“Mr. For’ster’s back,” Madeline called from the porch through the open door.
Since Forrester had left his gear in the barn, Dulcie had been fairly certain he’d return. Still, she couldn’t help but be relieved that he, too, hadn’t abandoned them.
She tucked her long ponytail beneath the floppy hat and walked out to the porch. She immediately spotted Rye riding in, and it looked like he’d had luck hunting. Taking Madeline’s hand, Dulcie met him at the corral.
“Pet horsey?” Madeline asked hopefully.
“Is it all right if she pets your mare?” Dulcie asked, deferring to Rye.
He smiled, and she was struck anew by his rugged features, especially the startlingly blue eyes enhanced by his sun-darkened face. “That’d be fine, ma’am. Smoke here enjoys being the center of attention.”
Dulcie continued to hold Madeline’s hand while the girl stroked the horse’s soft nose. Dulcie motioned with her chin at the sack tied to the saddle horn. “It looks like you had some luck.”
Rye held up the bag and leaned closer. She forced herself to hold her ground.
“Two rabbits,” he said in a low-pitched voice. “They’re already skinned and gutted. Wasn’t sure how your daughter would take to seeing them.”
It was a thoughtful gesture that touched and surprised Dulcie. Jerry wouldn’t have thought twice about tossing two bloody rabbits down in front of his young daughter. But wary of letting Forrester see too much, she schooled her expression to remain indifferent. “I appreciate it.” She took the bag with her free hand. “I appreciate the fresh meat, too,” she added stiffly.
“If you’d like, I’ll try again in a couple of days. If I can bring down a deer, you’ll have meat for a spell.”
Her heart sped up. “I thought you said you’d stay ’til after harvest.”
“I did, and I will.” He appeared puzzled.
Dulcie felt light-headed with relief. She’d assumed he meant that the deer would be only for her and Madeline. She gave Rye an acknowledging nod, but his expression indicated he was waiting for more. Feeling foolish, she didn’t let him in on her mistaken assumption.
“With the fresh vegetables, this will make a good stew,” she said.
“I s’pect so, ma’am.” After giving her one last measuring glance, Rye released his saddle’s cinch.
“You figuring on working on the barn today?” Dulcie asked.
Rye shook his head. “Thought I’d patch your roof then start on the porch.”
“There are more holes in the barn. Since you were staying in there, I figured you’d want to cover those first.”
He shrugged. “I’ve got a sheltered corner. That’s all I need. Your daughter should have a safe, dry place.”
Dulcie stared at him, trying to decide if he was sincere or only playing on her concern for Madeline to gain her trust. She wasn’t certain. However, allowing him to repair the cabin wasn’t a threat, as long as he didn’t break the rules.
“Come on, Madeline. Mr. Forrester has to put his horse into the corral,” Dulcie said.
With only a slight thrusting of her lower lip, Madeline nodded.
“Bye, Mr. For’ster,” she said to Rye, waving as Dulcie led her back to the house. “Bye, Smoke.”
“Bye, Miss Madeline,” he said with a smile and a wink.
Dulcie felt his gaze on her back as they crossed the yard. What kind of man was Rye Forrester? Was he as considerate and decent as he appeared? Or was that simply a mask he wore to hide his true character? After her experience with men, she figured she’d be able to recognize the mask and see what lay beneath it. But Forrester had her stumped. Or maybe he was just more patient and cunning than other men.
That was it. One day he’d slip up, and Dulcie would see Forrester for what he really was. But until then, she’d accept his help and keep him at a safe distance.
Remaining cautious was much better than being sorry.
RYE hammered the last nail into a shake then leaned back with one arm braced on the roof. He’d just used the last of the wood shingles he’d fashioned from three-foot logs and would have to cut more before he continued. However, the length of the shadows told him he wouldn’t be doing any more today.
When he’d first climbed onto the cabin roof, he wasn’t sure it would hold his weight. Fortunately, it had, although he remained wary of the places missing shingles. It surprised him that the widow hadn’t complained about leaks since it was obvious there were a few.
