by Gayle Eden
Since Lucas knew Morgan would escort the women home anyway, he wasn’t surprised when his brother accepted, taking off the hat, wetting a bandana and wiping his gritty face.
Lucas crossed and climbed up the rise, leading his horse to the shade with the others. On a grassy spot, Rose placed a basket and withdrew food, cups, and icy lemonade. Sitting on a rock, he accepted the offer graciously and ate the sliced bread and ham, sipping while listening to Corey talk to Morgan, yet observing Morgan watching Rose.
“Eli McFee is coming by today, Mamma.” Corey finished her drink and stood, dusting the seat of worn thin denims. “I forgot to tell you he’s coming to check old Joe.”
“Lordy.” Sara sighed. “I’ll be sorry to put him down. He’s lived a good old age.” She stood too and looked at the men. “Joe’s the first horse I ever bought Falon. He has been more a pet the last eight years. Got down though, two winters in a row, just lean to the bone.”
Morgan offered, which didn’t surprise Lucas; “We’ll ride back with you.”
Lucas stood by his horse while the women mounted, noting Morgan helped Rose pack up. He smiled inwardly because the girl seemed to flush red and drop a dozen things. He gave his brother credit; not many men would look Rose in that pretty face, instead of being honed in on her chest. The vest helped, but she was a curvy young woman. Morgan’s eyes stayed on her hands or face the whole time.
Everyone mounted up. Morgan rode beside Sara Landry, and Lucas took up the rear, answering a dozen questions from Corey—who both amused and interested him, since he had never been around a young woman who was smart in that cowboy way, and still obviously a handsome young woman. He put it down to Frank apparently being some influence on her, because she wasn’t self-conscious like Rose. She talked, asked a lot of questions, but when she wasn’t and he studied her; short curls or not, she was just an attractive woman with a blooming and resilient body and autumn eyes like her mother. She was tough, he decided—and probably more than a little adventurous.
At the Landry place, the vet was already waiting for Sara. Corey went with them to the barn. Lucas had dismounted in the shaded side yard, rolling another one, since Morgan was going out of his way to carry the basket in for Miss Rose.
Having handed her horse over to Corey, Falon sat on the porch edge, just a few feet from Lucas. He heard her tell her mother on the way that she would hitch up the buggy and return to the Christie’s that evening. Even though he half leaned against the horse and smoked, Lucas was alert as he studied her down tilted head, more of her hair blown lose from the braid as she watched her hands idly rolling a piece of leather string she’d picked up before sitting down.
When her strong, straight white teeth raked her lower lip, he knew she felt that tension, and even though there were sounds, normal ones, and some squeak of a pump out back, there may as well have been none.
She looked up finally while he was in the midst of releasing smoke from his nostrils. A brief flicker of emotion showed in her eyes before she said, “Excuse me.” Then got to her feet and went inside.
He dropped the cigarette, ground it, and spat. Before climbing in the saddle, settling his hat and feeling the squeeze of the bandage she’d tied, when his muscle flexed.
Morgan came out finally and climbed on his mount. They headed to the McCabe spread.
“You sweet on Rose?” Lucas asked trying not to replay images of Falon in his head.
“Are you going to be a horse’s ass about it?’ Morgan asked sighing.
“No.”
His brother looked at him. “I wouldn’t call it sweet on her. I noticed Rose Landry when she was nothing more than a kid. I used to see her running home from school with tears on her cheeks. The older she got, the more she matured, the more often she’d hide out somewhere instead of going.”
Lucas looked at him.
Morgan shrugged. “She made it through, is twice as smart I’ll wager, as any of those who went everyday—judging by the books I’ve seen her picking up at the mercantile she’s ordered—but you seldom saw her out at socials or anywhere she’d gain any attention. I’d spy her by that willow sometimes with a book, or walking and humming to herself.” He raised his brow slightly. “I punched more than one hand in the mouth for talking bad about her.”
“She jumps like a rabbit when you’re nearby.”
“Yep.” Morgan said. “Blushes red as a beet too.”
