The hopeful look in his eyes almost broke her heart. “I’m sorry, Case. You could fall. You’re not strong enough to climb a ladder.”
Tears shimmered in his eyes as he nodded.
His stoic capitulation was harder for Deborah than if he had ranted and raved. She hated the unfairness of it all. She hated to deprive him of the adventure he sought, and yet his welfare was hers to protect. She took his small hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. “What do you say, we make you a nice bed down here?”
He mustered a brave smile. “Okay, Debs.”
They found two more rooms, much smaller than the first, coming off the hall at the back of the house. The room behind the kitchen, with its steeply sloped ceiling, must have been used for storage. Crude shelves lined the walls, and several wooden crates were stacked haphazardly beneath them.
Across from there, beneath the loft, was a narrow room, empty except for a lumpy straw mattress pushed against the wall and a brightly woven blanket folded neatly on top.
Deborah fought back a rush of hot tears. Plans for this house and the future she and her brother would build here had fueled her dreams for months. The dismal reality of the place made her doubt the wisdom of dragging themselves away from comfort and familiarity to an uncertain future in Texas.
Case’s hand trembled slightly within hers, a sure sign he was tiring. “Come, dearest,” she said. “Let’s find a place to sit for a while.” As the room where they currently stood was by far the cleanest in the house, they sat on the straw pallet. For a moment, they were silent.
“It doesn’t look like a very happy place, does it?” Case asked at last.
His dispirited observation plucked at her heartstrings. Case had the rare gift of seeing the brightest side of everything. She could count on one hand the number of times he’d given in to negativity. This time she could only blame herself. She’d spent the entire journey telling him how great their new life in Texas would be. The reality of the house didn’t match the “Promised Land” she’d described.
“I think we should pray.” Even as she made the suggestion, Deborah went to her knees.
“Okay,” came Case’s unenthusiastic reply as he obediently knelt beside her.
“The Bible tells us God gives us a garment of praise for a spirit of heaviness. Let’s praise God for all the good things He’s provided for us since we left Louisiana.”
“You start.” Obviously, Case was not convinced.
“Well, hmmm.” Deborah bowed her head and closed her eyes as she searched for something positive to say. “Heavenly Father, we acknowledge You as the source of every good thing. I thank You for… for the good weather You granted us for the journey.”
She paused, waiting for Case to chime in. Silence.
She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, I’m also very thankful for the adequate provisions we enjoyed.”
Case shifted beside her. “Especially Aunt Mimi’s tea cakes.”
Deborah bit back a smile. “Thank You for the dependable wagon and team.”
“And thank You for Aunt Mimi’s bonbons.”
Deborah took a deep breath to speak her next words, which truly stretched her faith. It would take all of Case’s imagination and optimism. “We thank You for supplying all our needs with this house.”
More silence. Evidently Case’s imagination and optimism didn’t extend quite that far. Maybe a little prompting would help. “Thank You for the strong door.”
“Thank You for the beeyoutiful loft and ladder.”
Deborah ignored the painful compression of her heart. “And the cookstove.”
“And the Indian.”
“And the—” Deborah’s eyes snapped open as she swiveled to stare at her brother. “The what?”
“The Indian,” he repeated calmly. “The big one standing right there.”
CHAPTER 2
The woman moved fast. In a flurry of shawls and skirts she scrambled to her feet and swept the boy behind her. She raised fear-filled eyes to him and spoke with admirable defiance for one who trembled visibly. “Do not touch me.”
There was a gruesome thought—touching that strangely lumpy and head-to-toe dirty woman. Luke lifted his hands slowly, palms out. “No, ma’am.”
Not a chance. He wouldn’t risk touching her with a stick. She could be anywhere from age fifteen to fifty-five for all he could tell since a thick layer of grime on her face obscured her features. Except for her eyes. Pupils dilated with fear glowed from luminous pools of green, the rich color of summer grass. She blinked as he spoke.
