Dorothy Garlock

by This Loving Land

  “Slater McLean.”

  “I remember seeing him in town. He came to the dance hall and watched. You’d not forget a face like that. Not ‘cause it’s cut up some, but ‘cause he didn’t smile a’tall. I never saw him till the last couple nights I was there.” Sadie’s green eyes watched Summer through red-gold lashes. In all her young life, Sadie had known little love, and much loneliness, longing and hardship. There had been years of impossible struggle. And from that struggle, she had learned to judge men. “I’d say he’s a man who wastes no time once he gets his mind set. I’ve seen his kind afore. He don’t go swaggerin’ around huntin’ trouble, ‘cause he’s had it a plenty. He’s been up the creek and over the mountain, as my pa used to say, and takes to fightin’ and standin’ up for hisself like you and me take to makin’ a batch of cornbread. It’s everyday work to him. Now, he’s the kind of man I’d tie to . . . if’n I ever got the chance!”

  Summer avoided her eyes. “I knew him when I was a little girl,” she said. After that, it was easy to talk to Sadie, to tell her about her mother, Sam McLean and Slater. She didn’t say anything about Ellen or Travis or Slater’s hatred. “My mother was so sure Sam McLean would take care of us that she made me promise to come here. Slater is just carrying out his father’s wishes and I’m grateful, but . . . I don’t like feeling so . . . obligated!”

  “Don’t ya like him?” Sadie asked shyly. Then, before Summer could answer, she blurted out, “He’s ten times the man that varmit of a Travis is, I tell you! I ain’t never even talked to the man, but I can tell that by lookin’.”

  Summer had to laugh at Sadie’s vehemence. Then she said seriously, “We must do everything we can for ourselves before we ask for help, Sadie. And if there is anything that we can do for them. . . .” She left the words hanging and drew her brows together in thought.

  Sadie’s green eyes twinkled. “I know what we can do! Cowhands like nothin’ better than doughnuts. Well, I’m here to tell ya that I’m the best doughnutmaker in all of Texas! We’ll make up a dishpan full, that’s what we’ll do. Those cowhands will wonder how they ever lived without us!” She got up. “I’ll do it right now, Summer. That is, after I see what that Mary is up to. She’s mad ‘cause she didn’t get to go with John Austin—had herself a regular spell-thinks he’s the grandest thing ever hatched.”

  “I must have felt that way about Slater when I was young.” The words were an echo of what was in her mind. Wanting to change the subject, she asked, “Why do you dislike Travis, Sadie? Was he unkind to you at the dance hall?”

  “Unkind!” The word exploded from Sadie. “That polecat passed right over ‘unkind’ and went over to downright horrible. Take my word for it, Summer, that man ain’t worth doodle-de-squat!” She disappeared around the corner of the house. “Mary!” Summer ,heard her. “Don’t eat that worm! You ain’t no bird!”

  In the quiet of her departure,Summer sat thoughtfully. A big June bug buzzed against the glass window pane. Behind the house, she could hear Sadie scolding. Down by the creek, a mockingbird sang. Then she heard the sound of a male voice and Slater and John Austin rode into the yard. Summer watched the man on the big horse and the boy on the sorrel. Her little brother was slipping away from her.

  Slater dismounted and glanced at the boy. The kid had grit and staying power; he had taken him over a rough trail and the tyke had hung on like he was glued.

  “Get off the horse, John, and come ‘round and talk to her. She’ll learn you’re not afraid. That’s the first thing she needs to know about you. After that, she’ll know who’s boss and will be your best friend, could save your life someday. You take care of her and she’ll take care of you.” He talked evenly and confidently, showed the boy how to strip off the saddle and bridle, stood aside while John Austin struggled, and then helped him tturnthe mare into the corral.

  “You’re not going, are you, Slater? Can I come with you? Can I look at your books?”

  “I’ll bring some over for you after you finish your chores.” They walked to the woodpile. “Stack this wood in a neat pile, John. And gather the chips in that tow-sack and leave them outside the back door for the women to use to start the fire.” Slater picked up the axe that was lying on the ground and sunk the blade in a log. “Never leave the axe on the ground when you’re through with it. Always sink the blade into the stump and it will stay free of rust. Another day I’ll teach you to use it. Now I’ll show you how to stack the wood so if we get a downpour it won’t all get water-soaked.”

