In His Kiss: Blemished Brides, Book 4

by Peggy L Henderson

  He looked at the picture of the horse again. On impulse, he flipped to the page before it. His brows rose, and he touched the edges of a detailed drawing of the round pen and several of the barns.

  His gaze lifted to the second story window of the house. She’d drawn that picture from her vantage point up there. His gut hadn’t played tricks on him the other day when he’d felt her watching from that window. The drawing included him working the colt in the pen.

  Lance closed the notebook and headed for the house. Mahto barked again and bounced ahead of him as if the dog knew exactly where they were going.

  “Not sure how receptive your new friend is going to be when we come calling,” he warned his dog. “I wouldn’t hold out for another handout.”

  The dog leapt up the porch steps and wagged his tail in front of the door. Clearly, Mahto was more optimistic about their next encounter with Miss Eleanor than him. Lance frowned as he approached the ranch house. What was he going to say? He had no business talking to her.

  He took the porch steps two at a time, stood in front of the door, hesitated, then raised his hand to knock. Mahto sat beside him, his tail thumping on the wooden boards.

  Lance waited a good minute. When no one answered, he knocked again. His eyes fell to the porch swing a few steps away. He could simply leave the notebook there and walk away. He shouldn’t have come to the ranch house to talk to the owner’s niece, especially when no one else was around.

  He took a step back to place the notebook on the swing right as the door creaked open. Lance turned toward the sound. Patterson’s niece peered out from around the back of the door. Only her head was visible while she hid the rest of her body behind the thick wood.

  Lance peeled his hat from his head, instantly drawn to her brown eyes. That same look of fear passed through them as he’d seen by the corral. She blinked, and the look vanished. Her brows rose slightly in a silent question.

  “You left this by the corral, Miss.” Lance held the notebook out to her.

  Her eyes went from him to the notebook. She didn’t move right away. When she did, her hand appeared and reached for it. She didn’t say anything, but simply nodded before she moved to close the door. Lance’s eyes narrowed.

  “I wanted to apologize, too,” he said quickly before she closed the door in his face.

  She stopped.

  “I didn’t mean to put a scare in you with what I did. I threw the knife to stop Hank from drawing his gun on my dog. If I’d have thought for a second that I’d hit you with the knife, I wouldn’t have thrown it.”

  He waited, his eyes on hers. She didn’t answer. She just stood there, staring back at him, still shielding most of herself behind the door as if it would keep her safe.

  A fleeting thought came to mind. It had occurred to him earlier, when she hadn’t uttered a word to Hank and Fred. That and what he’d thought he’d seen her do with the horse . . .

  “You’re right about what you said to that horse.”

  Although only part of her was visible, she instantly stiffened. Her eyes grew wide with surprise at his words.

  Lance pivoted to face her fully. “He is a beautiful animal.”

  Her forehead scrunched, and she shook her head. She once again moved to close the door. Lance raised his right hand, sliding his flat palm in a downward motion in front of his face, then touched his hand to his chest and moved it out horizontally away from him.

  “My mother’s people use this to mean beautiful,” he said. “You were speaking to the horse with your hand.”

  He held his hand to his lips with his palm up and his fingers closed, almost in a fist, then opened it.

  “Do you talk?” he asked at the same time.

  Her eyes darted from his hand to his eyes. She shook her head. By now it was clear that his hunch had been correct. This girl didn’t talk. Someone, and it hadn’t been a white man, had shown her how to communicate using her hands.

  “Who taught you to speak with your hands?”

  There was another hesitation before she opened the door fully. She set the notebook on a small table near the door, then faced him again. The look in her eyes was one of uncertainty, but a spark of eagerness brightened the sadness he’d read there.

  She stood before him, swiping her fingers over the knuckles of her left hand in two quick strokes, then extended her left index finger and made a chopping motion over it with her right index finger.

  “Cheyenne?”