His answer appeared to surprise her, whether because it was delivered in perfect English or the fact that he had no intention of molesting her he couldn’t be sure.
“Y—y—you must leave,” she commanded while maintaining her wobbly warrior stance in front of the boy. “You don’t belong here.”
He folded his arms across his chest and lifted a brow. “And you do?”
Again she looked startled, and this time more than a little annoyed. She straightened and thrust out her grimy chin. “I most certainly do. This is my home.”
“This place belongs to Cyrus Marbury.”
The child, slender and pale with wide green eyes like the woman’s, managed to peer around her wide skirts to ask, “Do you know my uncle Cyrus?”
Luke crouched down to meet the little fellow eye to eye. “Very well. I helped him build this place.”
The child tugged her skirts. “You see, Deborah. He’s not a bad Indian. He’s friends with Uncle Cyrus.”
“If he were friends with Cyrus, then he would certainly know Uncle Cyrus went west and left the house to my father.”
“Went west—?”
“Indeed he has, and if you were any friend at all—What are you laughing at?”
Luke threw back his head and howled. “The old coot. I can’t believe he really did it.”
When she was angry she seemed to forget to be wary. He could hear her foot tapping impatiently beneath the skirts. “Yes, yes, I’m sure it’s all very amusing, but the fact remains, the house is mine, and you don’t belong here.”
“Your father’s,” Luke corrected. Ordinarily Luke wasn’t one to argue, but for some reason, he enjoyed watching the green-eyed woman get riled. “The house belongs to your father. Is he here?”
The child popped around again. “Papa is in heaven. With Jesus.”
“Hush.” She pushed the child behind her before raising her dirty face to Luke. “I want you to go. Now.”
“Fine.” Luke took a step toward her and could swear he saw her blanch beneath the layer of dirt. He lifted his hands to placate her. “My blanket,” he said by way of explanation. “Behind you. On the bed.”
“Oh.” She sidestepped him, dragging the boy behind her, to give him a wide berth.
Luke could feel her eyes on his back as he scooped up the folded blanket and tucked it under his arm. He said nothing as he turned and walked from the room. He was at the back door when he heard the child call out, “Come back for a visit, won’t you?”
Luke could hear the woman scolding the boy in hushed, furious tones and heard the childish voice ring out in protest, “But I liked him.”
Luke smiled as he exited the house.
His horse, a large paint mare, nickered as he entered the darkened lean-to that served as a stall. “Time to go, old girl.”
Luke tossed the worn leather saddle over her back and cinched it. He slid his rifle, which he’d left leaning against the inside wall, into the holster before swinging into the saddle and riding across the yard and out through the broken gate without looking back.
He replayed the short encounter as he rode away. The last thirty minutes had been a novelty for Luke. Not the part about being thrown out. Rejection was as familiar to him as breathing. The unusual part was that someone wanted to see him again. Of course, that someone was a child, too young to know that Indians, more specifically half-breeds, were not fit companions. Still it was a nice feeling to be want
ed.
No one wanted Luke. Occasionally someone like Crandall came along, someone with a need who appreciated Luke’s skill with a gun. But with the exception of the small boy back there, no one had ever wanted Luke for Luke.
Except maybe Cyrus.
Ten years ago, Cyrus had saved his life. He had taken in Luke, a starving fifteen-year-old boy, and provided him with food to eat and a place to sleep. It didn’t seem to bother Cyrus that Luke was a half-breed.
The thought of Cyrus brought a smile to Luke’s face. Cyrus had always been a loner, not by necessity as Luke was, but by choice. He was a quiet, gentle man who preferred the wide-open spaces and sounds of nature to the noisy confines of a settlement. Yet he had welcomed a sullen teenager with open arms.
Luke reined in his horse and swiveled in the saddle to look back at the house. He and Cyrus had built that house, log by log. For months they’d labored together in an odd kind of companionship that didn’t require many words. For Luke it had been a comfortable time, though he couldn’t have said which he liked more—the acceptance of another human being, or having a full stomach and warm bed.
