If only she could, March thought as she looked with longing at the many volumes. “Thank you,” she murmured, as if he had given her a gift.
“Is that dress and the other one your only clothes?” he asked bluntly.
March nodded. She didn’t need to be told that they were both too small and badly frayed. She had one other dress in similar condition, but had left it with her sister May, who would need it worse than she did.
“There’s all kinds of fabric in one of the spare rooms upstairs. Enough to make you a different dress for every day of the month. Feel free to use whatever you need for dresses, nightshifts, and other necessaries.”
“I can’t do that!”
“Why not?”
“Well … well, it’s just not right, that’s why.”
“The fabric was purchased by my late wife, and I assume she intended it for dresses and such. There’s no reason for it to just sit there and rot when you can use it. You do sew?”
“Of course, but . . . “
“March,” he sighed and slowly shook his head. “Right now the men are out rounding up the cattle, but within a few days they’ll be back here. I realize that you’re young, but as attractive as your legs are, I don’t believe that they should be placed on public display. Neither of your dresses is fit for rags, and I’ve got a room full of cloth. I can’t think of one reason why you shouldn’t use it, can you?”
“No, but-“
“Now about the boy,” he continued, ignoring her objections.
“His name is Jamie,” she said firmly.
“Ah, yes, his name.” Jim leaned his head back and stared at the shadows dancing on the ceiling. “I’m not sure that’s what he should be called. His mother favored Bartholomew.” He stopped, grinning at her wrinkled nose. “I see that you feel the,same way about that name as I do.”
“That is not a name for a little boy.”
“True, but he won’t stay little for long.”
“That’s not a name for a man, either.”
“Agreed.” He chuckled at her adamant expression. “However, I’m not sure I want my son to be called Jamie. It sounds rather … prissy to me.”
“Jamie now, Jimmy when he starts school, Jim when he’s grown.”
“Got it all figured out, do you?”
“He needed a name,” she replied with a shrug. “You didn’t seem overly concerned about it. Seems to me that a man’s first son should be named after him.”
“He’ll be my only son,” Jim stated firmly. “I have no intention of remarrying. This land is too hard on a woman.”
March thought about his wife and knew that the bitterness in his voice was from losing her. How he must have loved her! And how hard it must have been on him to watch her die, while she struggled to give life to his child. Many women died in childbirth, and his wife’s fate could have been the same even if she had lived in a big city, but obviously he chose to place the blame on the West.
“All the more reason to name him after you,” she said quietly.
“I believe that I like the name of John better. That’s what we’ll call him.”
“John is a fine name, but Jamie is better.”
“March, he is my son.” Jim slid his feet off of the desk and leaned his arms on its smooth surface.
“I can’t argue that.” She stood, pushing back the hair from her face. It had been a long day, filled with new impressions and excitement. Exhaustion weighed heavily on her slender shoulders, and she longed to stretch out on the soft bed and sleep, but it would be a while yet. Jamie would soon be waking and demanding to be fed.
“Why do I have the feeling that you’re agreeing with me now, but have no intention of calling him John?”
“I can’t imagine why you’d think that,” she replied, her face so filled with innocence that Jim had to bite back a chuckle. “If you want him called John, then that’s what he’ll be called.”
“I’ll get breakfast over at the bunkhouse for the next couple of mornings so that you can sleep in, but next week I’ll expect you to have it ready and on the table by five.”
“That’ll be fine.” March stifled a yawn as she moved toward the door. “Will you be here for supper tomorrow night?”
“No, don’t plan on seeing much of me until after roundup. Spend the time sewing and getting settled in.”
She nodded and turned to leave. “Good night, John … ah, Jim.”
“Good night, brat,” he replied with a chuckle. “Sweet dreams.”
SEVEN
As the mid-morning sun blazed down on her head, March regretted not taking the time to search out a hat. Wiping the beads of perspiration from her brow with the back of her hand, she checked to assure herself that Jamie was protected from the burning rays by the sling that held him against her chest. It had been her intention to climb a small hill a short distance from the house, but now she wondered if she wouldn’t be smarter to save her exploration for another day.
Puffing slightly, March finally managed the last few steps up the incline. Looking back at the house, she realized that it was only a short distance away, but it felt like she had walked for miles. She couldn’t believe how easily she tired, and wondered how much longer it would be before she regained her strength.
Gazing down at the infant snuggled against her, March was saddened to realize that she hadn’t thought of her own baby in several days. She had never held her daughter, in fact had only caught the briefest of glimpses of her before she was whisked from sight. The memories of her own child were actually little more than the remembrance of the pain of childbirth and a lingering sadness.
Each time Jamie drew nourishment from her breasts, the bond between woman and child grew stronger. Her memories of him multiplied daily, while her daughter dimmed into a shadowy keepsake of a time better forgotten.
