by Deborah Hale
He wasn’t certain what to make of the silence at first, until he realized they were playing hide and seek. Zeke roamed around the yard peering up into the branches of a big cottonwood, then checking behind a cluster of empty barrels.
“One, two, three on Daisy!” he shouted as Jesse’s little daughter emerged from her hiding place.
While Zeke continued his hunt, Daisy skipped over to the back porch, where Jane and the older Baxter girl sat with babies in their arms.
As John watched the children at their game, a queer pang went through him. He thought of his cousin Lame Elk and his friend Red Stone, with their sturdy sons and winsome little daughters. Perhaps it was a grave misfortune that John had reached his present age without siring any children of his own. Maybe he shouldn’t fight his auntie’s aggressive matchmaking.
While Zeke was busy flushing Jonathon Watson from behind a patch of alder bushes, his cousin Chris Kincaid stole out from his hiding place under the porch steps. Chris would be a handsome fellow once he grew into his height, John thought to himself. The boy had Jesse’s strong features and thick head of dark hair, combined with Haley’s striking green eyes.
Some whispering of the Great Spirit told John this mingling of a man’s and a woman’s flesh in their young was a mystical thing. Not to be undertaken for the wrong reasons or without the powerful medicine of great love.
Silently, Chris sped toward a tin can sitting in the middle of the yard and gave it a good hard kick. The can flew up in the air, then sailed back down into the boy’s hands.
“Gotcha, Zeke! I’m it now.”
Other boys and girls suddenly appeared around the yard. Matthew Kincaid shimmied down from the tree Zeke had inspected.
“Say, Miss Harris, this is a good game. Got any others you can teach us?”
Chris elbowed his brother. “Not till after I get my turn.”
Pulling his lips taut with two fingers, John blew a piercing whistle. The children all turned to look at him.
“You might want to fill your bellies to give you strength for more games,” he called. “Chow’s on out front.”
“Yippee!”
“Let’s go!”
“Wait till you see the cake my ma brought.”
The children thundered past him like a miniature buffalo stampede, until only Barton remained. The little fellow held out his arms after his departing cousins and began to rock himself up and down. “Uh-uh-uh!”
John sauntered over and lifted him out of Jane’s arms. “I reckon this young dogie is anxious to join the rest of the herd at the feeding trough. It smells like a fine spread out there.”
She made no move to rise from the porch steps.
“Barton and I would be honored if you’d sit with us at supper, ma’am.” He cocked his elbow toward her.
A tiny sigh escaped Jane, and she worked up an uncertain smile. “Thank you for the invitation. It’ll be nice to sit with somebody I know.”
Straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, she rose from her perch on the steps and placed her hand in the crook of his arm, with only a minor hesitation.
John could barely sense her featherlight touch through the sturdy cotton weave of his shirt, yet suddenly a peculiar warmth began to flow through his arm. As if the rest of his body had become a block of senseless wood, and every particle of feeling centered on the spot of contact between Jane and him.
When he tried to speak, the words caught in his throat. He had to push them out by force. “The truth is, you’ll be doing me a favor, too. It’s only since Ruth married Caleb and I went to work at the ranch that I’ve been coming to these get-togethers. It’s kind of the Kincaids to invite me along, but most all the other grown-ups are married and…”
He couldn’t bring himself to mention that, with the exception of his sister and nephew, everyone else was white.
Was his imagination working overtime, or did Jane’s tiny hand press more tightly against his arm?
“That’s exactly how I feel. Everyone I’ve met so far has seemed very nice, but they’ve all known each other for a long time and I’m a…stranger.”
They reached the front yard, where the children were jostling to help themselves from the food table, while their mothers tried to keep order, with mixed success.
John nodded toward the women. “Plenty of these ladies were in the same boat when they first arrived in Montana. See Mrs. Jesse Kincaid over there? She came from back East to marry a land agent named Stoner. Real cuss of a fellow he was. Jesse held up the stagecoach she was riding to Whitehorn and kidnapped her. That’s got to be every bit as vexing as your train crash.”