  As long as Slater worked, John Austin worked. When Slater stopped to roll a smoke, John Austin stopped until Slater motioned him to continue.

  An hour later, the two of them walked into the kitchen. Slater hung his hat on a peg and stepped outside to the washbench. John Austin, his face covered with sweat, bark and wood-dust, headed for the table and snatched a cake from the pile of freshly sugar-dusted doughnuts.

  Slater appeared in the doorway. “Wash first, John.”

  To Summer’s annoyance, her brother sat down at the table and stuffed his mouth with the warm cake. Before she could say anything, Slater spoke again.

  “Up, John!” It was as unexpected as the crack of a whip.

  The boy looked at his sister and wiped his hands on his shirt. Summer’s face flooded with embarrassment.

  “John Austin!” she hissed. At that moment, she could have slapped him.

  “Did you hear me, John?” Slater was behind him. He glanced at Summer. Her face was flushed, but her chin was up and her eyes wide.

  “He doesn’t usually. . . .” she began.

  John Austin glanced unconcernedly at Slater. Summer would take care of it. She always did. He reached for another cake. A hard brown hand engulfed his, and he was lifted from the chair.

  “It’s time you had a lesson in obedience and manners, boy.” He headed for the door. Summer’s heart leaped into her throat when her brother looked back at her with pleading eyes. “Get out to the woodpile and finish stacking the wood. Then, wash your hands and apologize to your sister and Mrs. Bratcher. Do you understand?”

  There was a long silence when Slater turned from the door. Summer stood, dusting the hot doughnuts with sugar, not trusting herself to words because they would have been indignant ones. They would have been in defense of herself, and only partly because of John Austin.

  “Well?” A flicker of anger was in his eyes. “You allow him to get away with such behavior? Run rough-shod over you? Haven’t you taught him any manners?”

  Manners? Obedience? How could this man know what it was like to raise a fatherless boy? A daydreamer of a little boy, who had been hers to care for and to worry about while caring for a sick mother. Summer’s face, in the soft light of the kitchen, was stolid, her eyes like empty stars. She stood beside the table and smoothed out the cloth with a few quick, graceful, and totally unnecessary movements. There was not a single word to be said, because he would never understand. He would have had to have gone through the ordeal himself to have understood.

  It was Sadie who broke the silence, rescuing Summer and not Slater. She poured a mug of coffee and sat it on the table.

  “I’m the one who is forgetful of my manners,” Summer said tightly. “This is my friend, Mrs. Bratcher.”

  The rapid thrust of his gaze moved over Sadie, interest in his eyes.

  “Slater McLean, Mrs. Bratcher.”

  “Do you take sweetnin’, Mr. McLean?” She pushed the cup toward him.

  “No, but I have a fondness for doughnuts.” He smiled his one-sided smile.

  Sadie seemed to be perfectly at ease. Her face lit up and she grinned at him.

  “I ain’t never seen a cowhand that wouldn’t trade his pocket knife for a pan of doughnuts. ‘Pears you ain’t no different than the rest, Mr. McLean.”

  “I get a craving sometimes for something other than refried beans and tortillas.”

  Sadie giggled and Slater laughed back at her. Summer swallowed with difficulty. It seemed to her
she was the only person in the whole world whose stomach was tied up in knots. Sadie’s catlike green eyes absorbed the lines of distress on Summer’s face.

  “Take yore coffee to the veranda, Mr. McLean. It’s powerful hot in here. Here’s a cup for Summer, too. I’ll bring you all a hot cake from the next batch.” She tossed her head and grinned at him. “I’m gonna need this here table for my doughnut-makin’.”

  Slater’s glance at Sadie held a quality of conspiracy that caused Summer’s heart to beat painfully.

  “I can see that we would be in your way.” He picked up the two mugs. Summer followed him on wooden legs.

