Daisies In The Wind

by Jill Gregory

  She made up her mind that she hated him too. And that was a welcome relief. The burden of all those idiotic daydreams was gone. Lifted forever. She had been a foolish simpleton, a dreamer, but now she was over him, so very much over him, it was as if she’d been set free from some terrible bondage, from prison, and so light were her spirits at this newfound freedom that she jumped down from the wagon the moment it pulled up at the Double B ranch house, without waiting for Wolf to help her.

  The door opened, light poured forth across the spotlessly painted porch and from the windows of the neat, white-frame house, and Caitlin appeared in the glowing doorway, wiping her hands on her apron and smiling with cheery pleasure.

  “Come in, Rebeccah! Don’t you look pretty! My, I didn’t realize it had grown so cold. You must make yourself comfortable by the fire.”

  Rebeccah ran lightly up the steps and across the porch, without so much as a backward glance at Wolf Bodine.

  The ranch house was charmingly appointed, its furnishings at once simple, comfortable, and hardy. A pleasant chintz-covered sofa was flanked by matching wing chairs in the same swirly blue-and-rose pattern. A roaring hearth fire stretched out its warmth to every corner of the high-beamed parlor, illuminating the oak tea table, the glass-enclosed curio cabinets against the wall beneath the stairs, the braided rug on the highly polished floor. Rose muslin draperies were tied back with blue tassels at the windows, and set before the large front window was a claw-footed writing desk with a small brass lamp atop it. Numerous wall sconces glowed with fluttering candles. A narrow varnished staircase led up to a second story, which no doubt was as homey and delightful as this parlor.

  What drew Rebeccah’s attention almost at once was the piano. It was in the corner near the hearth, a lovely, delicate little spinet with gleaming keys and a glossy rosewood finish.

  “It’s beautiful,” Rebeccah murmured, moving at once to stroke the polished wood. The bench was rosewood, too, with an embroidered seatcover. She stretched out a hand to touch the keyboard with a gentle finger.

  “Will you play something for us, Miss Rawlings?” Billy asked out of nowhere, and, startled, Rebeccah glanced up to see him at the bottom of the staircase, his dark hair damply slicked back, his face scrubbed and shiny in the bright light from the fire, the candles, and the lamp. It was obvious from the eager expression on his face that he did not hate her, and Rebeccah felt a surge of relief. Unlike his father, this bright little eagle of a boy did not hold a grudge because of the sadness her careless words had dredged up. He looked pleased to see her, friendly and open and excited to have company for supper. Rebeccah was surprised by how nice that made her feel.

  “Not now,” she demurred with a little wave of her hand. “We’re going to have supper soon. I’m sure your grandmother can use my help.”

  “Of course I can, but first play us a little tune,” Caitlin invited earnestly, “That piano has been in my family for as long as I can remember. It was my mother’s. My sister, Julia, learned to play, but I never had the patience for it. Needlepoint is what I was good at. But Julia died of cholera years back, and the piano came to me after my mother was gone. Once in a while Mary Adams picks out a little tune on it, and now and again Billy pounds on those keys, but if you know any real songs, Rebeccah, please go ahead. We’d all love to hear some music in this old house, wouldn’t we, Wolf?”

  Wolf made a sound halfway between a grunt and a cough.

  “Pa, wouldn’t we like to hear music?” Billy prodded. He tugged Rebeccah toward the bench. “Play something lively,” he urged, his eyes dancing. “I’ll clap along.”

  She was self-conscious, what with Wolf glaring at her like that, looking as if he’d just swallowed a whole lemon, including the skin; but there was nothing else for her to do except oblige Caitlin and Billy. She seated herself at the piano and stared down at the keys, her slender fingers poised hesitantly above them. What should she play?

  Something lively.

  “ ‘Turkey in the Straw’?” she asked, biting her lip, and Billy nodded emphatically.

  “Oh, yes! And then ‘Home on the Range’!”

  She began to play, and as her fingers danced over the keys, she felt herself becoming engrossed as always in the music. Whether playing Chopin or a country reel, the music never failed to capture her, body and soul. Her fingers raced and pranced, her heart lifted, and she smiled into Billy’s rapt face as the boy sang along enthusiastically. When she had finished both songs, Caitlin and Billy burst into applause.

