He nodded toward the pretty yellow and white pitcher and bowl sitting on the dresser. “There’s warm water in the pitcher. I’ll go get the boy, and you come on downstairs when you’re ready.”
March nodded, watching as he left the room. Unbuttoning her dress, she pulled it over her head, horrified at the large bloodstain on the skirt. A lady was never careless enough to let blood get on her skirts, even if it was three days after giving birth. She’d never be able to look him in the eyes again. Knowing that he must be thinking all kinds of terrible things about her, March moaned in despair.
A thick cotton drying towel and smaller washing cloth hung on the rail beside the sink. Dipping the washing cloth into the water, she scrubbed as much of herself as possible. It had been months since she’d had an all-over bath. It was too cold to wash in the river during the winter, and they didn’t have a bucket large enough to sit down in. As soon as it was warm, she decided, she’d find a creek and take a nice, long bath.
Putting on her only other dress, she carefully wrapped her stained clothes in a bundle and put them on the floor, taking great care that they didn’t touch the rug. She would have to wash them and hang them out to dry, since she had nothing else to wear.
As she came slowly down the stairs, Jim noticed that the clean dress was badly wrinkled, and if anything, smaller than the one before. Her legs were visible several inches above her ankles, but it was obvious that she’d made an attempt to wash her bare feet. He tried not to notice how shapely her legs were or how the dress clung lovingly to every curve. She was tiny, but well filled out, and he forcefully reminded himself that she was just a girl and here to take care of his son, not him.
Her gaze glued to the bundle in her employer’s arms, March forgot her earlier embarrassment. Her heart beat painfully hard as she reached out to pull the blanket away from the baby’s face.
“How old is he?” she whispered.
“Ten days.” Jim looked down at his sleeping son. “His mother didn’t survive his birth.” He saw no reason to tell this child about the horror Melanie had gone through.
Longing with every fiber of her being to take the baby into her arms, March clasped her hands behind her back. “What’s his name?”
Jim looked up at the girl and then back down at the baby. In all the confusion, the work and worry, he’d never given thought to giving him a name.
“He doesn’t have one,” he finally admitted. “What?” Her stunned expression made him feel sadly lacking. “Everybody’s got to have a name. What have you been calling him?”
“Mostly just boy.”
“You’ve got to give him a name, Mr. Travis.”
“Jim,” he corrected. They didn’t stand on formality at the ranch.
“Jim,” she seemed to roll the name around on her tongue. “That’s a good strong name for a man, but maybe you could call him Jamie ‘til he grows a little.”
“No, my name is Jim.”
“All the more reason to call him Jamie; it’ll avoid confusion.”
He noticed that her eyes were the deepest gray he’d ever seen, nearly violet, with thick dark lashes that shadowed her cheeks. Her hair was blond, streaked nearly white in places by the sun. He wanted her to be about fourteen, maybe fifteen, but looking at her now as she gazed down at the baby, he was afraid that she was considerably older than that. He suspected that she was fully grown, and that he was courting trouble by having her in his house.
“No,” he mumbled to himself, uncomfortable that he was noticing her as a woman rather than a child. He pushed the baby into her arms. “There’s bottles and tinned milk in the kitchen, clean towels in his room. I’m heading out, but I’ll try to be back tonight. If you need anything, give a holler, Hank and Woods stay around the bunkhouse most of the time. They’ll give you a hand.”
March didn’t see him grab his hat from the hall tree or hear the door slam behind him. The pain between her thighs and the exhaustion brought on by the simplest movement faded away. All that she was aware of was the warm bundle in her arms.
“Hello, Jamie. Do you like that name? Your pa couldn’t seem to decide if he wanted you named that or not.” She carefully unwrapped the sleeping baby, studying his long, slender fingers, counting his stubby little toes. His rosebud mouth puckered when she caressed the deep dimple in his chin, and she smiled when he yawned and stretched out in her arms.