Lucas laughed softly. “So I’m not supposed to mention she’s got curves you sweat at night dreaming about.”
“To my thinking, women are envious of Rose, and men are oblivious to anything but her body. I’m not oblivious, but I think there’s more to Rose than she lets on.”
“Oh?”
Morgan merely smiled and shook his head.
Lucas let it go. He figured Morgan probably had observed Rose over the years. Lucas’ had spent his Saturday nights in town, and most of Sunday sobering up. Morgan did his share of drinking, probably had a woman or two, but his brother, in his own way—and kept his private life to himself. Which, Lucas thought, wasn’t so bad—since Finn probably would have interfered in anything obvious.
Chapter Four
Finn woke up with a heavy head and churning gut. A night on the range with too much whiskey and his horse for company made for a hell of a hangover. He skipped breakfast and after speaking with Alex, who was going into town to settle things at the office, he had the house staff take down paintings and crate them, along with whatever else would go to the ladies club.
He didn’t supervise. He told them what to do, and then went to Andrea’s apartments and looked around at the opulence and frills, the white and cream décor. He had one of the female help pack everything personal into trunks. The address was a townhouse he figured she’d left to her lover. He left the rooms and went back up to bathe and shave.
Strong coffee, and a bath, before changing into denim shirt and trousers, pulling on supple Spanish boots, he proceeded to the barns, chose one of the black studs, and saddled it.
Finn was leading it out when Jordan came around the side of the barn. She wore a pair of trousers, slim leather chaps and chambray shirt. Her hat was a short brim one and her hair was French braided. She stopped abrupt and made as if to leave.
“Saddle a horse,” he spoke, stopping her.
She turned slowly, her green eyes going over him. “I was going over to the Landry ranch.”
“I’ll ride with you.”
“No thanks.”
“Saddle up.” He ignored that and went to the rail, leaning there holding the reins and waiting.
She sucked in a breath and let it out, striding in and coming out later with a dun mare. She climbed in the saddle and he mounted the black, coming along side as they headed through the yard and then the main gate.
“Saw you and Lucas out by the gate talking.”
“Yes.” She didn’t look at him, but around, at the view along the road.
“He telling you to go, or stay?”
“Neither. He told me I was his blood, if no one else’s, and Morgan felt the same.”
“You’re my blood.”
She looked at him then. “I’ve said what I felt to you.”
Finn was both proud of the straight look she gave him, and irritated she wasn’t giving an inch. “I deserved you saying it, but everything ain’t so easy as it seems to the offended. You got a right. But even if I couldn’t have changed things then, you’re not giving me the chance to do it now.”
“Do what? I’m grown. The only thing you painting a McCabe sign on me and driving me through town will do is keep the talk going. I’m’ no blood kin to Alex Croft, to any of them, but I’ll keep the name just the same.”
“Dammit, you don’t have to leave here.”
She pulled the horse up. He did so too. Jordan husked, “What have I got to stay for?”
He swallowed. “Your brothers for one. And me—”
She was shaking her head but her eyes were a little damp.
“Nobody has you, Finn McCabe. If there’s one thing I learned, it’s that the ranch is all you live for.”
“That’s not true,” he snarled.
“Do you know what I think?” She kneed her horse and went on. “I think you hated her. Hated your life, your choices.” She turned her head and looked at him. “I think you resented Lucas his freedom, and gnashed your teeth at Morgan’s contentment, and I think you made everyone pay for the fact that you were the one suffocated and roped in—and stuck in a loveless marriage.”
He laughed short. “I could have divorced her.”
“No. You wouldn’t do that, Finn McCabe. You’ve too much pride.”
“You’re treading on thin ground, Jordan.”
“It angers you because you can question, expect answers, but how dare anyone question you? I don’t want anything from you, Finn. I did for years, cried, mourned, and broke my heart for it. Even if Andrea ignored me and resented me, you could have been different. You weren’t. That was your choice.”
“It was,” he admitted gruffly and halted his horse again.
