Lark was so stunned by his appearance, any words or utterance were momentarily lost to her. The man was several days unshaven yet clean. He was tall with hair that appeared fair at first glance. Yet Lark quickly realized his hair only appeared fair, for his whisker growth was dark. In addition, as he tipped his head to further consider her, his hair moved, revealing that it was indeed brown beneath the top sun-bleached layer. His eyes were a deep, dark, rather dusky shade of brown that pierced with clear disapproval. He clenched a firm, square jaw tightly, and there was a rather weathered look about him—as if the sun had parched his spirit or sleep had thoroughly abandoned him. Still, even with the deep frown puckering his brow, Lark was stuck by his being so handsome. He was older than she—much older—and this only served to further intimidate her.
She swallowed, still unable to speak.
“Who in the hell are you?” he growled, clearly having lost patience with waiting for her to explain herself.
“I-I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. I was hoping to speak with Tom Evans. Is…is he at home?” she choked at last, trying to portray some sort of confidence.
The man’s frown intensified, and he rolled his eyes in a gesture of annoyance. “Tom. Tom! Get your lily-white…get in here! There’s a…someone askin’ after ya.”
The man turned, leaving Lark standing in the open doorway, trembling with intimidation.
Lark exhaled a breath of relief. Glancing over her shoulder to Hadley, she saw him smile.
Slater Evans? she mouthed to him.
Hadley chuckled and nodded emphatically.
Lark shook her head with near disbelief. No wonder Hadley had directed her to ask to speak to Tom. Slater Evans seemed as mean as the day was long.
Straightening her posture once more—for Slater Evans had managed to whip her courage down like a stray dog—she quickly pinched her cheeks to rosy them up and forced a smile.
A second man, looking quite similar to the first, only with a welcoming grin and overall pleasant countenance, came to the door. The man’s smile broadened as he came to stand in the doorway, and Lark felt a wave of relief wash through her.
“Well, howdy there, miss,” the man greeted.
Lark sighed, delighted by his friendly, easy manner.
“And what is it has me so lucky as to find you on my porch?” he asked.
“Are you…are you Mr. Tom Evans?” Lark ventured.
“Yes, ma’am. Handsome feller…ain’t I?” he teased.
“Yes…well…um…”
Tom Evans chuckled, his radiant smile outshining the sun. “What can I do for ya, honey?” he asked then.
Lark was grateful he’d chosen not to tease her any further. She thought she might not be able to endure any more—not with being so tired and hungry—so desperate to find some position that would see her through until spring.
“I’m Lark,” she began, “Lark Lawrence.” She cleared her throat. It suddenly felt very dry. “I’ve heard that you’ve recently lost your housekeeper…and I am so sorry to hear that, by the way.”
“Thank ya. We loved dear ol’ Mrs. Simpson. She was near like our own mama.”
“Yes. I’m sorry for your loss,” Lark managed. “Well, someone in town thought you may be in need of an individual to keep house and cook for you…and suggested that I inquire as to whether or not you did.”
Tom Evans’s already wide smile broadened. “Why, we do indeed! We’ve been havin’ us a downright awful mess of a time ’round here,” he explained. “Me and ol’ Slater—he’s my charmin’ brother—we’ve got too darn much to do with keepin’ the cattle and crops in line. Don’t leave much time for cookin’…even if we did know how. And between you and me, darlin’, I’m plain sick and tired of eatin’ jerky and hard biscuits every meal.”
Lark smiled as hope bloomed within her bosom. She bit her lip a moment, attempting to rein in her sudden exuberance. “So you are in need of someone then?” she asked.
“You bet your sweet…ah course we are!” Tom exclaimed. “But you ain’t quite what I was thinkin’ our next mama would look like.” He winked at her, and she couldn’t stop the blush from rising to her cheeks.
“I’m more than capable, Mr. Evans. I assure you my youth does not denote incompetence,” she assured him.
Tom paused a moment. His smiled faded a little. Yet even as he studied her from head to toe, the expression of casual amusement never left his face—even for the slight puzzling frown that puckered his brow.
“Honey, you talk like a schoolteacher. You can’t be from ’round these parts. Where ya from?” he asked.
“East,” Lark plainly answered.
Tom Evans nodded—did not press her for further information—simply nodded.
“Alrighty then,” he said. He gestured toward Hadley. “You go on and tell ol’ Hadley Jacobson to run along home now. We’ll let ya give us a try for a while and see if you can tolerate two ol’ bachelors.”