“Mr. Forrester,” Mrs. McDaniel called.
Rye cautiously leaned over the edge to find her standing below, not twelve feet away, and immediately noticed her floppy hat was missing. In the two weeks he’d been there, he hadn’t seen her without it and was taken aback by her thick chestnut red hair shot through with golden threads. Her face, usually obscured by the ugly hat, was oval-shaped, and her fair skin displayed a hint of freckles across her nose and cheeks. However, it was her eyes that shocked him. With her hat shading them, they appeared a dull green with brown speckles. Here, in full sunlight, the green was as bright as spring grass with golden brown flecks.
“I asked if you were about done,” she said, and it was obvious it wasn’t the first time she’d spoken.
Rye shook off his stunned reaction. “Yes, ma’am. I just need to put up my tools and wash.”
“I’ll bring out your supper in ten minutes.” Then she spun on her heel and disappeared from view.
Rye retreated from the edge of the roof and wiped the sweat from his brow. Strange how he hadn’t considered Mrs. McDaniel an attractive woman, and figured she wore the men’s clothing to hide her plain features. But now, after seeing her without the hat, he couldn’t help but wonder what the baggy shirt and pants hid.
Shaking his thoughts free of the possibilities, he climbed down the ladder carefully. As a child, heights had bothered him. They still did, but he’d learned to handle the fear. More or less.
Mrs. McDaniel, wearing the hat again, brought out his food just as he finished drying his face and hands by the well. She waited for him to join her, which surprised him. Usually she simply left his tray on the porch and made herself scarce.
The delicious scents of rabbit stew and fresh-baked bread, the smell that had taunted him all day, reminded him how hungry he was. “Thanks, ma’am.”
He sat down on the porch, his feet planted on a lower step, and removed the cloth covering an oversized bowl filled with stew with three thick slices of bread setting on a plate beside it. He expected the widow to hightail it back into the cabin, but she remained, her arms crossed as she gazed down at him.
“Thank you for the rabbits, Mr. Forrester,” she said.
“You already thanked me.” He glanced up at her. “Besides, that was the easy part, ma’am. You had the hard chore of cooking it.” He grinned. “And didn’t I ask you to call me Rye?”
A flush touched her cheeks and, knowing the freckles were there, he saw them clearly. It gave her face a girlish appearance, a look at odds with her solemn nature.
“Actually, it was a pleasure to cook something other than salt pork”—she paused—“Rye.”
The sound of his name carried by her voice startled him. Although he’d told her to call him Rye, she hadn’t done so until now. He considered calling her Dulcie, but he’d worked too hard to gain her trust and didn’t want to lose it.
He glanced around, surprised he couldn’t see or hear Madeline. “Where’s your daughter?”
“Inside. Sleeping.”
That was the reason it was so quiet. He stuck a spoonful of stew in his mouth and closed his eyes to savor the taste of the fresh vegetables with the meat. After swallowing, he opened his eyes and caught Mrs. McDaniel peering down at him. She averted her gaze, but not before Rye noticed the puzzlement in them.
“Something bothering you, ma’am?”
She shook her head. “No. Just thinking.”
“About what?” Rye took a generous bite from a slice of bread covered with p
ale yellow butter.
Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she shrugged. “My father.”
Rye continued to eat his stew, letting Mrs. McDaniel pick her own time to speak.
“He didn’t kill Mr. Carpenter. He couldn’t have,” she finally said.
Rye frowned and tilted his head back to look at her. “How can you be so sure?”
“He was a drunk, but he wasn’t a murderer.”
“Was he a mean drunk?”
She glared at him then looked away. “He wasn’t violent.”
He’d bet good money she’d answered with a half truth.
“Maybe this Carpenter fellah made him mad while he was drunk.”
Mrs. McDaniel remained silent. Rye mentally shrugged and continued eating. He emptied the bowl before she spoke again.