But Luke hadn’t stayed. The restlessness within him, like an itch that needed to be scratched, kept him moving. Cyrus understood. He’d let the boy go, to find whatever it was he sought, with the knowledge that a warm bed and hot meal always awaited him.
It had been several years since Luke had been back the last time. Evidently the tide of settlers from the East was enough of a threat to Cyrus’s solitude for him to continue west. Luke hoped he’d find the peace he needed. He’d miss Cyrus.
Luke kicked up the horse and rode on, away from the memories of Cyrus and the only home he’d ever known. A home that now housed Cyrus’s people.
They’d never make it, the lumpy woman and lame boy. Texas was a wild place. Life was hard, luxuries few. He’d give them a week before they’d had enough and packed up their wagon and headed back for wherever they’d come from.
Good riddance. It wasn’t as if they were his problem.
Luke rode another few yards before his conscience stopped him. The memory of a half-starved kid wandering up to a campfire and his warm reception by Cyrus clung like a burr in his mind. He hadn’t been Cyrus’s problem, yet Cyrus had clothed him and fed him.
Could Luke do any less for Cyrus’s people?
Luke sighed. At times like this he hated the strong sense of justice that reared up in him. He didn’t know where it came from, only that it forever had him stepping into fights that weren’t his or sticking his nose in other people’s business to right wrongs that weren’t any of his concern.
Cyrus had said it was honor. Luke thought it was crazy. Still, he knew better than to resist it. He knew from experience it’d plague him till he finally acted.
Luke sighed again. He’d have to take care of Cyrus’s folks.
He was no fool. He knew the woman didn’t like him. She’d never willingly accept his help. There seemed to be a lot of pride lurking beneath all that dirt. Pride and fear. Any assistance from him would have to be anonymous.
Their biggest need would be protection. The twosome would be easy prey for anybody looking for trouble. The sorry state of Cyrus’s house was evidence that drifters had been using the place as home. They might take exception to the new owners.
Even as the thought surfaced, Luke grimaced. He’d been in such an all-fired hurry to leave he hadn’t thought to ask if they had a gun to defend themselves. Not that it would do them much good. He could almost smile at the picture of the woman pointing a shaky gun at an intruder.
Resolved to carry out what he knew to be a thankless mission, Luke redirected his horse, heading southeast toward the small tree-covered rise he and Cyrus had called home over the months it took them to build the main house. They’d nailed a few rough boards together to provide basic shelter. It’d been years since Luke had thought about the shack, but if it still stood, it would be perfect for his needs. It was far enough from the house they’d never know he was there, and protection enough to keep out the rain should they be lucky enough to get some.
Minutes later he topped the rise. For a long moment he scoured the landscape, looking for signs of the shack. Finally he caught a glimpse of a weathered gray board from behind a stand of mesquites and he rode over to investigate.
Even standing just two feet in front of the building, he’d never have noticed it had he not known it was there. Thick vines entangled with other vegetation completely covered the small wooden structure. This was perfect. His presence would go undetected.
Luke dismounted and walked to where he knew the door was located. With the knife he wore in a sheath tied to his thigh, he cut through the weeds and vines and pulled them off, discarding them in a pile. Then he pried off the boards he and Cyrus had nailed over the door to keep out varmints. Finally he could push open the door and step inside. Inside the shack, the air was cool and stale. Threads of light sifted through the tiny cracks between the boards and shone on the thin layer of dust blanketing the room.
He left the door open, allowing the breeze to cleanse the air. The single room wasn’t fancy, but no worse than many of the places Luke had stayed over the years. Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d be here very long. In a week he’d be back on the road, seeking answers to ease the restlessness within him.
CHAPTER 3
By nightfall Deborah was dead on her feet. She ached in places she didn’t realize she had. But with that ache came a tired sense of accomplishment.
