She thought for a moment. “No, that’s fine.”
Rye looked past her. “Your daughter’s over by the corral.”
Dulcie spun around and regretted the hasty motion immediately. Luckily, she managed to gain control of her nausea so she didn’t embarrass herself. Once her head and belly stopped rolling, she spotted her daughter ducking through the corral poles.
Dulcie ran across the yard, but didn’t have to say a word. Madeline had slipped back out of the corral when she saw her mother coming toward her. The girl waited with an angelic expression that might have worked, except Dulcie had seen her disobeying the rules.
“I came back out,” she said when Dulcie reached her.
“You shouldn’t have gone through in the first place, young lady.”
“Sorry, Ma.”
She tried to remain angry, but feeling as she did, Dulcie didn’t have the energy. She took her daughter’s hand. “Why don’t we go to the house and get Aggie so the two of you can play together?”
As Dulcie and Madeline started to the house, a loud crash sounded. Dulcie’s eyes widened when she spotted Rye lying on the porch and a man-sized hole in the roof above him.
FIVE
DULCIE’S heart stuttered, and she released her daughter’s hand. “Stay here,” she ordered.
Madeline, her eyes like saucers, bobbed her head.
Dulcie spared a moment to brush her daughter’s soft crown in reassurance then hastened across the yard. She dropped to her knees beside Rye, and her hands hovered over him, uncertain what she should do. Although relieved there was no blood, she remained fearful of his stillness.
“Rye,” she said with a husky voice.
His eyelids fluttered and opened. Confusion lay in the depths of his eyes as his gaze darted around and finally settled on her. “Miz McDaniel?”
She sat back on her heels and pressed her trembling hands against her thighs. “You’re not dead,” she whispered.
He squinted, and she suspected he had hit his head when he fell. “Reckon you’re right. Dying wouldn’t hurt this damned much.”
Dulcie couldn’t help herself. She laughed. Even knowing it was more from sheer relief than amusement, she couldn’t stop. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she wiped at them, struggling to get her reaction under control.
Rye glared at her. “Glad to see someone thinks me falling off the roof is funny.”
“No, no,” she managed to say between hiccups. “It’s not. Really. It’s just . . .” She shrugged. “I’m sorry.”
Rye’s scowl faded, replaced by a grimace.
Dulcie leaned over him, the humor gone as abruptly as it had appeared. “Does anything feel broken?”
His brow furrowed and she could tell he was taking stock of his injuries. Trying to restrain her impatience, she heard light footsteps running toward them and looked up. Madeline stopped a few feet from the porch, her face pale and frightened.
Needing to reassure her daughter, Dulcie extended her hand. “Come here, honey.”
Like the tentative approach of a fawn, Madeline neared her mother and grasped her hand. She lowered herself to Dulcie’s lap, but her fretful gaze settled on Rye.
“Mr. For’ster goin’ away like Pa?” Madeline asked with a watery voice.
The unexpected question caught Dulcie by surprise and an invisible fist squeezed her chest. She opened her mouth but couldn’t find the right words.
Rye pushed to a sitting position, and he awkwardly patted the girl’s small, clenched hands and somehow managed to smile. “I’m not going anywhere, Miss Madeline. I just got a bruise or two.”
A lump settled in Dulcie’s throat. Despite his hurting, Rye saw fit to soothe her upset daughter.
“But you got hurt and Ma was crying.”
Dulcie frowned then realized what her daughter had misinterpreted. “I wasn’t crying, honey.” She shifted uneasily. “Do you remember when I tickled you and you laughed so hard that you cried?”
Madeline nodded somberly.
“That’s what happened to me. I was so relieved that Mr. Forrester wasn’t badly hurt that I did the same thing.” She glanced at Rye, who was studying her far too intently. Her cheeks warm, she averted her gaze.
Madeline’s face brightened and her unshed tears dried.
“Mr. Forrester will be fine,” Dulcie said. “Be a big girl and get me a clean towel from inside.”