“He and Pa had an argument the day before, but he didn’t kill him.” She paused. “He was in our barn, drunker than a skunk, when Carpenter was murdered.”
“You told the law that, didn’t you?”
She glowered down at him. “Of course.” Her gaze skittered away. “The sheriff didn’t believe me. Said I was protecting him.”
Rye studied her thinned lips and stiff posture. “Were you?”
For a moment, he thought he’d pushed too hard.
“No. I wouldn’t protect a murderer, even if he was my father.” Stubborn determination was clear in the lift of her chin.
Rye believed her. “So who do you think killed Carpenter?”
“I don’t know.” The words were spat out, as if she’d been gnawing on them for some time without success.
“Who had a grudge against him?”
Her shoulders slumped, and she sat on the porch, her back against the cabin. “Nobody. To hear folks talk, you’d think Carpenter walked on water.”
Rye snorted. “In my experience, someone without enemies is hiding something. How long did Carpenter live in town?”
“I heard he showed up about three years ago.”
“So you didn’t know him.”
She shook her head. “That was a couple years after I left Locust and got hitched.”
To Jerry. Rye cut off the thought. He couldn’t afford to let it slip that he knew her husband.
She narrowed her eyes and clenched her jaw. “I’m going to find the real murderer and show everybody in this town that even though Pa was a drunk, he wasn’t a killer and didn’t deserve to die like one.”
Rye licked the butter from his fingers, not surprised by her declaration. She was a proud woman and wouldn’t take to folks believing the worst of her father and, consequently, her. “How do you plan on doing that?”
“I’m not sure yet.” Her expression was hard, angry, but her words were hesitant. “But I’ll find a way.” Then, as if embarrassed by her outburst, she rose. “Would you like some more stew?”
“No thanks, Mrs. McDaniel. I’m full up.” He handed her the tray with the empty bowl and plate. “If you’d like, I could do some asking around in town. I might be able to learn something about the murder.”
“Thanks, but it’s not your concern, Rye. He was my father.” She turned but paused before going into the cabin. “My name’s Dulcie.”
She was gone before Rye could comment.
WITH only the light of a half moon, Dulcie paced the floor. The air within the cabin remained sweltering from having the stove fired most of the day, so she wore only a threadbare gown that fell to midcalf and stretched taut across her breasts. It was one she’d found in the old trunk in the loft, from before she’d finished growing and bore a child.
Her conversation with Rye played over and over in her mind. Not that it was a secret she didn’t believe her father killed Carpenter, but she hadn’t planned on Rye being such a good listener. Or maybe she was only desperate for the company of a man who wasn’t a drunk or a scoundrel. Either way, it didn’t excuse her lapse in baring her troubles to a hired man.
Dulcie stared out the window, at the varying shades of black and gray. A breeze rustled leaves and cast shifting shadows across the ground and sides of the barn. A coyote yipped, followed by another and another, and then there was nothing. Abrupt silence.
A dark figure emerged from the barn and Dulcie gasped, only to recognize Rye’s lanky figure a moment later. She pressed her palm to her chest, between her breasts, and felt her heart hammering. But it wasn’t all from being startled.
She shifted to the side of the window so he wouldn’t see her, but remained where she could watch his movements. The moon provided enough illumination to tell he wore only pants and boots. He sauntered to the corral and folded his arms on the top pole, giving Dulcie a full, but murky, view of his back. Although he wasn’t a large man, his shoulders were well-proportioned, angling down to a narrow waist, nicely rounded backside, and slim hips.
Familiar urges heated her blood and stuttered her breath. It was like the first time she’d lain with Jerry. Her entire body had come to life, sensitive and keening for hands upon her fevered skin and a more intimate need to be touched in places even she’d been afraid to touch.
Dulcie closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the wall. She’d made her vow less than four months ago and already she was tempted to break it. Was she so needy she couldn’t stand on her own two feet? So filled with sinful urges that she couldn’t control her body’s reaction to a handsome man?
