The voice, rich and deep, tinged with a hint of indignation, reminded Libby of bronze and polished mahogany.
“A dog? That ain’t no dog,” Burl argued. “Hell, a real dog’d eat that’n fer lunch and cough up a hair ball bigger’n a stallion’s testicles.”
Bert Bellamy howled at his brother’s witticism.
Libby’s interest was piqued. She hurried down the stairs and went to the front door, pulling aside the short curtain that covered the window. She peeked outside, squinting at the stranger.
“Oh, my.” The words came out on a rush of breath, and she put her hand to her chest, feeling an odd fluttering there.
He stood by his mount, big and luxuriantly muscled with a chest as wide as a door and arms as big around as porch pillars. His face was deeply tanned and as leathery as the saddle that was cinched around his horse’s belly. Deep brackets were etched on either side of his mouth, and his jaw was square and hard. Unrelenting, Libby decided.
“Oh, what kind is it?” Dawn stood on tiptoe by the stranger’s horse and peered at his saddlebag.
Libby’s gaze was riveted on the man’s face, which had softened slightly when he smiled at her daughter. He removed his hat, revealing sun-bleached streaks in hair that was as brown as strong coffee.
“It’s called coyote bait, little gal,” Burl suggested, obviously still having a good time at the stranger’s expense.
“He’s a Shih Tzu.” The stranger’s smile vanished, and his voice was gruff and defensive.
Burl guffawed again. “Hear that, Bert? It’s a shit-soo!”
“A shit-Sioux? What’s that?” Bert asked, clearly amused with himself. “Some kinda Injun dog?”
“Can’t be, Bert. Ain’t enough of him there to feed a whole tribe.”
The brothers chortled again.
Dawn glared at the old men. “Shame on both of you. You know how I feel when you make fun of the Indians.”
“I’m sorry, little gal,” Burl apologized, still laughing, “but ya gotta admit it ain’t much of a dog.”
Dawn turned toward the saddlebag again. “I think he’s adorable, especially with that leather thong holding his hair up on the top of his head. Is that to keep it out of his eyes?”
The stranger continued to study Dawn, a look on his face that Libby couldn’t identify. She sensed he hadn’t had much experience with girls Dawn’s age. “That’s right, young lady.”
Dawn gazed up at him. “Can I hold your dog? Maybe play with him?”
He lifted the dog from the saddlebag and handed it to her. “I think Mumser could use some exercise.”
“Oooh, Mumser. What a cute name,” Dawn said with a giggle as the pup licked her face. “You’re much more fun than our cranky old cat.”
Dawn carried the wiggly pup to the grass, where she ran her fingers over its long, silky coat before it scampered away from her, obviously eager to play.
Libby’s gaze lingered on her daughter as the child romped with the pup. She was grateful for Dawn’s resilience. Somehow she had to keep her innocent and sweet, but with the world the way it was, she knew that wasn’t possible. Prejudice against half-bloods was rampant, even in bucolic Thief River, California.
Dawn’s laughter tinkled through the air. With such a playmate, her sums certainly would be forgotten, and perhaps even her promise to pick berries.
“Is this the boardinghouse?”
Again Libby was drawn to the rich timbre of his voice.
“Shore is. Riverside. Built in eighteen-seventy on the banks of Thief River by the late Sean O’Malley,” Burl recited. “May God Almighty bless his Irish soul.” He spat a stream of tobacco over the side of the porch, hitting one of Libby’s prize chrysanthemums.
With an angry gasp, she flung open the door. “Burl Bellamy! How many times have I told you not to spit your disgusting tobacco onto my flowers?”
He turned and grinned, exposing his toothless mouth. “Well, afternoon, Miz Liberty, how long you been standin’ there?”
“Long enough to see you do it.” She put her fists on her hips and glared at him. “If you can’t use the spittoon, then quit chawing tobacco.”
Lifting her skirt with one hand, she grabbed the sprinkling can she kept on the porch with the other and hurried down the steps to the grass. With her fingertips, she gingerly held the stem of her beautiful pink mum, then doused it with water.
“There, there,” she soothed, almost feeling the mum’s anxiety.