Jane’s face went white as sun-bleached bone, and John wished he hadn’t reminded her of the accident.
“Mrs. James, there,” he hastened to add, pointing out a tall woman with wire-rimmed spectacles who wore a rich plum-colored dress, “she came West to teach school. Her stage no sooner pulled into town than a couple of bank robbers tried to make their getaway in it. Caleb’s cousin shot both the robbers. That’s when the town council took a notion to make him sheriff.”
“I think I’d have died of fright if those things had happened to me,” Jane murmured, staring at Kate and Haley Kincaid with unmistakable awe.
John shook his head. “Don’t go selling yourself short. I reckon those ladies were plenty scared at the time. Likely thought about bolting back East to where life was safer, but they stuck it out, just like you’re doing. And by the looks of it, they’re thriving, just like you will.”
The festive hubbub almost swallowed Jane’s whispered reply. Perhaps she didn’t mean for him to hear it.
“I haven’t any choice but to stay.”
As the evening wore on, Jane found she had no choice but to enjoy herself. Whether because the Kincaids were such an infectiously friendly clan or because she wanted to help John feel more a part of the festivities, she wasn’t certain. Perhaps the reason didn’t matter.
The two of them loaded their plates from an improvised buffet table that fairly groaned under blue enamel pans of chicken and dumplings, platters of cold sliced ham and tongue, a mess of fried trout, braised short ribs and stewed venison, scalloped potatoes swimming in milk and butter. Though not the sort of dainty fare Jane was used to from Beacon Hill, it was wholesome and tasty. Just having her stomach pleasantly full of such food made her feel more hardy and confident.
“Jane made those baked beans,” Ruth announced after several compliments on their flavor. “And wait till you taste her lemon cake. She’s going to make some lucky man a fine wife.”
From one of the other tables, Jane heard the sheriff mutter, “Just as long he gets her good grub into his stomach and not all over his trousers.”
The other men at the table began to chuckle, but were cut short by elbow jabs or reproachful looks from their womenfolk. A stinging blush rose in Jane’s cheeks and the party food seethed in her stomach. Then she felt John’s hand fumble for hers under the gingham tablecloth.
On his way to give her hand a quick squeeze of encouragement, his knuckles brushed her knee. Unlike the saloon-keeper’s touch, it did not provoke a spasm of disgust. Instead it sent a ticklish sensation coursing up her inner thigh that culminated in an alarming, though curiously pleasant shimmer of heat between her legs. The blush in her cheeks intensified.
“I agree with you, Ruth,” said a woman with chestnut curls, whom John had pointed out as Mrs. Jesse Kincaid. “Miss Harris has a real way with children, too. It was good of you to keep them out from underfoot while we were getting everything ready, my dear.”
The boy sitting next to her piped up, “The lady taught us a new game, Ma. It’s like hide and seek, but more fun, ’cause if you’re hiding you don’t just sit around and wait till you’re found. You have to try to sneak out and kick a can without getting caught. I did, so I’m gonna be it once we finish eating.”
“Say, that does sound like fun.” The boy’s father tousled his son’s dark curls. “Maybe I’ll j
oin you kids for a game to run off some of this good supper.”
Though his handsome features had a rugged cast, Jesse Kincaid didn’t look like the kind of desperate outlaw who would kidnap another man’s bride-to-be at gunpoint. No more than Brock looked like a fearsome gunslinger—something Jane had overheard Matt whisper to the Baxters’ oldest daughter. Perhaps Haley and Abby had mastered the art of gentling their turbulent stallions.
Jane doubted she had either the courage to try or the charm to carry it off.
Sneaking a sidelong glance at John Whitefeather bouncing little Barton on his knee, she wondered what kind of husband he might make…for some woman.
He worked hard, and to her knowledge he never drank anything stronger than sarsaparilla. He had a kind of steady strength that reminded Jane of the mountains ranged along the western horizon. Yet he had a gentle side, too, like the tall prairie grass waving in the wind, or the warm caress of a fleece wrap on a chilly night.