When she did too, they stared at each other, Finn’s pride chaffed like a blade over his spine even as something in his guts twisted, because he saw that same determination and pride in his daughter.
“You think I can’t love anybody?” he heard himself say.
“I don’t know. Some people think you came down hard on Lucas out of love. Some people say you love only the ranch. I wouldn’t call it either. You are hard, not affectionate, and you shut out whatever you don’t want to deal with. If you’re trying to make me confirm something in your own mind, I can’t. You claim to set a lot of store in blunt speaking. Here it is, you have proved you can wed an heiress, run the biggest spread successfully, and become a man people envy. The only thing you can’t lay claim to—is the love that matters. You’ve never convinced the ones it matters to most—that you do.”
When she rode off, Finn sat there watching the horse gallop and turn off toward the Landry ranch. He reined the horse around and headed back. What the hell did she want? She didn’t want the McCabe name. He couldn’t take back the past or undo it. What the hell did they expect him to do?
By the time he reached the main gate, Finn was off his horse, leading it. His head cooled and his mind was turning over years with Andrea —yes, thinking of her in some well-appointed townhouse with a fancy dressed pretty boy, while he was guilty of one week of visiting a whore house—the same woman, straight, quick, sex. Because, he needed to remember what it was like to ease between a woman’s thighs—instead of waking up in a sweat releasing himself to release the tension.
He took the horse to the barn and walked further across his land. For once he didn’t see it, relish it. He saw Sara Landry; her body dewed and flushed—strawberry hair damp and clinging to her throat, hazel eyes feverish from his tongue and mouth bathing her all over. He saw the faded quilt on the bed he still slept on. That rose glow of sundown. Peach freckled skin as smooth as silk, and blush nipples hard and wet from his lips. Her thighs quivering and then tightening around his hips, the burning, the melting, the driving into her sex and feeling her nails rake his back.
Finn spied a jutted stone ahead, sat down, his back to it, and knees up. He tossed off his hat and raked his hands through his hair. Muscles jumped as blood flowed through them hotly. He could smell and taste her, remember the feel of her nipples inside his mouth, the sleek skin between her legs, tangy and warm. He remembered his seed pumping out almost blinding him with intense pleasure, and her sounds, deep in her throat, as it soothed inside her.
Damn you, Sara. He whispered in his mind. Damn me too, for the fool I was. Except for his sons, Jordan too, but except for them, he’d go back and start again with that hundred acres and days of backbreaking work. All the hunger burning in him then, all the dreams and drive, culminated in the passion he felt with Sara Landry. Once he had wed Andrea, nothing even came close.
* * * *
Falon scarcely reached the Christie house before a hysterical Mary Phelps met her in the roadway, waving her apron. Barely coherent, she climbed on the buggy. Falon’s stomach dropped out, spying the carriages and horses in the yard. Leaving Mary to see to the horses in her dread, she met the Sheriff half in her run up the steps.
The fiftish man took her elbow and steered her to the side of the porch. “They took laudanum. Dorothy must have administered it, because Tobias was blind.”
Hand over her mouth, eyes spurting tears, Falon’s legs went weak. If only she’d been here. If only she—”
“You’ll have to open this. If it is private, then it will stay between you and me.”
She saw a folded paper in his hand and took it in trembling fingers. In Dorothy’s shaky writing were the words; “Everything is to go to our Grandson, Asher Christie. There is money for the upkeep of the house to be overseen by his mother, Falon Landry, who doesn’t have to occupy the home, only keep it up and the land. A draft also has been set aside for her to do with as she wishes. We are content, at peace, and long to be with our son. It is our request, no viewing or funeral be observed, but that we are laid as soon as possible beside our boy.
Dorothy and Tobias Christie.
She handed it to the Sheriff who read it and then considered her with solemn blue eyes. “I see no reason to disclose this to anyone else, do you?”
“No.”
“Is there anyone we can fetch to help?”
“My mother. Sara Landry. Please tell her to bring some hands to dig the graves, and—thank you.”