“Who knows, Miz Liberty? Mebbe tobaccy juice is just what them posies need,” Bert offered.
Libby rolled her eyes and swung around. “That stuff is poison. To my flowers and to you.” The last three words lost their punch as she met the stranger’s gaze. She swallowed hard, having momentarily forgotten he was there in the flurry over her mums.
His hat was still in his hand. His eyes were such a brilliant blue that they appeared to have been painted.
“He’s wantin’ a room, Miz Liberty.”
“She don’t rent to folks with dogs,” Burl announced.
“Heck, Burl, that ain’t no real dog.”
Libby continued to stare at the stranger, her mouth working but nothing coming out. For anyone to render her speechless was quite an accomplishment, she thought, bemused.
“Mumser!”
Hearing her daughter’s cry of alarm, Libby pulled her gaze to the other side of the path that led to the house, where more of her chrysanthemums grew.
“Oh, no!” The damned dog was digging in her precious flower bed!
Flinging away the sprinkling can, she flew at the dog, making threatening motions with her hands. “Get away! Shoo! Shoo!”
With his rump in the air and his tail wagging, the pup clearly thought Libby wanted to play. She disregarded him and fell to her knees next to the flowers. Ignoring the playful growling and the tugging at her skirt, she replaced the dirt the little beast had dug up around the stems, pressing it over the roots.
“I’m sorry, Mama. He just sort of got away from me.” Dawn was contrite as she bent to help her mother put the flowers to rights.
“I don’t think he did any real damage.” Libby held a tight rein on her temper, which could be volatile. Although she never displayed anger in front of her daughter, she often felt as if she were going to explode. Like now. It was unreasonable to get emotional over flowers, but she’d worked so hard on them and they were truly the most beautiful mums in northern California. Everyone told her so. Why, perfect strangers would stop and compliment her on their beauty.
She took a deep breath and continued to pack the dirt when she heard the keening rip of fabric, followed by Dawn’s gasp and cry.
“Cyclops! Mumser! No!”
Libby turned in time to see her battered one-eyed cat giving chase to what appeared to be, for all intents and purposes, a small shaggy mop racing over the grass. A length of her own lacy petticoat fluttered along behind the dog.
Jackson cringed as he surveyed the chaos and covertly studied the girl. When he’d ridden up, his emotions had been exposed like raw nerves, but he’d quickly shoved them into the corners of his mind, where they belonged. His first glimpse of the girl had nearly done him in.
What he’d expected hadn’t been what he’d found. He’d been searching for her for a month, since his return from the Orient. His first discovery was the burned-out village where he’d left her and Grandmother. With mounting fear, he’d tracked her to a ranch, but learned she hadn’t been there for six years. His gut had clenched when he discovered the rancher had been using her as hired help. A mere child, for Christ’s sake! He’d expected to find the same thing here, but found instead a happy, beautiful child, well dressed and cared for by a woman she called Mama. What in the hell was going on?
It was hard for him to keep from staring at her. She was a beauty. More than that, she appeared to be sweet-tempered and compassionate. He felt a rush of pride, followed by a surge of guilt that washed every other feeling away.
Mumser race
d past, breaking into his reverie, the cat not far behind. Mumser was trained to know the “come” and “heel” commands, but at this point, under these circumstances, Jackson wasn’t sure it made any difference. Still, he had to try. He whistled a command, then called his dog. Mumser ignored him, as Jackson knew he would.
With his hat in his hand, he crossed to where the woman continued to fuss with the dirt around her posies.
When she first stepped onto the porch, he’d noticed her fire. White women were always full of fire. Always had their backs up about one thing or another. They never left a man in peace. But if Jackson thought she showed her temper when the old coot spat tobacco on her flowers, wait until she discovered why he was there. Then he’d see a damned inferno, he had no doubt about that.
He hadn’t been drawn to a white woman in over ten years, for all the reasons that had just run through his head. Give him a geisha any day. Or, he thought, remembering painful years passed yet not forgotten, an Indian maiden. There was something soothing about women who knew how to please a man, and to his mind, white women hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it.
And he was tired. Damned tired of getting paid to fight someone else’s battles in dirty corners of the world. His years as a globe-trotting freelance mercenary had finally caught up with him. He was ready to retire and settle down. More than ready.