  She sank down on the bench and accepted the mug Slater held out to her. She felt tired and strangely bewildered. Her face was quite still, depleted of all her strength. Under Slater’s sharp gaze, she was still, small, young, alone.

  “You don’t like the way I handle your brother?” There was a tiny hint of a taunt in his voice. He sounded as if he wanted to hurt her, and not because of the way she had failed with John Austin. She was convinced it was something personal about her that angered him.

  She bit her lower lip, looked at the expanse of blue sky and didn’t answer him.

  “Well?” The expression of anger was still on his face; the muscles clamped above the jawline.

  She had to meet his eyes, because to have avoided them would have been the last indignity.

  “It isn’t that.” She closed her eyes to escape the mesmerism in his. “You can’t know how it was.”

  “I think I know.” His voice was softer. “We’ll share it now.

  Her eyes flew open.

  He turned away, reaching into his pocket for his tobacco. In that silence, the match flared; he lit his smoke and blew out the flame. Then, he picked up her hand, turned it palm upward and looked at it. It was a small hand, still very young, but it had the callouses of hard work on it. Her eyes came up to his. They were sad, sober eyes, but deep down in them Slater could see a yearning beginning to dawn.

  “This is what you brought your brother here for, isn’t it, Summer? You wanted my pa to help you guide him, discipline him. He’s a very clever and unusual child . . . and strongwilled. You do too much for him, protect him to the point of making him weak. I’ll not allow you to do it any longer.” He sat looking at her. They were so near they touched.

  “But he’s so young. . . .”

  “Not so young that he doesn’t know how to manage you. He has that age-old wisdom and knowledge of how to work a woman, far beyond his years. He’s not an ordinary boy, and he’ll need a heavy hand for a while.”

  “You think I tied him to my apron strings.” Summer looked at the smooth side of his face, the scarred side turned away from her. He opened and shut the fingers of the hand she allowed to lie in his.

  “It was necessary. Without those apron strings, you couldn’t have gotten him here. But there comes a time to cut him loose.”

  “Now is the time. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Now is the time.” He gripped her hand tightly. “It’s time someone took care of you, too. I’m going to take care of you both. You belong to me now.”

  Slater’s eyes were suddenly like dark glowing coals. They met Summer’s. Hers were startled. He had said, “belong to me.” And she could see he meant it. Suddenly, something had changed, forever. They both knew it.

  Summer sat frozen, yet waiting. Very slowly, he raised the cigarette to his mouth. Smoke floated away like a dream, lost and gone. He stared down at her.

  “What we have, we share.” His eyes were inscrutable.

  This wasn’t a game, or a fantasy. He meant what he said. Her heart pounded and she drew the tip of her tongue across dry lips. Under his slanting black brows, his eyes were clear and searching.

  The silence was long, breathless and deafening.

  Slater flicked the cigarette into the yard and took the mug from her hand. Then his arm went around her and she was so firmly against him that she could feel the hard bones and muscles of his body thrusting through her thin cotton dress. The intimacy of that contact sent waves of surprise and pleasure through her. Strange, tempestuous feelings threatened to swamp her, and she struggled desperately to keep her head.

  The smooth side of his face pressed tightly against her cheek, and the feel of his mouth against her ear made her panic. Writhing in the trap he made of his arms, she uttered a faint cry of protest.

  “Sh, sh . . . hh. Sh, sh. . . .” His voice was soothing. His lips touched the side of her neck and his hand moved up and down her back. She was panting a little, the wild beat of her heart against his. “Do I frighten you?” His lips were against her cheek.

  “No.” It was scarcely more than a whisper. Her brain commanded her to fight free of him, but her senses ignored the order. Her eyes closed and all conscious thought was wiped away by new and pleasant sensations.

  Long ripples of tranquility flowed through her as she lost the desire to struggle. Her body became pliable and molded itself tenderly against his as a new need grew within her, a sort of ache for something—she wasn’t quite sure what—something like a joy beyond anything she had ever known, and which she might be able to reach if she stayed close to him.

  Still holding her with one arm, he raised her face to him. She opened her eyes.