  She nodded. A hesitant smile passed over her face. Lance stared at her, unable to tear his eyes away. He’d never taken notice of white women before. It was best not to. Looking at this one, she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. There was a sparkle in her eyes that overshadowed the apprehension and sadness that lingered in her gaze.

  Mahto moved next to him, the nails on his paws tapping lightly on the wooden boards of the porch. He barked into the distance.

  Lance turned his head. A buckboard stirred up dust along the road heading to the ranch house. Fiona Patterson had returned. He looked at the girl again.

  “I’d best be going,” he said, putting on his hat. “You should ask your aunt to accompany you next time you want to walk to the corrals.”

  Without waiting for a reply of some sort, he turned to head down the porch. Before he reached the steps, a hand touched his arm. Lance tensed, glancing over his shoulder. When he looked at her, she moved both her hands in an arching motion toward him.

  Lance raised his gaze from her hands to her eyes. The fear had been completely replaced with hope, and even relief. Relief from what?

  The squeaking of wagon wheels and horses’ hooves drew closer. It was time to leave. He shouldn’t be here in the first place. He’d be in enough trouble later, once Hank complained to Stubbs and Patterson about him.

  Lance nodded at the girl and his lips rose in a slight smile.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, then rushed down the steps and headed back to the barns where he belonged.

  Chapter Five

  Ellie gripped the porch post and stared after the wrangler as he made his way toward the barns. His dog loped along in front of him, happily wagging his tail. She held her hand to her chest as her heart beat fast beneath her palm. He’d understood her. Someone had truly understood her for the first time since leaving Fort Peck.

  The two men who had approached her earlier had put a scare in her unlike any she’d felt in a long time. She’d barely been able to think when the wrangler had appeared and thrown his knife, nearly killing her. She’d never run so fast in her life to get back to the safety of the house.

  For years, her father had warned her that people might try to take advantage of her because of her inability to speak, and that’s why he’d kept her isolated at the fort. She’d never believed him, always assuming that he was ashamed of her, or even angry with her, but she’d never encountered men like those two before, at least not since . . . Ellie shut out the painful images the two cowpunchers conjured.

  Even Aunt Fiona had been right that she shouldn’t go to the barns alone. Ellie blinked away the stinging sensation behind her eyes. Would she ever lead a normal life, or was she destined to live locked away, always alone or dependent on others who didn’t understand her?

  The encounter with those men certainly validated some of her father’s concerns. No one at Fort Peck had ever approached her like that. The soldiers had kept their distance, no doubt because of her father.

  Ellie shook her head. Even if she’d been able to speak, could she have told those men to leave her alone in a way they would have listened? The encounter had been rather unexpected after the peaceful time she’d spent drawing pictures of the horse and the dog.

  After she’d run back to the house, the beating of her heart had almost returned to normal when the knock had come at the door. She’d watched through the window as the wrangler had walked up to the porch, and she’d heard the dog whining at the door. Unsure of what to do, she’d waited to see if he’d leave
if she didn’t open it.

  There’d been something soft and trustworthy in his eyes when he’d spoken to her and told her to go back to the house, unlike the leers she’d received from the two other men. Something in the way he’d looked at her then had told her she had nothing to fear from him, as odd as it seemed. He’d been the one who’d thrown a knife at her, after all. When the knock came again, curiosity had gotten the better of her.

  All fear of him had vanished when he’d communicated to her with the same hand motions she’d learned from the Cheyenne woman at the fort. She’d been the wife of a trader who’d come to the outpost once a month. There hadn’t been enough opportunity for the woman to teach her much, since her father didn’t tolerate her associating with Indians, but Ellie had been eager to absorb whatever she could.

  No one had ever directly communicated with her like that before, using hand motions rather than words. Her father had tried to understand, looking at her when she pointed at things or tried to tell him what she wanted using hand gestures. But when Ellie had written down that she’d learned the hand motions from an Indian, he’d been upset and stopped paying attention.