“You should really have a fence of some kind around those flowers, ma’am.”
The woman stood, her hands on her hips, and gave him an icy stare, although her eyes were dark and hot. “Until today I didn’t have need for one.”
He cleared his throat. “The name’s Wolfe, ma’am. Jackson Wolfe.” He bit back another groan as the animals raced past.
“Cyclops!” The young girl continued to chase them, her braid, as thick as his fist, swinging from side to side.
“After all this,” Jackson began somewhat hesitantly, “I … er … don’t suppose you have a spare room, do you?”
Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. “After all this,” she countered, throwing her arms wide with a flourish, “you actually think I’ll rent you … and your dog a room?”
“Well, I … er … just came from the jail, and Vern said you might have a room available.”
Her gaze was wary. “Vern Roberts?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m acting sheriff until Vern gets back on his feet, and I’ll need a room.” This was where he wanted to stay. No other place would do. He’d camp outside if he had to.
She turned away, but not before he saw her jaw clench. “As Burl said, I don’t rent to people with pets.”
“I noticed you have a shed out back. That’ll do.”
She swung around to face him, her expression incredulous. “You want to sleep in my shed?”
Nodding, he added, “I’ll pay you five dollars a week.”
Her jaw dropped. “You’ll pay me five dollars a week to sleep in my shed? My regular rooms don’t even cost that much.”
The young girl nearly skidded to a stop beside them. “Mama, we have two vacant rooms, and you said we needed—”
“Never mind what I said, Dawn. Has Mahalia looked after your skinned knee yet? And what about your sums?” Her voice was stern but not scolding.
“But, Mama, you said we needed the money for—”
“Ma’am,” Jackson interrupted. “I’ll be gone most days, all day. I’ll take Mumser with me. Why, you won’t even know we’re here.”
“Yes, Mama, we won’t even know they’re here.”
The girl’s eyes held a familiar twinkle in their depths, and the excitement he saw there weakened him. His gut clenched like a fist.
With her arms crossed over her chest, the woman continued to study him. During the fracas, wispy threads of dark hair had come loose from her neat bun and now blew gently over her forehead and cheeks. The rest of her hair shimmered with deep burgundy highlights.
Her mouth was rich and full, her skin creamy. There was the suggestion of a cleft in her chin, and a lushness about her that reminded him of sultry Spanish nights. Warm wine. Willing women. His thoughts surprised him, for this one, with her snapping dark eyes, was anything but willing. Though her face was expressionless, those eyes told him she thought that anyone who would spend five dollars a week to sleep in a shed had ulterior motives.
If that was what she thought, she’d be right. He’d come for his daughter, Dawn Twilight, and he wouldn’t leave without her.
2
Libby nibbled at the inside of her cheek. “I’ve never bent the rules for anyone.”
“Mama, please?”
She glanced at her daughter, whose beseeching look never failed to soften her, then at the stranger. What was the matter with her? He was merely another boarder; she’d had hundreds before him. The fact that he was polite and could pay should have made her eager to rent him a room. And the fact that he was easy on the eyes should have helped, as well. Her feelings confused her, and she didn’t dare investigate them. But if Vern Roberts sent him …
“You’re going to fill in for Sheriff Roberts?”
He continued to hold his hat, and the sun danced brightly on the golden strands that threaded through his dark hair. “Yes, ma’am.”
Dawn tucked her arm through her mother’s and squeezed. “He’s gonna be the sheriff, Mama.”
Dawn’s gaze darted toward the wretched dog, and Libby knew that her daughter’s enthusiasm had nothing to do with the man and everything to do with his pet. She’d always had a softer spot in her heart for critters than for people.
“We can’t let him sleep in the shed. We just can’t.”
Libby looked past her daughter, toward the lawn. The animals had tired. Cyclops was nowhere to be seen, but the dog was merrily ripping the torn length of her petticoat to shreds.
She stifled a sigh. They did need the money. The nest egg Sean had left her before he died six years before was dwindling fast. And with Bert and Burl seldom able to pay their rent, there was little income and far too much outgo, especially when there were empty rooms. And that outgo included the repairs the Bellamy brothers did in exchange for their rent. Repairs she had to pay someone to do over properly, she reminded herself with a weary sigh.