Reaching out, she took hold of his hand, shaking it with relief, gratitude, and sheer delight. “Oh! Thank you, Mr. Evans! I promise you won’t regret accepting me into your employ!”
He smiled at her and shook his head, chuckling. “Well, I’m sure I won’t if’n I can get used to the way you talk.”
Lark giggled as she ran back to the wagon. She nearly threw her arms around Hadley Jacobson’s neck to thank him but caught herself a moment before performing such an impetuous and improper display. Instead, she took his hand and shook it as sincerely as she had Tom Evans’s a moment before.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Jacobson! Thank you!” she gushed. “He’s offered me a chance. He’s offered to see if I can do the job, and I can’t thank you enough for your help!”
The young cowboy handed her the old carpetbag that hid her only possessions, touched the brim of his hat, and said, “Yer welcome, miss.” He climbed up onto the wagon seat once more, gathering the lines to the team. “I hope I’ll be seein’ ya in town now and then,” he said. “But not too soon.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jacobson,” Lark sighed.
Hadley nodded and slapped the lines at the backs of the team. The team lurched forward.
Lark didn’t wait to watch him drive too far away. She wanted to make certain Tom Evans knew she was committed to working hard. Therefore, she turned and hurried back to the house.
“Here I am!” she announced excitedly, running up the steps to the porch.
Tom Evans chuckled. “Here ya are indeed.” He studied her for a moment and then stepped aside and gestured that she should enter the house.
“Well, let’s get you settled in, Miss…um…Miss…”
Lark thought it was sweet—the way he’d already forgotten her name.
“Lawrence,” she told him. “Lark Lawrence, Mr. Evans. But please call me Lark.”
Tom nodded. “Lark it is then,” he said as she stepped into the house.
She felt like jumping up and down with glee and utter elation. She’d prove her worth—yes, she would—and then she’d have a place to winter. Still, she concealed her delirium. She didn’t want Tom Evans to think she was some sort of lunatic woman. No. She needed to remain calm—to move and act with the grace and composure of a refined woman. These Evans men were more mature, in their late twenties perhaps. They would respond more positively to the nature of a more mature woman. After all, she had the sense that their recently departed housekeeper had been quite maternal—an older woman. Thus, they were most likely used to less giddiness—a quieter sort of existence.
As she stepped into the front of the house, she looked about. It was a rather large house, larger than it appeared from the outside. There was a parlor to her right, a kitchen to her left, and a hallway and stairs before her. It was instantly obvious that the house was inhabited by men—solely men. The furniture was thick with dust—strewn with blankets, clothing, and other clutter, even in the parlor. The kitchen looked as if a small twister had blown through. Still, the furnishings were of quality and the general dec
or very tasteful. She credited this fact to the late Mrs. Simpson.
“Not much to look at,” Tom began, “but we find it cozy enough.”
“It’s wonderful!” Lark exclaimed sincerely. “It’s sturdy and temperate and ever so masculine,” she commented.
“Temperate?” Tom chuckled.
Lark smiled and nodded. “Yes. It’s very cool and comfortable inside,” she explained. “And I’ve no doubt it’s very warm in the winter.” Warmth! The thought of being warm in winter purely breathed respite in her.
Tom chuckled again. “Well, we don’t always leave it such a pigsty,” he said, glancing around, “but we been bringin’ in the crops the past few days and just ain’t had a chance to tidy it up.”
Lark bit her lip and stifled a giggle as he reached over, attempting to conceal a pair of red flannels strewn across a nearby chair. He was a delightful man! Yet the thought of how kind and lighthearted Tom Evans seemed led Lark’s thoughts to his brother. At the sudden reminder that Slater Evans also lived in the house, Lark’s joy was somewhat lessened.
“There’s a room off the kitchen here that was Matilda’s,” Tom said, leading Lark to a door just at the foot of the stairs. “You’ll like it, I think. It’s more, ya know, all lacy and white…with a pink pitcher and basin for washin’. It’s more…more…”
“Feminine?”
“Yeah! That’s it! Couldn’t quite think of the word,” he mumbled, seeming thoughtful. “Anyway, it’s right over here.”
He opened the door and stepped aside for Lark to enter the room. Lark smiled, surprised and delighted by his awkward yet somehow well-groomed manners.
She gasped a little as she looked about the room. It was charming! Its small dimensions were perfectly cozy. A comfortable-looking bed covered with a bright white and pink quilt stood invitingly in the center of the wall to the right. Lace curtains hung at the window at the back, and above the washstand sitting next to the bed hung a lovely painting of an old southern mansion.
“What a beautiful scene,” Lark said, going to stand before the painting.