  “That was wonderful. You’re quite accomplished,” Caitlin exclaimed, and a beaming expression suddenly lit her seamed little face. “Perhaps in addition to your regular teaching duties you might want to give the youngsters of Powder Creek—those who want it, that is—music lessons.”

  “But I’m afraid I don’t have a piano.” Rebeccah rose, her cheeks faintly flushed as she moved away from the bench.

  “You could give the lessons here, couldn’t she, Wolf? This old piano might as well be put to good use. And if Billy’d like, he could be her first pupil.”

  “Sure.” The boy glanced hopefully up at her and tilted his head to one side like an inquisitive bird. “Would you teach me, Miss Rawlings?”

  Rebeccah hesitated, unsure whether to laugh or to groan in frustration. She had come to Montana in search of peace and quiet—isolation, really—and here she was caught up in schoolteaching, music lessons, and suppers with friends.

  It wasn’t exactly unpleasant, however, especially since she’d never before had a friend, except Bear—but it was different from what she’d planned. And things just seemed to keep happening, rolling her life right out of her control.

  “Well, yes, I’ll teach you to play if you’d like,” she heard herself promising Billy as she followed Caitlin to the kitchen.

  She saw Wolf Bodine’s expression as she said the words, and an aching chill pierced her. She stopped in her tracks and turned. “Unless your father has an objection.”

  “No objection.” But his cold gray eyes were the color of a storm-tossed ocean, and they sparked with anger. He turned suddenly on the heel of his boot and stalked toward the door. “I forgot something I have to do in town,” he curtly threw over his shoulder. “Sorry, Ma, but it can’t be helped. Reckon you’d best go ahead and start supper without me.”

  And he was gone, tugging the door shut behind him with a soft but definite thud.

  Rebeccah’s heart sank like a sack of potatoes tossed down a dark well. He had left—because of her. He couldn’t even bear being in the same room with her—even though she was his mother’s guest.

  The insult stung as if a great wasp had punctured her lungs with its venom. Rebeccah felt her chest constricting as anger lanced through her. And hurt. A deep, slicing hurt that seemed to cut her heart to bloody pieces.

  Caitlin plopped her hands on her tiny rounded hips. Her mouth worked in consternation. “I’m going to scalp that boy,” she declared.

  “What’s eating Pa?” Billy demanded, looking from one to the other in bafflement. “He never goes to town at suppertime!”

  “Hush.” Caitlin threw him a vexed glance. “You go upstairs now and comb your hair. I’ll call you when supper’s ready.”

  “I already combed it, Gramma.”

  “Comb it again,” she ordered.

  In silence Rebeccah followed Caitlin into the kitchen. It was every bit as homey and tidy as the parlor, and it smelled deliciously of cooked beef with brown gravy, white beans simmering in a skillet alongside sliced potatoes, and fresh buttermilk biscuits.

  “Rebeccah, dear, why don’t you set the table while I stir these beans. That’ll take your mind off of my son’s rudeness.”

  “Will it?” Rebeccah gave a short, bitter laugh. “I shouldn’t have come tonight, Caitlin. I suppose I knew all along that it was a mistake. Your son doesn’t want me here.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” Caitlin pursed her lips as she stirred the beans. She studied the dark-haired girl
in the cherry-and-white calico, who was grimly setting plates about the table with its blue-and-white-checkered cloth. “I think my son doesn’t know what he wants. And that’s why he’s acting like a man with a burr under his saddle.”

  “What ever would make you think that?” Rebeccah paused, one of the pretty blue china plates clenched in her hand.

  “A mother knows. Don’t ask me how, but it’s true. Wolf is all torn up inside about something. Can’t make up his mind. I haven’t seen him this way in a long time. But you should know that he stood up for you at that town meeting a few days back. He put his job on the line to settle folks down and force them to give you a chance.”

  “He did that for me?”

  “He sure did.”

  Rebeccah could scarcely believe it. And yet something had influenced the people of Powder Creek who had such strong reasons to resent her. Otherwise she wouldn’t have had an opportunity at the teaching position, and she’d probably have been accosted by angry townsfolk by now.