  “Is there anything you want to say?” His voice was thick, but she didn’t notice. She was too aware of the hard warmth of his body and the faint smell of tobacco on his breath to take notice of anything else.

  “I . . . don’t know. I . . . have to think.”

  “I’m staking my claim,” he said tensely.

  The bold possessiveness of his words, the sheer arrogance of them, sent a thrill of excitement through her even while her intelligence rejected it. Once again, she made an effort to assert absolute control over her mind, only to find that her senses were being led into open rebellion by the touch of his fingers as they wandered down her chin and over the hollow of her throat. Gently the tips stroked the soft skin.

  “I won’t rush you,” he murmured. “We’ll take time to get to know each other.” He looked searchingly into her eyes, then his arms fell away abruptly and he stood up. “From here on, I’ll handle your brother. He’s not going to grow up to be a spoiled bastard like Travis!” He walked away with sure, quick steps. At the end of the veranda, he paused and threw her a wary glance over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner of the house.

  Summer sat for a moment, then went to the end of the porch to peek out. Slater was talking earnestly to John Austin. Perhaps he intended to take care of them like a younger brother and sister. He hadn’t mentioned marriage. Her confused mind groped for an answer. Confusion darkened her eyes, and her heart began to pound again. It hadn’t been a sisterly embrace when he held her. You belong to me now . . . the words refused to leave her mind. She went back to the bench and sat down, her pulses beating feverishly, wondering what would happen the next time she saw him.

  Eight

  In the days that followed, Summer learned much about Slater and McLeans Keep. What impressed her the most was that he was a person who didn’t give away his feelings easily. He was the undisputed boss of the significant number of people that lived and worked on the ranch; his was a position of great responsibility. He had to know how to do everything he expected his men to do, and do it better. They respected him and depended on his judgment. Summer had never met a man of his type before. She hadn’t, for that matter, met many men of any type—a lack she was terribly aware of, in a frightened way.

  John Austin recognized Slater’s authority and bowed to it. When he was harsh with the boy it shook Summer, for she had brought her brother up with dedicated tenderness and care for his young feelings. However, Slater was just, and while he reprimanded John Austin, he also made every effort to give the boy his heart’s desire—books from the ranch house.

  One evening, more than a week after he had taken John Austin in hand, he returned at dusk; bath
ed, shaved, his dark hair wet and slicked back from the small white strip near his hairline where the suntan stopped, his strong brown throat protruding from a freshly-washed, open-necked shirt. He had come to “walk out” with Summer. He made his intentions clear the first evening.

  “Evening, Summer, Sadie.” He lowered himself down onto the bench and leaned back against the rough logs of the house.

  While Summer was struggling to bring some semblance of order to her thoughts, Mary slipped off Sadie’s lap and went straight to Slater. She stood between his knees and looked curiously into his face. Summer held her breath for fear the child would mention the scar on his face.

  In the gathering darkness it was hard to see Slater’s expression, but his voice was gentle, and opened up whole avenues of conjecture as to his real nature.

  “Isn’t it about your bedtime?” He lifted the child and set her on his lap, one large hand cupping her bare feet. “You could get into a cockleburr out here in the dark.”

  On hearing Slater’s voice, John Austin came out the door.

  “Slater!”

  “Hello, John.” Slater turned his attention back to the little girl. She cuddled up against him and he chuckled softly, a sound that caused an inexplicable emotion to rise in Summer. “You’re a little scalliwag, that’s what you are!” He hugged her tighter in his arms.

  While Summer and Sadie watched, fascinated, Mary’s small hand came out and reached for his face. Summer sucked in a long breath as Mary’s little fingers moved up and down over his scarred cheek. Slater stayed very still, his eyes looking down on the child’s face. It seemed like an hour before she rested her curly head against him, wrapped her arm about his neck, and closed her eyes.

  “Slater . . . .” John Austin said impatiently.

  “In a minute, John.”

  In the silence that followed, Summer wondered exactly what his visit meant. She thought of his telling her he was staking his claim, and it brought an unexpected flush to her cheeks. If only she didn’t feet this terrible constriction in her heart when he was near