He pat her arm, handing her the paper. “I’ll do what I can to keep folks away. The Christie’s were the first settlers here, and well to do. But, I take their wishes into consideration, Miss Landry. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” She watched him walk to the doorway, attempting to clear the house of people before he sent a deputy to Landry ranch. Sucking in a breath as soon as it cleared, Falon went into the house, climbing the stairs to enter the room where two full beds sat side by side. Tears poured from her eyes as she looked at the bodies lying on flowered spreads. Each lay with hands folded at their waist, Dorothy having donned her favorite deep blue gown and cameo pen that Ashley had bought her. Tobias, his white hair combed back, beard freshly combed, and was in a suit and tie, his polished black shoes.
Slowly she walked further in and kissed their foreheads, looking at their peaceful faces, grieving, and yet knowing deep down that Dorothy had probably waited until she was gone to do it. She supposed it was long planned, and perhaps put off because she did keep such a close watch on them.
Sitting in Dorothy’s favorite chair, by the window, Falon looked out at the rising white stone on the hill that marked Ashley’s grave. She wept brokenly and long, her heart heavy and shaking.
“Falon.”
It seemed hours and was nearly dark when she heard her mother’s voice. Rising, she met Sara and Rose at the door, embracing, weeping more, and pouring out emotions she could not articulate.
By lantern light, the Landry hands dug the graves. Falon was oblivious and remained with the couple, until her mother steered her to the kitchens, and sat her at the table. The house seemed hushed, save for the old clock in the parlor. Falon sipped the coffee Rose pressed on her, aware that both Rose and Sara were busy, but feeling too heavy with sorrow to move.
Too soon, it seemed, dawn streaked the sky. Falon got up and went to bathe and dress. She donned a black gown and drew her hair up with combs.
“The caskets are here.” Rose came to her room. “Mamma lined them and the hands have seen to the rest.” She looked as tired as Falon. “There are a few people outside.”
“Thank you, Rose.” She kissed her sister’s cheek, tied her shoes, and then went down the stairs and out on the porch. The fog still lingered in the valley and dew dampened the grass and porch. Falon recognized the Sheriff and preacher from town. She was surprised to see Alex Croft and Lucas there, but they had a wagon she recognized
from Andrea’s funeral and black horses hitched up.
Falon turned when her mother came out, taking her arm. They stood aside as black clad hands from the ranch carried the coffins out. Soon Falon walked up to the rise, not realizing tears rolled down her cheeks, but keeping her eyes on the caskets, and standing by them when the wagon stopped and the preacher read from the Bible.
The Sheriff removed his hat, his surprising rich voice singing a hymn that seemed to echo through the valley. The caskets were lowered and earth shoveled over them, both Lucas and Alex wielding a shovel and helping.
It stayed overcast as the wagon moved down the hill. Falon refused her mother’s arm, saying, “I’ll stay awhile. Please, make coffee and see to the hands—”
“Of course.” Her mother hugged her. “Take your time. Rose and I will see to everything.”
Drizzle started, but to Falon it was refreshing. Her heart and head heavy, no sleep, too many tears, she moved to the flower-covered mound that was Ashley’s grave. At the base of the white stone, she went to her knees, heedless of the wet earth. Suddenly grief struck her like a blow. She half lay upon it, crying without restraint.
Lucas stood back where he had remained as the others went down the hill. What was drizzle, turned to rain that wet his hair and soaked through his white shirt. His jacket and hat in his hands, he stared at the woman half laying on the grave of the man he had killed, her crying raw and deep, ripping and clawing at him so that his stomach felt inside out.
Her hair grew soaked. He blinked against the same down pour, watching a river of mud from the turned up earth wet her gown. It pooled around his boots and drowned out all but her grief.
When she finally sat back, what seemed like a hundred years later, Lucas walked slowly to her side, and went to his haunches, putting his coat around her shoulders.
The face she turned to him was reddened and grief marred. Her eyes almost blind as if she couldn’t see him. “I’m sorry,” she raked past her raw throat.