  She finished setting the table in silence. Finally she gathered her courage to ask the question that had been gnawing at her for days. “His wife.” She forced her voice to sound cool, matter-of-fact. “How did she die? When?”

  Caitlin froze. Very deliberately she set down the wooden fork with which she’d been stirring the beans. “Clarissa was caught in a cross-fire,” she answered slowly. She cleared her throat. There was absolutely no expression on her firm, nut-brown face. “She died of a gunshot wound. It happened nine years ago. Billy had just turned one.”

  “How terrible,” Rebeccah whispered. She stared down at the dishes arranged around the table. There was a tiny triangular chip in one.

  “Wolf has raised Billy alone—with my help—ever since.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?” Caitlin sighed, and removed the skillet with the beans and potatoes from the fire, pouring them into a scalloped china serving bowl.

  “It’s not quite as simple as it sounds, Rebeccah. Nothing ever is. Remember that, dear. If I’ve learned one thing in all my years, it’s that.”

  Rebeccah concentrated on arranging knives, forks, and spoons at each place setting. “He must miss her terribly,” she said in a low tone. “He is mourning her still, isn’t he? Wolf, I mean. When I mentioned his wife one time, an expression of awful pain entered his eyes. And then, a moment later, it was gone—he had covered it up. I didn’t understand at the time.”

  “You still don’t.”

  Caitlin opened her mouth to say more, but at that moment Billy darted into the kitchen. “I’m starving, Gramma. When can we eat? We’re not waiting for Pa, are we?”

  “No, we won’t wait for Wolf. He’ll come back when he’s good and ready. Wash your hands at the pump and then take your seat.”

  Rebeccah forced herself to smile at Billy and Caitlin as they took their places at the table, but she was all too aware of the empty chair at the head of the table. Damn Wolf Bodine. He had spoiled the dinner for everyone, acting like a spoiled child, running away.

  He must truly hate me, she thought yet again. He can’t bear even the briefest time spent in my company. No doubt after hearing me play the piano he completely lost his appetite.

  She bowed her head as Caitlin said grace and then obediently helped herself to a portion of the tender, succulent beef. But her heart was heavy, and she boiled with rage as she thought about the insulting, childish, and oafishly rude manner in which Wolf Bodine had been treating her.

  * * *

  Wolf went straight to the Silk Drawers Brothel, plunked himself down at a small table in the darkest corner, and ordered whiskey. He drank it down in one gulp and ordered another. Molly Duke, wandering toward the stairs from behind the bar, spotted him at once. She sauntered over, her ample breasts swelling above the daringly low-cut décolletage of her black-and-violet-striped gown. A statuesque woman, she enjoyed styling her bright russet hair in a high pompadour held in place by rhinestone or imitation-ruby combs. She favored black silk stockings and a cheap perfume some peddler had once sold her called “Red-Hot Kisses,” and she had a long, sultry face that was comely even without the layers of paint she artfully applied.

  “Want some company?” she inquired with a faint smile.

  Wolf shook his head. “More whiskey,” he called to Lil, who nodded and hurried off to the bar.

  Molly hesitated. She’d known Wolf Bodine since he’d first come to Powder Creek. In her opinion he was the best thing that had ever happened to the town. She’d drunk whiskey with him, slept with him, broken her heart over him, and ultimately become friends with him. She’d tried to make him fall in love with her, but it hadn’t worked, and now she was wise enough and practical enough to settle for mutual friendship with the only man who’d ever treated her like a lady despite the fact that she’d always made her living as a whore.

  For the past few years she’d owned the Silk Drawers, and now she was retired from her former profession—she didn’t have to sleep with any other man unless she wanted him, but to most of the people in the town, once a whore, always a whore. Molly accepted that. But Wolf Bodine was different. He had never looked down on her, never been rude to her, never hurt her or shouted at her. He was a gentleman. She respected him more than any other man she’d ever known.

  And she knew when something was wrong with him. Wolf never drank this much unless something was bothering him. “What’s the trouble?” Molly asked bluntly, pulling up a chair and sliding her long, supple body into it, despite the glare of resentment he shot her way.