The girl nodded solemnly and Dulcie pushed her up off her lap. Madeline paused in front of the door and peered at Rye as if uncertain she should leave him. He smiled and winked at her. The girl’s face lit with a grin and she skipped inside.
The moment she disappeared, Rye’s body sagged.
Dulcie sighed. She almost wished Rye was more aloof and callous. It would be easier to keep Madeline—and herself—from growing too fond of him.
“Thank you,” she said reluctantly.
“For what?” Rye asked.
Dulcie lifted her hands then let them drop to her thighs. “For reassuring Madeline. But we both know you’re not as fit as a fiddle,” she said dryly. “I assume nothing is broken?”
His façade of composure dropped, replaced by a tightening of his mouth. “No, nothing broken. Bruised, though.” He touched the back of his head and flinched then smiled wryly. “Good thing I’ve got a hard head.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
His chuckle became a groan. “Darned if I know, ma’am.”
A smile twitched her lips. “Let me take a look at that hard head.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Walking on her knees, she moved behind him and probed his skull gently. His sandy brown hair sifted through her fingers, silky and soft, so different than Jerry’s coarser strands or the peddler’s greasy pomade. She suddenly became aware of the glide of her camisole and shirt across her sensitive breasts and tried to temper her harsh breathing. She froze and closed her eyes to banish the cursed passion that rose like a swiftly flooding river.
“Dulcie?”
Rye’s voice snapped her eyes open, and she jerked her hands back, folding them into fists.
She cleared her throat and schooled her voice to dispassion. “You were lucky. The skin wasn’t broken.”
“Yeah, lucky.”
Rye started to climb to his feet. Dulcie rose faster and with more grace, and reached out to help him. He shrugged aside her assistance. However, once standing, Rye swayed, and she grabbed him, afraid he was going to topple facedown on the porch. When it appeared he was steady, she released him and slid her hands into her pockets.
Glowering, he examined the broken roof and porch.
She could guess his thoughts and tried to reassure him that she didn’t blame him for the damage. “It wasn’t in good shape before you went through it.”
Besides the hole in the roof, he’d broken half a dozen floor planks where he’d landed. The repairs would take an extra day or two.
Madeline appeared in the doorway, her arms filled with towels. “I got ’em, Ma.”
Dulcie managed to restrain her amusement. “Thank you. I only need one.” She picked one from the pile. “You can put the rest away.”
It looked like the girl was going to pout, but she simply turned around and went back into the cabin with her load.
“Sit down on the top step, Rye,” Dulcie said.
“No. I’m fine. I need to clean this up. I don’t want Madeline to hurt herself.” He began to pick up pieces of the roof that lay on what remained of the porch.
Damn his stubbornness.
She set aside the cloth and joined him.
Rye wasn’t surprised when Dulcie pitched in to help. Knowing how mulish she was, he’d only waste his breath if he tried to convince her to let him take care of his mess.
As he worked, his awareness of Dulcie sharpened at the memory of her gentle touch while she’d examined his head. Her chest had brushed his back, and there was no question she was all woman beneath the oversized shi
rt. Despite his aches and pains, his body had reacted to her soft flesh. It had been months since he’d lain with a woman, and he’d been drunk at the time. Hell, he couldn’t even recall what she looked like. All he could remember was the desperation to find release . . . and oblivion.
The up and down motion of picking up the broken pieces made him dizzy but he tried to ignore it. But when his stomach joined forces with his pounding head, he didn’t have any choice. He managed to hold off long enough to escape around the corner of the cabin.
With one hand braced against the wall, he leaned over and retched. Cold, clammy sweat covered his face. Even as he vomited, he recognized the sickness as another symptom of a concussion. He’d had the same more than once in his life, and didn’t look forward to the next few days when his head would ache like a son of a bitch.
“Are you all right?” Dulcie asked from directly behind him.