  Father’s dislike of Indians bordered on hatred, and he’d kept her confined to her quarters whenever Indians were at the fort. It had gotten worse after he’d learned about Ellie’s relationship with the trader’s wife. She’d overheard Father warning the trader to keep his wife away from his daughter.

  His overprotectiveness of her since her mother’s death had kept her isolated from most everyone, and when she had been around other people, she hadn’t been able to communicate with them other than writing words on paper.

  Ellie’s eyes lingered in the direction of the barns. The wrangler had realized right away that she couldn’t speak, at least not with words. There’d been nothing in his eyes to indicate that he thought any less of her, or that he considered her slow, because of her disadvantage.

  “Eleanor, what are you doing out here on the porch? Didn’t you see my note?” Aunt Fiona sauntered up the stairs, a basket swinging from her arm.

  Ellie sighed. She drew in a breath and nodded. Without a pad of paper and pencil, she couldn’t communicate with her aunt. Fiona was even more overprotective than her father, if that was possible. She was also oblivious to Ellie’s hand gestures.

  “Let’s go back inside, dear. I have some wonderful news that I’m sure you’re going to love.” Fiona beamed brightly and wrapped her hand around Ellie’s upper arm to usher her into the house.

  Ellie glanced over her shoulder toward the barns one last time. The wrangler had long since disappeared. He’d left in a hurry, no doubt because Aunt Fiona had returned. She hadn’t even found out his name.

  His quiet demeanor when he’d come to return her notebook had been completely unexpected from the way he’d acted earlier by the horse corral. He’d behaved like a fierce warrior when he’d confronted those two men, yet he’d been polite with her.

  He clearly wasn’t a full-blooded Indian. His skin wasn’t quite as dark as the ones she’d encountered at Fort Peck. He did have raven black hair, but it was trimmed short, just as she’d noticed when she’d seen him from the window. There was also evidence on his face that he shaved, something most Indians didn’t need to do. Most likely he’d inherited the trait from the white side of his heritage.

  “Eleanor, are you alright?”

  Aunt Fiona stared at her with raised brows after Ellie had followed her into the kitchen. Her mind was definitely somewhere else and not on what her aunt was saying.

  Ellie nodded, lifting her eyes to meet Aunt Fiona’s expectant look.

  I’m fine, Aunt Fiona

  She held her hands in front of her stomach and made the sign for “no” to indicate that she was not feeling sick, but her aunt ignored the gesture. No doubt she’d not even seen it or been aware that Ellie was trying to communicate.

  “You seem a little pale.” Aunt Fiona touched the back of her hand to Ellie’s forehead. “Perhaps you should lie down for a nap this afternoon. We wouldn’t want you getting sick.”

  Ellie gritted her teeth.

  I feel fine. I finally met someone who understands me. I want to see him again.

  She shook her head and forced a smile. Aunt Fiona studied her with a tilt of her head. Her lips formed a tight line while she looked upon Ellie with an appraising eye. Then she smiled, and the enthusiasm was back that she’d displayed a moment ago.

  “I was visiting my closest friend and neighbor, Alma Wilkins. She has a daughter who is about your age.”

  Ellie kept her eyes on her aunt while her mind kept drifting to her encounter with that handsome horse wrangler. She shook her head. She shouldn’t be noticing things such as a man’s looks.

  Especially not a man like him, Ellie. Whether he’s handsome or not, he is an Indian. Well, not really an Indian. Only part Indian, and he certainly dressed and talked like a white man.

  “Eleanor, are you even listening to what I’m saying?”

  Ellie blinked to refocus on her aunt. She nodded vigorously. At least Aunt Fiona wouldn’t ask her to repeat what she’d said to prove that she was paying attention.

  “Well, I think you’re going to like what I’ve arranged for you.” Aunt Fiona beamed a bright smile. She clapped her hands together.

  Ellie’s brows rose. Had she missed something her aunt had said while she was daydreaming about a horse wrangler?