Gently stroking Jamie’s cheek, March realized that the hardships of her past were slowly slipping away. After living at the Falling Creek Ranch for over a week, she was beginning to feel at home. She had discovered that the wooden crates stacked in the various rooms held furniture. Jim had promised her that as soon as roundup was done, he’d find the time to help her unpack them. Dying to know what wonderful things were hidden in the boxes, she had been tempted to do it by herself. Only the fear that she’d accidentally break something kept her curiosity under control. But, oh, it was so tempting!
That temptation had driven her out of the house and given her the impetus to explore her surroundings. Turning away from the homestead, March let her gaze roam over the cactus- covered hills. In the far distance, purple-tinted mountains rose majestically, while closer mountains beckoned with the promise of coolness on their tree-covered slopes.
March’s startled gaze came to rest on an adobe house set in the base of the hill. She knew immediately that it was uninhabited, its general appearance being one of neglect and disuse.
This house, with its flat roof and walls nearly the same color as the sand, seemed to be a part of the land, unlike the castle Jim now called home. Following the well-worn path down the hill, March eagerly explored the old building.
The roof extended out enough to create a wide porch on the two connecting sides of the L-shaped structure. Windows, with heavy wooden shutters, opened out onto what must have once been an inviting patio.
The ornately carved wooden door opened easily, and feeling only a little guilty, March entered its inviting tranquility. She shivered at the delicious chill of the room. After being in the heat of the morning sun, the temperature change was a welcome relief. The eighteen-inch adobe walls seemed to have captured the coolness of the night and held it for its own.
March had expected the room to be empty, and was surprised to discover that it was well furnished. Except for a heavy coating of dust lying undisturbed on tabletops and the cobwebs draped in lacy intricacy in the corners, it was easy to believe that the owner had just stepped out for the day.
Exploring curiously, March wandered from one room t
o the next. There was a contiguous sequence of rooms in single file, one room opening directly into another. The main room led into the kitchen, the kitchen into a bedroom where the connecting leg of the L-structure led into the other two bedrooms. Each was fully furnished, including the spreads on the beds and curtains at the windows.
The house felt welcoming, an old friend delighted by her return. It was as different from the other house as night was from day, and it suited March’s tastes more comfortably than the house she still considered to be a castle. In this house she already felt at home, while she knew she’d always be only a visitor in the other one.
“What do you think, Jamie boy?” she asked the baby who had begun to squirm as hunger brought him awake. “All I’d need is a dust rag and a broom to knock down the spiderwebs, and it would make a great place for us to spend our time.”
She stood in the open doorway and looked out at the patio. A rosebush climbed lazily up the far wall, its dark green leaves not yet burned by the sun as they would be by late summer. That it had survived without attention was a miracle, but March was too drawn to it to consider that blessing. Living too long without beauty in her life, she was struck by the enchantment of the single bloom that gleamed blood red against the adobe brick. Gently stroking its petals, she leaned over and inhaled its sweet fragrance.
“Ah, Jamie, this is home,” she murmured softly.
When the baby wiggled and squirmed, mew-
ing against her breast, March reluctantly turned and headed back toward the homestead. She patted the mound of his bottom, grimacing at the wetness that met her hand.
“Next time we come, we’ll bring some of your towels and then we can stay awhile.” The baby rooted against her breast, searching in vain for his source of nourishment.
Reluctant to climb the hill again, March chose to walk around it and considered opening her dress to let the baby nurse. She had done it before when they had been out of sight of the house, but as she began to open the top button she rounded the hill and discovered that the other ranch buildings were much closer to the old house than the new. In fact, they were barely hidden by the incline.
The two old men, Woods and Hank, sat in their usual place on the porch of the bunkhouse. They looked up and nodded as March walked past. With Jamie’s frustrated complaints to be fed growing louder, she didn’t stop to talk, simply nodding in greeting and hurrying toward the house.
As March nursed Jamie, she thought about the adobe house. She knew that it must belong to Jim, and wondered why he had ever built this place. Oh, it was grand, filled with lovely treasures, but it wasn’t a home. It didn’t invite you to kick off your shoes and relax.
Placing Jamie in his crib for a nap, March stretched out on her own bed, her tired sigh drifted through the silence. Tomorrow, she decided, she’d take a rag and a broom over to the adobe house, and chase away some of the cobwebs and dust. Her eyes closed as she thought of the many things she’d have to do to get the house livable; beat the dust out of the furniture and curtains, wash the bedding, mop the brick floors …
Jim totaled the figures one final time, then nodded with satisfaction. The head count on the cattle was better than he had hoped for, and he’d easily make his quota with the federal government. With this shipment the ranch would finally start paying its own way.
For the last three years he’d been supplying beef to the forts, now with most of the Indians settled on reservations, his contract had increased to include not only the forts but also the reservations. There were whispers at the monthly Ranchers’ Association meetings that some of the forts were to be closed, now that the hostilities between red man and white had ceased to exist.
As far as Jim was concerned, until Geronimo was captured — and held so that he couldn’t escape again — hostilities were far from over. He had a grudging respect for the wily Chiricahua Apache medicine man. It amazed him how one man could constantly evade an entire army. He had been apprehended several times, but Jim wondered if Geronimo had ever truly been cap-
tured or if he had willingly let himself be found. He always managed to escape, sometimes with no more effort than simply walking off of the reservation with his small band of followers.