He spat one last time and wiped his mouth with the side of his hand. He turned to her, and despite the shading from the god-awful ugly hat, he could see the concern in her features. The last thing he wanted to do was give the widow more to worry about. Why had he been so stupid as to trust the flimsy roof?
“Sorry. It’s normal to get sick from a blow to the head,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”
“No reason to be sorry. You should take it easy the rest of the day.”
“There’s too much to do.”
Her lips turned downward, and she looked over his shoulder then settled her resolute gaze on him. “You haven’t had any time off since you started working here. If nothing else, you should take a day off for that reason alone.”
Rye thought a moment, trying to figure out what day it was, and whether his loss of memory was from the fall or simply from losing track of time. “What is today?”
“Wednesday. You worked right through the Sabbath.”
“No offense, ma’am, but so did you.”
Her cheeks reddened. “This is my place.”
“Even God took a day off.”
Her mouth became a thin line, clearly showing her annoyance at his teasing. “God didn’t have a farm to work.”
Or a debt to pay.
Yet as rotten as he felt, Rye realized anything he attempted to do today would end up having to be redone. Gingerly touching the lump at the back of his head, he nodded.
“All right, ma’am. Let me finish cleaning up then I’ll bring my things down from the roof.”
“And let you take another tumble?” she asked in exasperation. “You’re about as steady as a newborn calf. Sit down.”
Her stern voice didn’t leave any room for argument. Rye surrendered.
He walked back to the porch with Dulcie close by his side, probably expecting him to fall over any second. He eased himself down on the top step, settled his elbows on his thighs, and dropped his face into his cupped hands.
Although he couldn’t see her, he heard Dulcie by the well and the quiet splash of water.
A few moments later, she said in a low voice, “Hold this against your hard head.”
He lifted his head and found a damp folded cloth held out to him. He accepted it with a mumbled thanks and pressed it to the bump on the back of his skull.
Madeline’s childish voice sounded behind Rye. “I help, Ma?”
“I’m almost done, honey. Why don’t you sit beside Mr. Forrester? You can keep him company.”
A moment later, the girl dropped down beside Rye, and in her hands was the rag doll he’d seen her with other times. Despite his pounding head, Rye asked, “What’s your doll’s name?”
“Aggie.” Madeline clutched the doll to her chest. “My bestest friend.”
“She’s lucky.”
Madeline scrunched up her forehead. “Why?”
“’Cause she has a friend like you.”
Madeline propped the doll on her knees and smoothed its yarn hair. After a moment, she turned her face up to Rye. “Want to be my friend?”
Her simple but sincere question knotted his chest. “I’d like that, Miss Madeline.”
She grinned and her eyes twinkled. “Me, too, Mr. For’ster.”
“If we’re going to be friends, you’ll have to call me Rye.”
She covered her mouth with her hand and giggled.
Puzzled, Rye glanced at Dulcie, who was watching them.
She shrugged. “She’s never called a man by his first name before. She probably thinks it’s funny.” Dulcie returned to her task.
Rye frowned, trying to figure out if Dulcie was angry with him. Not about the roof, but that he was becoming friendly with her daughter. Yet it had been Dulcie who told Madeline to sit with him. His head throbbed, and he decided to forego trying to figure out Dulcie McDaniel.
Madeline spoke to her doll in a low voice, half her words made up. But it appeared Aggie understood, so Rye gave up on figuring them out, too.
Understanding females was a lot like trying to understand the army. Damned near impossible.
RYE spent the rest of the day sitting in the shade of the oak tree. From his vantage point, he watched Dulcie work in her garden, with Madeline helping. Although he wasn’t sure if helping was the right word. Dulcie could’ve done the work in half the time, but she patiently explained the finer points of gardening to her daughter. Like how to tell a weed from a vegetable and when a tomato was ripe. It was enjoyable to watch the usually reserved Dulcie smile and praise Madeline.
It was also a damned fine sight when Dulcie leaned over to pick something or pull a weed. The loose trousers would snug up against her nicely rounded backside and hug her long legs. Even his headache couldn’t stop him from imagining how those willowy legs would feel wrapped around his waist and her smooth ass cupped in his palms. He savagely reminded himself that she was untouchable, that he had no right to think of her that way.