She admired the tender but powerful bond between him and his family, almost as much as she envied it. The relationship between Emery and his aunt had been distant at best, downright acrimonious at worst.
Once upon a time, she’d had a loving family, too. For months after Mrs. Endicott took her in, she’d pined for her folks, treasuring their memory. Gradually she’d put them out of her mind because it hurt too much to recall the happy times.
It had taken her a while to realize and trust that John Whitefeather was nothing like Emery Endicott. All the same, Jane sensed a difference between John and the other men gathered around these tables. Was it just his mysterious Cheyenne heritage, or was it the wrenching tragedy that marked his past?
Whether by circumstance or inclination, there could be no doubt John Whitefeather walked alone. The kindness he’d shown her of late had surely been prompted by pity. She’d be a fool to think otherwise. And yet…
Some long dormant yearning made her wish he could just once slip his arm around her shoulders the way Caleb did to Ruth, or fan her flushed face with his hat, the way Brock had Abby’s.
When the time came to dig into the sweet course, John followed Jane to the table spread with pies and cakes, cobblers, sweet rolls, bread pudding and turnovers. While she held Barton, he asked her what she wanted to eat, and heaped their plates accordingly.
The guests were all digging into dessert when Caleb rose and cleared his throat. “Brock and Abby, we’re all glad to see you and Jonathon settled in your new place. Folks have a few tokens of remembrance they want to give you to warm your new home.”
At a nod from their mothers, Matt Kincaid and the Baxters’ eldest daughter stepped forward carrying a magnificent apple-leaf-pattern quilt in soft shades of green. The other women exclaimed, and Abby ran her hand over the intricate patchwork as if it was the most precious treasure in the world.
“Christine and I have been working away at that whenever we could get together,” said Haley. “We hope you’ll spend many happy nights snuggled under it.”
Brock extended one long arm around his wife’s shoulders and hugged her close to him. “I’d say that’s a pretty safe bet.”
All the married couples joined in an indulgent, knowing chuckle. Jane stared at her lap and blushed again. Growing up in Mrs. Endicott’s household, she’d been strictly discouraged from learning the particulars of what went on between a husband and wife in the privacy of their bedroom. She’d almost come to believe there must be something vaguely shameful about it. These nice folks didn’t make it sound that way, though.
“Thank you, ladies.” Brock flashed a roguish smile at Haley and Christine. “I’ll bet old Grover and Mrs. Cleveland don’t sleep under as fine a quilt as this in the White House!”
More presents followed. A savings bond from the banker, William Kincaid, and his wife, Lizzie. Two finely bound volumes of Shakespeare from James and Kate. A handsome set of fire irons and screen from Caleb and Ruth. China from Mr. and Mrs. Dillard, who ran the mercantile. Everyone seemed to have a gift for Brock and Abby’s new house.
Everyone except her.
Jane wanted to slide down in her chair and hide beneath the table. She wished Ruth had told her the other guests would be bringing presents. Not that she’d had money to buy a gift. The Kincaids were so much nicer than Mrs. Endicott, but it didn’t change the fact that she was living on their charity.
Nobody else at the party would know that, though. They’d see her fancy dress, not realizing it was an old one of Marie Kincaid’s, and think she was just too mean to buy a gift.
She didn’t notice that John had left the table until she heard his voice behind her. “Here’s a little something from me and Miss Harris and my folks back at Sweetgrass.”
He set the brown paper parcel in Abby’s lap and made his way back to Jane’s side. The expression on his face was the most endearing mixture of embarrassment and fierce pride.
“Why, thank you, John,” said Brock, as Abby unwrapped the gift.
“Oh, my stars!” Abby gasped.
Jane craned her neck to see, hoping none of the others would guess she hadn’t a clue what her gift might be.
Abby held up three pairs of beaded moccasins—small, medium and large. “They’re as soft as kid leather and lined with rabbit’s fur. And look at that beautiful beadwork. Thank you, John and Jane. The three of us can wear these around the house to spare my new floors. You really didn’t need to bring anything, but we’ll think of you both whenever we put these on.”