“You’re a beauty, little boy,” she whispered as tears suddenly filled her eyes. She had lost her own baby, but had been given another child who desperately needed a mother. “I’ll be a good mama, sweetheart. You’ll never be hungry or cold, and I won’t let anyone ever hurt you.”
Holding onto the handrail for support, March slowly climbed the stairs, returning to the baby’s room. She needed to wash out her dress before the bloodstains set. She didn’t even know where the kitchen was, and her stomach rumbled with hunger. But she laid down on the bed, the baby snuggled safely between her and the wall. Her eyes slowly closed, and for the first time since she’d lost her own baby, March slept without dreams.
Jim returned home long after sunset and wasn’t surprised to find that the house was dark. He hadn’t expected March to wait up for him. Grabbing the lamp hanging beside the front door, he struck a match and adjusted the wick.
He was surprised that there wasn’t a fire in the kitchen fireplace, or a plate of food waiting for him. Alarm raced through him when he knelt at the fireplace and discovered that the ashes were cold.
With a pounding heart, he climbed the stairs and went directly to the baby’s room. He muffled a sigh of relief to find March asleep on the narrow bed, the baby cradled in her arms. He turned and left the room quietly before the light could disturb either of them, but the picture of his son snuggled against her breasts followed him bac to the kitchen.
Remembering her exhaustion and weakness, he allowed that she probably hadn’t felt up to doing anything other than caring for his son. In a day or two she’d be over the worst of it, and he looked forward to coming home to a hot meal. He hadn’t realized how bad his own cooking was until he’d been forced to eat it day after day. He’d gotten accustomed to Melanie’s cooking, and while not the best in the world, it had been far superior to his own.
Opening a can of beans, he leaned against the table and ate them straight from the can. Women definitely had a place in the world, he decided, the kitchen being the number one spot. Now that there was someone to take care of the baby, do the washing and cooking, and generally keep the house running in smooth order, Jim expected his life to go back to the way it was.
With a tired sigh, he put the can on the sink and picked up the lamp to light his way upstairs. For the first time in days, he could count on a night of undisturbed sleep.
Unbuckling the holster belt, he laid his Colt on the dresser beside the lamp. Putting first one foot and then the other in the bootjack, he pulled the boots off and then his socks, rubbing his itchy feet on the rug. Slipping the suspenders down his arms, he rotated his tired shoulders, trying to work some of the kinks out as he unbuttoned his shirt. Lord, but he was tired. The bed would feel like heaven, he thought, as he threw the shirt in the general direction of the corner where he knew a pile of dirty clothes waited.
Reaching for the buttons on his canvas trousers, he stopped when a noise interrupted the silence. It was a furtive whisper of sound, like someone walking quietly, so that they wouldn’t be heard.
Jim grabbed the Colt, blew out the lamp, and walked toward the door. He opened it slowly, grimacing when it squeaked. Staying near the wall, he stepped into the hallway and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. Another sound drew his attention to the bottom of the stairs. There was someone in the house, someone who didn’t want to be heard.
Finding the stair rail, he tried to move soundlessly down the stairs, muffling a curse when he stubbed a bare toe on a step. Hobbling, he followed the sound of the steps toward the back of the house, narrowly avoiding a chair, only to
collide with the kitchen table.
“Who’s there?” a feminine voice called.
“It’s me, damn it.” Recognizing March’s voice, he lowered the Colt and rubbed his thigh where it had banged into the corner of the table. “What in hell are you doing down here at this time of night?”
March was glad for the darkness, as she felt her face flame. “I needed to find the … ah … necessary.”
Not so shy, Jim shook his head. “There’s a chamber pot under the bed.”
“Yes, well, ah … yes . . . “ March stood helplessly, embarrassed down to her toes. “It was dark and …”
“Why didn’t you light a lamp?” Did she have no more sense than the old mule out back?
“It’s dark-“
“We’ve already established that,” he interrupted.