She’d used her shameful nature to snag a husband and escape this place. Then she’d done so again to gain passage for her and Madeline’s way back to the home she’d escaped. She’d come full circle in five years.
However, she wasn’t a girl anymore, nor was she a woman desperate to return to the only home she’d known, the only place that offered a chance to raise her daughter by herself. Rye Forrester had accepted her conditions for work, and those conditions hadn’t included Dulcie’s body.
Yet if she offered, would Rye accept as quickly as Jerry or the peddler had? He was a man, so the answer was obvious.
A tear slid down her cheek, surprising her. She wiped it away with a vicious scrub of her palm. She thought she’d made her peace with what she’d done since she couldn’t go back and change her foolish past. But she had it within her power to shape her future, as long as she denied those needs that invited nothing but trouble.
She turned away from the window, avoiding temptation, but the restlessness remained. Her bare feet carried her to her parents’ room, and she opened the trunk at the foot of the bed. Very little remained within the trunk—a dried wild-flower bouquet and a framed picture of a newlywed couple sitting stiffly for the camera. And a whiskey bottle.
Dulcie snagged the bottle’s neck and carried it to the kitchen where she filled a cup halfway, then added a splash more. After returning the whiskey to the trunk, she clutched the cup to her chest and crossed back to the window. As she stared at Rye, she sipped the whiskey.
Only after the liquor dulled her desire did she climb up into the loft and fall asleep.
THE pounding on the roof joined with the throbbing in her head and threatened to blow Dulcie’s skull apart. With the breakfast dishes washed and put away, she sat down and folded her arms on the table to rest her head on them.
She’d overslept that morning, waking only when Madeline stirred. Despite her headache, she’d hurried through her ablutions and dressed quickly. When she finally opened the door to milk Flossie, she’d found a pail full of milk, as well as another with the gathered eggs sitting on the porch.
From across the yard, Rye had nodded at her then returned to his task, forming shingles from logs. By the high stack of shakes, he’d been at his chore for at least an hour. And Dulcie had slept through it.
Merely thinking about it made her burn with embarrassment. It was her job to milk the cow and pick up the eggs, and if she couldn’t do those small chores, how could she hope to hold onto the farm? Or find a murderer?
“Ma, wanna go outside,” Madeline said, tugging on her sleeve.
; Dulcie raised her head and squinted against the harsh sunlight coming through a crack in the cabin wall. It had to be quieter outside than inside with Rye now working on the roof. “All right, honey.”
She remembered to place her hat on her head and tugged it low over her eyes. She was grateful for the protection against the bright day. If only she could find something to dull the noise.
Once outside, Madeline skipped around the yard, scattering the scratching chickens and singing to herself. Dulcie watched from the porch, but the hammering sounded even louder there so she stepped out beyond the house. The pounding mercifully stopped, and she glanced up to see Rye silhouetted against the sun. She quickly lowered her eyes.
“Feeling puny this morning?” he asked.
She would’ve glared up at him if the sun wasn’t right behind him. “It’s not against the law to sleep late once in awhile, is it?”
“No. I just wasn’t expecting it.”
“Sorry you had to wait for breakfast.” She cringed inwardly at her sarcasm.
“I wasn’t worried about breakfast.” His tone revealed impatience. And worry.
Dulcie refused to acknowledge his concern and the lump in her throat. She narrowed her eyes to mere slits and managed to hold her gaze on him. “As you can see, I’m fine. How’s it going up there?” Diverting his attention would make him stop talking about things she didn’t want to talk about.
“I’ll have to cut more shakes this afternoon,” he said. “Another day or two and I’ll have the roof almost as good as new.”
Impressed, Dulcie nodded. “That’ll be a blessing.”
He tipped his head to the side. “I never took you for a religious woman, Dulcie.”
His use of her first name caught her off guard. But then she had given him permission to use it. “I’m not. At least, not anymore.” Realizing she was being dragged into a conversation not related to work, she asked, “The porch next?”
“Unless you have something else you’d rather have me do.”
A Reason to Believe Page 5