She passed the moccasins around for all their guests to admire as Caleb got to his feet again.
“I guess that’s all the presents—I’d say you made a darn good haul. Between the quilt and the fire irons and your fine new moccasins, if your house isn’t warm now, it’s never going to be.”
Under cover of the laughter that greeted Caleb’s quip, Jane leaned close to John and whispered, “What made you say those moccasins were from me, too? You know I didn’t have a thing in the world to do with them.”
John shrugged. “I saw the look on your face while folks were giving their gifts. It was easier to read than a mustang rolling his eyes. It didn’t take anything away from me to say the moccasins were from both of us.”
“Let’s clear away these tables,” suggested Caleb. “Then if we can coax Harry to haul out his fiddle, we can get down to some dancing.”
In a buzz of activity, the guests rose and began to prepare for the dancing. While John helped the men knock down the tables, Jane let the Dillards’ youngest daughter take Barton so she could help the women clear away and clean up after the supper.
An hour later, John found her in Abby’s kitchen drying the last of the dishes. “So this is where you’ve been hiding.” He leaned against the door frame. Though it looked to have been built tall, to accommodate Brock and the other Kincaid men, John filled the space. “I’m not hiding,” Jane protested, though the beginnings of a shamefaced grin might have betrayed the truth. “The other ladies had husbands wanting them to dance, so I told them to go.”
“Well, now you have somebody wanting to dance, so hang up your dish towel.”
“I couldn’t. I don’t know the first thing about dancing.”
She’d longed to, though. Every time she’d accompanied Mrs. Endicott out to a society wedding or to the annual Temperance Society Benefit Ball, she’d stood behind the old lady’s chair, watching with envious eyes when the dancers swirled past.
What had hurt most was having to watch Emery take the floor with another partner. He hadn’t dared ask Jane to dance, of course, in case his aunt discovered their secret engagement. Sometimes, though, Jane felt certain he’d relished the opportunity to flaunt his attentions to some other girl in her face. Once she’d made the mistake of complaining to him afterward….
“Your spirit is wandering, Jane Harris,” she heard John say. “Come on back to the Big Sky and try to work up the gumption to take a turn around the yard with me. I know a heap more about ceremonial dancing than I do about wa
ltzes and such, but I’m willing to give it a whirl if you are.”
He nodded toward the source of the music outside—the seductive croon of Harry Talbert’s fiddle. “If we stay beyond the circle of lanterns, nobody will be able to see if we step all over each other’s toes. Besides, all those married folks only have eyes for each other. They’ll never even know we’re around.”
He must have sensed her hesitation waning, for he introduced his most potent argument. “I’d say one dance would just about square your half of those doeskin moccasins we gave Brock and Abby. You wouldn’t want to welsh on your debt, would you?”
How could she refuse when he’d provided her with a perfect excuse to do what she wanted to? Jane laughed as she fumbled with the tie of her borrowed apron. She hoped her feet would not prove as clumsy as her fingers had suddenly become.
“It’s a good thing you’re a horse trainer and not a horse trader, John Whitefeather. I’m going to come away with by far the better bargain out of all this.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”
One of his long, fluid strides closed the gap between them. Jane stifled a gasp, but this time it was not provoked by fear.
John gave a single deft tug on one of her apron strings and the tie came undone as if by magic. He held out his hand to her, as she had seen so many gentlemen do when inviting their ladies to take the ballroom floor. They drifted out the front door of Brock and Abby’s new house just as Harry Talbert struck up a fresh tune.
“’Beautiful Dreamer,’” sighed Jane, as John led her to a shadowy spot beyond the pale of the glowing lanterns. “At least it’s a nice slow one.”
The sun had finished setting behind the Crazy Mountains while she’d been inside doing dishes. Now a cool night breeze stirred the prairie grass and the leaves of the cottonwoods. A new moon hung in the vast darkened sky like a silver sickle.
If there was a more perfect place in the whole world to dance to this sweet, poignant melody of Stephen Foster’s, Jane could not imagine it.