“I didn’t know where the matches are.”
“Oh … well, light a lamp now.”
Jim waited for her to comply, beginning to wonder if she was a little dimwitted. “You do know how to light a lamp?”
“Yes, Mr. Travis,” she stated, feeling the beginnings of anger. “I know how to strike a match and light a lamp.”
“Then do it, girl.”
“I assume that there is a lamp down here somewhere, and matches, but you’ll have to tell me where, or we’ll be here all night while I feel around for one!”
Feeling more than a little foolish, something he hoped wouldn’t become a habit around his new housekeeper, Jim felt for a lamp on the sideboard, laid down the Colt, and found the matches in a small wooden box.
As he adjusted the flame, March saw that he was dressed only in his trousers and was unwillingly fascinated by the play of muscles over his strong back. She watched as the muscles bunched in his arms when he picked up the lamp and turned her way. There was so much latent strength in him that she backed away, realizing that he could overpower her without any effort.
“Here, girl,” he stated gruffly, seeing her sudden fear and not understanding it. “Take the lamp and go do what you got to do. I’m going back to bed.”
Setting the lamp on the table, Jim picked up the Colt, turned, and headed back to his room, muttering about his throbbing toe and women who wandered around in the dark.
March returned from the outhouse and carried the lamp up to the bedroom. She closed the door behind her and realized for the first time that it didn’t have a lock. Surely he didn’t intend to bother her, she thought, as she put the lamp on the dresser. He needed someone to tend to his infant son, but in the kitchen it had become glaringly clear to her that they were alone in the big house.
Her past experience with men had given her more than enough reason to be suspicious of his intentions. Now that she knew that pretty words and small gifts led to other things, she had no intention of getting involved with a man ever again.
Except maybe this one, she thought with a smile as the baby squirmed in his bed, bringing her attention to him. At his first mewing squeak, she turned him over and set about changing his wet towel.
“Hungry, little man?” she whispered. “Don’t be so impatient, let me get you dry and you can eat.” She smiled as his fist accidentally found his mouth and he sucked hungrily.
When he was changed, she wrapped him in a warm blanket and carried him to the rocking chair set in front of the window. Opening the front of her dress, she freed one of her breasts and his eager mouth latched onto her nipple with greedy ferocity. It was such a new experience for her, that it startled her as he pulled, his tiny hand batting against the swollen skin.
She blinked back tears, because she had never held her own baby against her breasts, giving her nourishment from her body. Swirling the long hair on the top of his head into a curl, she thought how strong he was, how eager to live.
“So, what do you think, Jamie? You need a mama and I need a baby. Do you think we’ll do all right hitching up together?” She smiled as he grunted like a little piglet. “You sure aren’t shy about where you sit down to dinner.”
When one breast was drained, she patted his back to relieve the gas and then moved him to the other one. She had taken care of babies since she was little more than one herself. Her mother had a new one every year or so, and there was always a towel to be changed or a back to be patted. But she’d never before experienced the serenity of holding an infant to her breast and knowing that she was providing him sustenance.
In the quiet darkness, a bond was formed between the motherless child and the childless mother.
The sun was barely over the horizon when March woke to the sounds of the baby. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she climbed from the bed and mechanically changed his towel. Deciding that there was no reason for her to be up yet, she was still too weak to do anything, she carried him back to the bed. Holding him so that he could nurse, she closed her eyes and drifted back to sleep.
Other than the throbbing toe, Jim woke feeling more rested than he had in weeks. He climbed from bed and dressed. Strapping on the Colt as he walked down the hallway, he wondered what magic March had performed during the night. He hadn’t heard a sound from his son’s room.
Since the door to the nursery was still closed, he decided to let her sleep in. He’d make sure that he got home this evening with enough time to explain her duties to her. All he had done yesterday was to throw the baby into her arms and head out the door, hardly a friendly welcome.