  “I’m not in a talking mood, Molly.”

  “I can see that. You’re in a drinking mood. I just thought you might need a friend.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure as hell.”

  “Okay, Wolf.” Defeated by the cold, hard way he stared down into the amber liquid in his glass, then downed it like a man dying of thirst in the desert, without even sparing her a glance, Molly rose and strolled away. She knew enough about men to recognize when they needed time alone. For Wolf this was one of those times.

  Maybe he was thinking about his wife. About Clarissa. She shrugged to herself as she headed to the backroom to begin counting up the day’s receipts. She’d probably never know for sure. Though Wolf was her friend, and on occasion spoke frankly to her after one of their passionate sessions in the big velvet-canopied bed upstairs, he didn’t confide much about his personal life. Once in a while he talked about his son, and when he did, she could see how proud he was of Billy, of the hopes he had for him. And occasionally he talked to her about his work, or sometimes even about his childhood escapades with his brother. But never about Clarissa, or any other woman. Not Nel Westerly, nor Lorelie Simpson, both of whom had done all in their power to win the tall, handsome sheriff’s heart.

  But he probably doesn’t talk a mite to them either, Molly reflected with a small degree of spite as she sank into the chair behind her desk. Wolf Bodine was a man of action, not of words.

  Outside her small floral-carpeted office, Wolf stared at his third glass of whiskey and pushed it away. Getting drunk wouldn’t help what ailed him. Hell, he wasn’t even sure what it was that did ail him. But he’d learned long ago that liquor only made things worse.

  Why did Bear Rawlings have to win property in this town, my town? And why did his daughter, with all her money and fancy jewels and whatever other ill-gotten riches Bear gave her, have to move out here and turn my life upside down?

  Caitlin liked her. Billy liked her. Hell, before long, the whole damn town would probably like her. But I won’t, he told himself coldly, studying the scars and scratches in the knobby table before him. She’s stubborn, ill-tempered, and damned secretive—and she had twice now brought up the subject of Clarissa. Of course she did it out of ignorance, but she was plainly nosy, and that was irritating in a woman.

  So why do you keep thinking about her—remembering how soft she felt in your arms, remembering the
soulful way she kissed you, as if she could never get enough?

  Wolf sat up straighter in his chair and scowled at nothing in particular. It had just hit him that it really wasn’t Rebeccah Rawlings he was mad at—it was himself.

  He never should have kissed her in the first place. He should have walked out of that cabin with his son and just steered clear of her. Unlike the other women he knew, she grabbed hold of a man’s attention and didn’t let go. Her face, framed by that cloud of midnight hair, kept popping into his mind. Her beautiful eyes seemed to beseech him, even when she was yelling at him. Damn! His fingers itched for that third glass of whiskey, but he forced them to grip the edge of the table instead.

  He had to go back. However he felt about Rebeccah, he’d been downright rude to Caitlin, he had probably spoiled the dinner she’d worked so hard to make festive and special, and he’d set a poor example for his son.

  Fine, I’ll go home and sit there in the same room with her and then drive her home when everyone’s had enough of each other, but I won’t give her a chance to get under my skin again. No matter what she says, how pretty she looks, how sweet she smells. I’ve survived the War Between the States, army food, gunfights, ambushes, rattlers, and encounters with desperadoes from here to the Rio Grande. I can sure survive Rebeccah Rawlings.

  * * *

  Two men met on the shallow banks of Deer Run Creek, not far from the Missouri River. In the darkness of the starlit night they dismounted, left their horses to graze, and stood together among the pussy willows and cottonwoods. The taller man, heavier and wearing a wide-brimmed black Stetson, spoke first.

  “What did you find out?”

  “He’s dead.” The slimmer man with the clean-shaved face spoke matter-of-factly and smoked a hand-rolled cigarette. “Seems the local sheriff shot him.”

  “Naw! You’re loco! Fess is too damn good for that! No small-town sheriff could plug him.”

  “This hombre’s no ordinary sheriff.”

  Something in the slimmer man’s tone made the other snap his mouth shut. For a moment there was only the hiss and gurgle of the creek, the screech of an owl diving in for the kill, the anguished final cry of his prey dying somewhere in the brush.