  “I’ve invited Alma and her daughter, Maureen, for afternoon cake and coffee this Saturday, and she might bring a friend. I think it’ll be wonderful for you to meet someone your own age.”

  Ellie stared at her aunt. Meet other women her age? A sensation like a rock dropping into her stomach slammed her. She’d been to engagements with women her age and older, officers’ wives who’d invited her simply because she was the Major’s daughter. For the most part, the women had ignored her when she hadn’t been able to join in conversation. Would it be different this time?

  Aunt Fiona patted her hand. “I told Alma about your . . . speech impairment, so there won’t be any surprises. It’ll be a wonderful get-together.”

  Ellie smiled as hope grew in her. Perhaps it would be different here.

  “All you have to do is listen while they do the talking, Eleanor. And you can always write things down if you have something to say,” Aunt Fiona droned on.

  It would be nice to make some friends and have someone with whom she could communicate. Her smile faded. She couldn’t talk. No one understood her hand gestures. Past experience had told her that people quickly lost interest in her or forgot that she was even present when she couldn’t join in the conversation, and they certainly hadn’t cared to read about her scribbled opinions. By the time she finished writing a note, the conversations had moved on to something else.

  One person understands.

  Her mind once again drifted to the wrangler. He hadn’t looked at her with pity in his eyes. He hadn’t thought she was slow. He’d honestly, sincerely, tried to communicate with her, and he’d understood what she’d said with her hands.

  Perhaps Aunt Fiona would take her to the barns so she could thank him again for coming to her rescue from those other men, and for returning her notebook. Ellie leafed to a blank page and began to write.

  I went for a walk this morning while you were gone. It was such a nice morning. I visited the horses.

  Aunt Fiona read the note, then her head snapped up to look at Ellie with stern eyes.

  “I told you to stay at the house. You haven’t been properly introduced to the ranch hands, and no one knows about your condition.”

  Ellie nodded. Aunt Fiona was right that it hadn’t been a wise thing to do after her encounter with those two men. Quickly, she scribbled more words on the paper, keeping her sentences short and to the point.

  Two men approached me. They were not polite. Another man came and made them stop. He told me to go back to the house.

  Aunt Fiona audibly gasped. “I’ll be s
ure and tell John about that. He doesn’t tolerate rudeness and disrespect in his men. Who were they?”

  Ellie shook her head. She wrote,

  The man who helped owns a dog. I believe he’s part Indian.

  She left out the part about how he’d thrown a knife within inches of her head, or that he’d brought her notebook to the house . . . or that she could communicate with him.

  Aunt Fiona stared at the note, then back at Ellie. Her smile was strained when she said, “Why don’t you go and rest for a spell while I fix supper? Seems like you’ve had enough excitement for one day, Eleanor.”

  Ellie held her pencil to the paper to let Aunt Fiona know that she wasn’t tired or needed to rest, but the stern look in the woman’s eyes held her back. It might be better to ask tomorrow if she’d accompany her to the barns and find the wrangler so she could talk to him again.

  She left the kitchen and climbed the stairs to her bedroom, holding her notebook close to her chest. Once she’d closed the door to her room behind her she flipped the page to the drawing she’d done on her first day, when she’d seen the man working with the horse in the round pen.

  Ellie pulled up a chair and sat by the window, staring out toward the barns. From memory, she began a new drawing, starting with the eyes of the man who consumed her thoughts and had made her feel like a normal person.

  Several hours must have passed by the time Ellie finally set aside her pencil. Before her on the page was the likeness of the man who understood her. She had to see him again, talk to him again. Her ability to speak with her hands was limited to what little the Cheyenne woman had taught her, so even that form of communication wasn’t enough to convey her thoughts properly.

  The man she’d encountered earlier had been the first person who had truly listened to her. Even Aunt Fiona only glanced at her notes in passing, as well-meaning as she was. It didn’t matter that he was an Indian, someone she should stay away from, according to her father.