Yet she was hesitant. “Well …”
“Oh, thank you, Mama!” Dawn sprinted across the grass and fell to the ground beside the dog.
“Much obliged, ma’am.”
Libby stuck out her hand and he took it. His rough calluses slid over her own. “Liberty O’Malley,” she stated.
“My pleasure.” His hand held hers for a fraction of a second longer; then he released it.
She made a fist and shoved her hand into her apron pocket, sensing an odd tingling that burrowed through her palm. Giving him a jaundiced look, she mused, “Had that mutt of yours been big and ugly, you can bet I wouldn’t have given in.”
His smile was wide. It momentarily disarmed her, for it made him even more appealing.
“For the first time since he was given to me, I’m glad he isn’t. It’s hard to appreciate a dog that isn’t even as big as my boot.”
She hid her feelings, still unsure if she wanted to rent him a room. There was no sensible explanation for her reticence. Before she’d agreed, she’d decided the dog was merely a nuisance, and as long as it stayed away from her precious mums, she didn’t give a diddly damn about it.
There was something about the man himself that caused the skin on her arms to pebble with gooseflesh. The sensation was new and it was pleasant, and it bothered Libby a great deal.
With an abrupt nod, she turned and took the steps to the porch, sensing that he was behind her. The Bellamy boys had been surprisingly quiet since the fracas between Cyclops and the dog had ended. Libby shot Burl a quick glance, noting that his rheumy old eyes held an unprecedented gleam. Bert chuckled quietly beside him. Narrowing her lids, she gave each of them a threatening look. Bert’s restrained chuckle developed into a wheezing laugh.
Flinging open the door,
she marched through and strode up the stairs, making her way to the third floor, where she kept a large bedroom. It was usually unoccupied; she rented it out rarely. The furnishings had been Sean’s. Not that it was a shrine to his memory or anything like that. Theirs had not been that kind of union. The room tended to get hot and stuffy in the summertime and cold in the winter, so she kept it vacant during the hottest and coldest months. Now, with September behind them, the cool autumn breeze would keep the room comfortable—until December, when there could be frost on the inside of the windows.
Perhaps Mr. Wolfe would be gone by then. An unpleasant twinge darted through her stomach at the thought, and she scolded herself for her foolishness.
“The room is four dollars a week. I usually charge three, but since you have the dog, I’m tacking on an extra dollar.” She didn’t expect him to argue. After all, he’d offered to pay five to sleep in the woodshed.
Stepping inside, she gave the room an automatic survey to make sure everything was in order. She cringed at the sight of the dust that winked and danced in the air, clearly visible as the sun shone through the window.
He stepped in beside her, his size both intimidating and alarmingly arousing. She’d been showing male boarders bedrooms for over ten years, and never before had she been so acutely aware that they were rooms in which people did their most intimate acts.
The bed, which had been Sean’s, was wider and longer than normal. It seemed the perfect bunk for this big man. Sean’s heavy rolltop desk and his big leather easy chair with the matching ottoman were bittersweet reminders of a life long gone. For obvious reasons, it was her most masculine room. She’d fought her feelings for months after Sean’s death, wondering if she could bear to have someone else use his things, but in the end, she was too practical to do anything else with them.
Mahalia had once asked her why she didn’t simply use the furniture herself. That would have been the sensible thing to do, of course. But with Sean gone, it was her first opportunity to have things of her own.
As the only daughter of migrant Irish farmworkers with four sons, Libby had been the least important person in the household. No one cared that she wanted a permanent home. Her brothers, rowdy boys all, had been delighted that they didn’t have to attend school. Her father moved the family with every change in the seasons, going where there was work, careless of his daughter’s thirst for a little knowledge and a place to put her roots. She barely existed, as far as he was concerned. The only thing she’d been good for was to work and bring in money. Money that he took from her. She’d even tried hiding a few dollars for herself, but in the end, he found that, too. She wore her brothers’ hand-me-downs, not owning a dress until she married Sean. Even at that, he’d bought it for her, not her father.
Jane Bonander Page 2