He adjusted his hat, setting it at an odd angle because of the lump on his head, and felt restless and guilty for lazing around. But every time he stood, dizziness and nausea washed through him. And he cursed himself as ten kinds of a fool for being so careless. Hell, he wasn’t supposed to be a burden to the widow.
He roused from his musings as Dulcie walked toward him, the water pail swinging in her hand. The breeze molded her shirt against her chest, and the suspenders further outlined her breasts. Despite the bagginess of her breeches, the cinched belt defined a slender waist. Her legs were long, but that shouldn’t have surprised him. She was taller than his wife, who’d barely topped five feet and weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet.
“Water?” Dulcie asked as she neared him.
Realizing his mouth was dry, although not from the sun’s heat, he nodded. ’Preciate it.”
She handed him the ladle and he dipped it into the water.
“Thanks,” he said after emptying the dipper.
She lowered herself to the ground a few feet from him, her legs folded to the side and one hand braced on the grass. He followed her gaze and spotted Madeline playing hopscotch on the bare dirt. Then he turned his perusal to Dulcie’s heat-reddened face, noting the sooty smudges beneath her eyes.
“Been having trouble sleeping?” he asked.
She turned her head sharply, her eyes flat and her mouth a grim line. “Why?”
He drew back, startled by her belligerent response. “You look tired is all.”
After staring at him a few moments longer, her antagonism faded and she gave her attention back to her daughter. “I’m fine.”
Rye gritted his teeth. She’d obviously felt comfortable enough to join him, so why was she snarling like a wet cat? All he’d done was ask her how she was sleeping. Maybe she considered the question too personal for a hired man.
He leaned against the oak’s rough trunk and tipped his head back, careful of the tender spot. Sunlight glittered between the shifting leaves, and the wind’s gentle rustle whispered in the background. Despite having known Jerry, he knew little about Dulcie and curiosity impelled him to ask, “How long were
you married?”
“Almost five years,” she replied after a moment’s hesitation.
“How’d you meet your husband?”
She shrugged. “He was assigned to the army post just north of here. We met in town.”
The Jerry McDaniel he knew would more likely be found in the saloons, so how had Dulcie met him? Had she worked in one? The woman he knew didn’t seem the type to ply men with drinks and coax them upstairs into her bed. Besides, he couldn’t imagine Jerry marrying a whore, despite his appetite for their loose charms.
As if reading his mind, Dulcie said, “I was waiting for my father to come out of the saloon when he stopped by the wagon. We got to talking, and there happened to be a social the following Saturday. He invited me. I accepted. We got hitched two months later.”
Rye nodded. Not knowing when they’d march off to a new post, many soldiers married fast. Too often it made for marriages that were less than happy. Lonely wives blamed their new husbands for taking them away from family and into the hostile frontier. Was that what had happened with Dulcie and Jerry?
“I couldn’t wait to leave this place,” Dulcie added. She looked around the ramshackle farm, a strange mix of fondness and bitterness in her expression. “Funny how I missed it, though.”
“Not really. It was what you knew.”
She fixed her gaze on him. “I suppose. What about you?”
He glanced away. “What about me?”
“You said you were an orphan. What did you do after you left the orphanage?”
Rye’s heart kicked up a notch as he debated how much to tell her. “I looked for my brothers. Never found them.”
“I’m sorry.”
She sounded like she meant it. He shrugged. “Never figured I’d have much of a chance.”
“Do you remember them?”
Age-worn pictures of two boys, both older than him, flickered through his memory. “Slater was five years older than me. He was always getting into some kind of mischief. Usually took me along.” Rye shook his head, chuckling. “Never knew it then, but I figured out later it was so I got part of the blame. He was always thinking. Always coming up with ways to get out of work and responsibility.”
A Reason to Believe Page 6
