head.

  They’d had plenty of men to hold such a small herd during a storm, but he was glad they hadn’t needed to. The damn critters could run from here to kingdom come, as far as he was concerned. They now wore his brand; he would find them again. There was no need to hold them.

  They wouldn’t go far, anyway. Carson’s father had chosen this spot along the Huerfano because of the layout of the land. The surrounding bluffs formed a natural barrier—albeit sometimes miles away.

  He hit the front porch and nearly slipped on the wet wood. Cursing again, he removed his hat and shook the water off as best he could before pushing open the front door.

  As he stepped inside, thunder crashed and a flash of lightning over his shoulder illuminated the room. He shouldn’t have been able to hear the small intake of breath over the fury of the storm. He shouldn’t have, normally wouldn’t have bothered to look toward the sofa. But he did hear, did look, and everything inside him tightened.

  Huddled into the corner of the sofa, Winter Fawn sat with her knees beneath her chin, both hands covering her mouth, and her eyes as wide as saucers.

  Quickly Carson closed the door and rushed across the room. He crouched on the floor before the sofa. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  Her head jerked back and forth and a tiny whimper escaped her throat.

  Carson put his hands on her shoulders. Her violent trembling alarmed him. “You’re frightened. Talk to me, Winter Fawn. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  He couldn’t see her now; the room was as black as the inside of a cat. More than worried, he tugged off his gloves, then found her ice-cold hands, where they covered her mouth. As gently as he could, he forced her hands from her lips. “Honey?”

  “I’m s-sorry.” A deep shudder wracked her. “It’s nothing.”

  “What’s nothing?” he asked, trying to keep his voice low and smooth.

  “The s-storm. I…don’t like…s-storms.”