Knowing that Hank would have the coffeepot on the fire and fatback frying, Jim headed for the bunkhouse. He’d breakfast with them and tell them about the new housekeeper. They had witnessed her arrival yesterday and would be concerned.
“How’s the little missy this mornin‘?” Hank asked as he handed Jim a steaming cup of coffee.
“Still sleeping, thought I’d let her get a little extra sleep today.” The coffee was strong enough to dissolve a spoon, just the way he liked it. “She was doing all right last night though.”
” ‘Bout time you got somebody, I was gettin‘ mitey tired of playin‘ nursemaid.” Hank grabbed a plate, scooped the eggs and fatback onto it, and handed it to his boss.
“Need you to keep an eye on her for me.”
“Ain’t she big ‘nough to keep an eye on herself?” Woods asked between bites of food.
“Just make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble while I’m gone.”
“Leastways she’s easier to watch than that youn’en, and don’t have to worry ‘bout her drip- pin’ like that boy done. I swear, I ain’t never seen no kid that leaks like that’en.” Hank sighed with relief. It had been a strain on his tolerance to watch over the baby, and he was delighted that it was over.
“I’ll try to get back a little earlier this evening.” Jim stood and grabbed his hat. “We’ll be in the south branch of Falling Creek.”
“Water’s still running pretty high,” Woods offered.
“Gonna have a whole bunch of ‘em bogged down.” Hank referred to the calves who got stuck in the mud and were too weak to pull themselves free. If not found in time, they would starve to death.
Jim left the bunkhouse, a feeling of freedom carrying him toward the barn. It was good to have things back to normal.
With the baby in one arm and her dirty clothes in the other, March stood at the bottom of the stairs with her mouth hanging open. Last night in the dark she’d had an impression of the size of the house, but now the morning light showed her exactly what she hadn’t been able to see.
“It’s a castle, Jamie,” she whispered to the baby. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life.”
Stepping slowly off of the highly polished stair, she didn’t know where to look first. Through the double doors to her right was a room twice the size of the shack she’d been living in with ten other people. The fireplace was large enough to roast a steer, and the green patterned rug stretched on forever. Large boxes and crates sat in the middle of the room, but she didn’t dare enter to peek.
March looked into each room where a door stood
open. She was disappointed that most of the rooms were empty of furniture, carpeting, and drapes, but just the size was staggering. She didn’t open closed doors, afraid that somehow Jim would find out that she’d been nosing around and would get angry.
Wandering down a long hall, March found one room that was more magnificent to her than all the others combined. Spellbound, she stood in the doorway until the squirming baby attracted her attention.
“Look, Jamie,” she whispered in awe. “Just look at all the books. Aren’t they beautiful?” She kissed the baby and readjusted him in her arms.
“I’m gonna read them, Jamie. Someday I’m going to know every word in those books. Someday all those funny lines and circles are going to make sense to me.
“Before I die, I’m going to learn to read.” It was a promise and a prayer. “Even if the learning kills me.”
FIVE
The kitchen was a big, square room with windows facing the east. A smooth oak table, flanked by eight chairs, occupied the middle of the room, while endless shelves, cabinets, and work space lined the walls. March marveled at the hand pump that drained into a tin-lined sink, making endless trips to the well a thing of the past. She pumped it several times and grinned as the cool, clear water splashed into the sink and then down the drain hole.
Out of necessity, she had discovered that the door at the back led outside, but in spite of curiosity that was nearly painful, refrained from opening the other two doors in the room. Her stomach rumbled noisily, reminding her that the only food she’d eaten yesterday had been at breakfast.
“What am I going to do with you, while I try to find something to eat?” she asked the sleeping baby in her arms. She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him alone upstairs.
Returning to his bedroom, stopping frequently to admire all the delightful things that surrounded her, March grabbed the soft blanket from his bed. She carried it to the kitchen, folded it into a thick pallet near the table, and carefully laid him in the center.
Desert Angel Page 5