She’d unloaded the bulk of the load from the wagon, unhitched the team, and settled them and the milk cow for the night, and prepared a meager dinner for Case and herself from a can of beans and leftover biscuits. Sadly, she didn’t have the energy left to pump and heat water for a bath, so the much-awaited soak would have to wait till tomorrow.
Her brother didn’t share her exhaustion. “What do you think, Debs? Did I do a good job?” His freckled face beamed up at her with the question. “Didn’t I make it cozy for you?”
“Dearest,” she said with a tired smile, “you’ve made it very cozy. Just like home.” Truthfully only a bear could feel at home amidst such squalor, but she’d never say so to Case. His natural good humor rebounded nicely from this morning’s low ebb, and he was obviously proud of his effort to make the place more homey. While she unloaded their belongings, he had cleared a path down the hall and into the kitchen using the broom they brought with them.
Over dinner, he confessed to Deborah he hadn’t gotten as far as he would have liked, but he’d spent a great deal of time with a lovely nest of baby mice he’d found in the hall. A nest that he promised his horrified sister he would relocate outside first thing in the morning.
Case pulled his chair closer to hers and sat beside her as he surveyed the room. “It is the ‘Promised Land,’” he said, slipping his hand into hers, “just like you said it would be.”
Deborah winced. The “Promised Land.” From the stories her father told of a grand house with every luxury, she envisioned something much different than a rustic log home with puncheon floors. She supposed having a water pump in the house was a great convenience, but at the moment, she couldn’t muster up much enthusiasm.
“It’s late, Case. Let’s have prayer, then get on to bed. Tomorrow will be another busy day.” She knelt, slowly and painfully, onto the scuffed plank floor. Case joined her. “Heavenly Father, we thank You for our safe journey. We thank You for this house. Keep us safe tonight, we pray. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
“Amen.” Case struggled to his feet, picked up the pewter candlestick from the kitchen table, and limped across the room and down the hall to the small room at the back of the house where Deborah and he had decided they would sleep until they could clean up the larger room with the fireplace.
Earlier in the day, Deborah had dragged in the mattress and made it up with fresh sheets. Case placed the candle on the wooden crate they’d converted to a nightstand and climbed onto the bed and snug
gled in. Deborah pulled the covers up tightly under his chin.
“Aren’t you coming to bed, Debs?”
Deborah shook her head. “Not just yet. I thought I’d check to be sure the house is locked up tight before I get in.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead and stood up to leave.
“I wonder where our Indian is tonight. Do you think he has a warm bed to sleep in?”
Our Indian. Deborah shivered at the thought. If she lived to be hundred, she’d never be so frightened as she had been this morning when that giant savage had appeared in the room. Mercy! What a monster. He’d looked big and mean with his broad shoulders and piercing dark eyes, and as far as she was concerned, she hoped they never saw his face again.
“I’m sure he’s fine, Case. Now go to sleep.” She took the candle with her, its flickering light casting eerie shadows in the cluttered hall. She thought she saw something move just inches from her hem and she screeched.
“What is it, Debs?” Case called from his bed.
She forced herself to take a deep breath and speak calmly. “It’s nothing, dearest. Go to sleep.”
Deborah clasped a hand over her hammering heart. She needed to get ahold of herself. There was nothing in the hall, just as there had been no one watching her all day. It was just a case of nerves. She’d been jumpy since they met the Indian. He would be long gone by now. She had nothing to fear.
Still, she checked the latch on the back door for about the fiftieth time since she’d bolted it this afternoon. Secure. Just as it had been the other forty-nine times.
With her skirt clutched in one hand and the candlestick in the other, Deborah moved carefully down the hall to check the front door. She hadn’t been able to latch it. The hinges of the door were so badly bent, the door wouldn’t close completely, so she had to be satisfied with bracing it shut with her Sheraton trunk. She had placed several glass jars on top of the trunk so that if someone tried to move it during the night, the jars would fall and alert her to the intruder.
The Brides of the Old West: Five Romantic Adventures from the American Frontier Page 56