Even if the forts did close, Jim didn’t worry about finding buyers for his beef, there was a big market back East. The local ranchers had recently gotten together to form a consortium to find not only a demand for their cattle, but the most economic way to handle shipping.
Jim held a firm belief that the smaller ranchers needed to work together, if they were to survive. Already some of the larger spreads up north had been sold out to conglomerates, even some foreign investors, who never set foot on the ranch and yet ran it with iron-fisted control.
Money was one worry Jim didn’t have, having inherited a healthy sum from both his parents and grandparents, but he knew that most ranches survived from one roundup to the next, scrabbling to hold their own at the best of times, suffering deeply at the worst.
“Coffee?”
Jim looked up with surprise to find March holding a cup of steaming coffee out to him.
“Thanks.” He took the cup from her and sipped cautiously. It was still weak, but a considerable improvement over her previous efforts. He bit back a grin when he remembered taking a big swallow of the first pot of coffee she had made for him a couple of mornings earlier. Not only was it so weak that he could see the bottom of the cup, but he’d had the unpleasant experience of biting down on a coffee bean. After he’d rinsed the acid taste from his mouth, he’d shown her how to grind the beans and add them to the boiling water. He still got an occasional mouthful of grounds, but even that was improving.
“Stay around long enough, and you’ll make a decent cup of coffee yet,” he teased.
Shaking her head, March wrinkled her nose in distaste. “That stuff isn’t coffee. I’m sure it has many uses that we should investigate, such as killing the smell in the necessary on a warm summer afternoon, but it isn’t something a body would want to put in her mouth.”
Jim smiled at her quick mind. He had discovered that she usually had a humorous response when he teased her, and had found it a pleasant change from the whining he had become accustomed to from Melanie.
“Everything done?” Jim watched as she wandered over to the bookshelves and opened a door. Her fingers lovingly caressed the bindings, tracing the impressed titles with a longing that was visible.
“You’re welcome to read any of them,” he offered. “Pick one and join me. I’ve still got some paperwork to do, but I’d welcome your company.”
March carefully pulled a book from the shelf, holding it reverently and wondering what wonderful words the printed letters inside told. “Jamie will be awake soon wanting to be fed .. .”
“John,” Jim corrected, knowing that it was a battle he had already lost. The boy’s name would be Jamie, which he really didn’t oppose … except that he enjoyed arguing with his housekeeper.
“Whoever he is,” March continued, hiding a grin, “will be wanting to be fed, and I’ve got a dress started … there was so much fabric, I had trouble deciding which to use . . . “
“March, sit down, put your feet up, and rest a little. You’re always working, the house is spotless, my shirts have never been so well ironed, and your coffee is improving. You’ve earned some time to rest.”
“Well . . . “ She carried the book over to the wingback chair and sat down in its comfortable depths. Curling her feet beneath her, she opened the first page of the book.
Jim watched her for several minutes, liking her presence in the room. She looked so young and innocent, so enticing and sensual, as she turned the pages. A frown of concentration creased her brow, and he wondered what was troubling her to cause it.
“What are you reading?”
Feeling like a fraud, March raised her eyes from the circles and lines on the pages. “I’m not … I think I’m discovering that I can’t sit and relax, when I know I’ve got work to do,�
� she improvised. She couldn’t bring herself to admit that she couldn’t read. She was pleased when she recognized an occasional letter her mother had taught her long ago, before so many responsibilities had taken away the time necessary for lessons.
Jamie’s wail drifted down and March sighed with relief at the excuse to leave. Jim pulled out his pocket watch, noted the hour, and smiled broadly.
“Right on time,” he chuckled as he put the watch away and climbed to his feet. “It’s been a while since I’ve done it, now that you’re here, but I think I can remember how to change his towel.”
“I’ll do it, that’s what you pay me for.” March stood up and hastily replaced the book on the shelf.
“You fix his bottle, while I take care of him,” Jim stated as he left the room. “I haven’t seen much of him in the last few days. Hard to believe, but I’ve missed the boy. Guess he kinda grows on you.”
Fix his bottle, March thought, as she went into the kitchen and looked at the many cans on the shelves. She couldn’t begin to guess which one held the milk, in fact, wasn’t sure if there even was any. She’d nursed the baby since her arrival, and hadn’t worried about any other kind of feeding. She dug out a bottle and nipple from the cabinet and set them on the counter. Walking back to the office, she knew that the time had come to confess that she couldn’t read. Jim would have to find the milk, or she’d have to nurse the baby.
“You’d think this boy hadn’t eaten in a week, from all the noise he’s making,” Jim said as he carried the crying baby into the room. “Where’s his bottle?”
“I couldn’t find the milk,” she admitted reluctantly.
“Are we out? Why didn’t you say something sooner?” His large hand swamped the baby’s small back as he patted it soothingly. “We’ve got a starving youn’en here, and nothing to feed him. I know from experience that he can keep this up all night.”
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