“Matilda was from Richmond. I think she always hankered for the life she remembered before the war,” Tom explained.
“It’s a lovely painting,” Lark breathed as she studied the tall pillars of the antebellum house—the lilac-colored wisteria blossoms engulfing them. Sighing with rare and pure contentment, Lark glanced around the room again. “This is the most wonderful room I have ever seen,” she whispered. And it was true.
“Well, I don’t know about that…but I hope it’ll do.” Tom nodded to the back wall. “There’s a wardrobe just back here for your hangin’-up things. And, of course, that old trunk at the foot of the bed is yours as well. It’s empty.”
Lark looked around awkwardly and set her worn carpetbag on top of the old trunk. She certainly wouldn’t need much space for the few things she had with her.
“Thank you, Mr. Evans,” she said.
“Oh, help us all,” resonated a growl from behind them.
Lark turned to see Tom Evans’s brother standing in the doorway—scowling at her as if she were infected with some ghastly disease.
CHAPTER TWO
“Don’t tell me ya actually let her in, Tom,” he grumbled. “Next I’ll find ya out buryin’ dead mice, savin’ spiders, and nursin’ stray pups.”
“And this, Miss Lark,” Tom began, “is my charmin’ brother, Slater.” Tom shook his head as he looked to his brother. He smiled and chuckled a bit.
Tom Evans chuckled more than any man Lark had ever met. Yet she saw nothing amusing in his brother’s behavior. Feelings of intimidation and anxiety flooded her.
Still, Tom continued his introductions. “Slater…this is Lark. She’s gonna cook me somethin’ to eat for dinner ’sides yer leather-hard jerky and puny old biscuits.”
“My jerky is fine,” Slater grumbled. “And my biscuits.”
Mustering every ounce of courage left in her, Lark offered a hand to the menacing man. “Hello,” she greeted. At least he’d found the decency to put on a shirt. Lark was grateful for that. His previous state of undress had greatly unnerved her.
Slater Evans wiped his hand on his pant leg and dutifully accepted hers. He gripped her hand so tightly, Lark nearly winced. He was strong; the proof was in his grip. Furthermore, he labored hard; that evidence was also in his hand, for his palm was callused—and warm. His touch unsettled her. She had the sense he could strangle her with little effort. Yet she mused such a man could likewise complete any task necessary for survival.
“I hate rabbit stew,” he stated. “Anything cooked with rabbit makes my stomach churn, and I won’t eat it. We get up early ’round here…well before the sun. We like to eat before we get to work. We’re ornery old men, set in our ways, and we don’t take kindly to change.”
Lark felt her eyebrows arch in surprise. Could it be he was actually going to accept her? “I-I’ve never made rabbit stew,” she said. “Not in all my life.”
Slater Evans nodded. “Good. It makes me sick.”
“That’s ’cause it’s made outta cute little bunnies,” Tom teased.
Lark quickly glanced to Tom. Was he truly going to tease his brother? She didn’t think Slater Evans appeared the sort to tolerate teasing.
“We used to have some rabbits when we was boys,” Tom explained. “We kept ’em for pets…or at least me and Slater thought that’s what they was. But times got mighty desperate one winter, and Mama had to cook one up for supper. Ol’ Slater won’t eat rabbit since.” Tom chuckled and patted his brother on the back. “He ain’t never quite recovered from the shock. Have ya, Slater?”
Slater ignored his brother’s teasing and continued to glare at Lark. “How old are ya, girl? Fifteen? Sixteen?” he asked.
“Twenty,” Lark lied, feigning offense. Still, she’d be nineteen in three months. She assured herself that was close enough to twenty to justify her misleading response.
“You don’t look no older than sixteen,” Slater mumbled, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. “You ain’t got no strange habits, do you?”
“Strange habits?”
“You know…strange things about ya. You ain’t insane or got some crazy man chasin’ ya all over creation, do you?”
“N-no, sir. No one’s looking for me,” Lark answered—and this was the truth.
Slater Evans reached up and rubbed his chiseled, whiskery chin with one callused hand. “Well, I guess if Tom’s dead set on havin’ a pet…I might as well enjoy a good meal myself now and again.” His eyes narrowed, and she fancied a slight grin curved his rather well-shaped lips. “Leastwise we won’t be eatin’ you for supper if things get desperate come winter.” With that, he turned, his long legs striding him away.
Tom chuckled, winking at Lark. “See…he ain’t all thistles and thorns.”
Lark was suddenly disturbed—for she found Slater Evans very intriguing. She fancied his hostility and gruffness were exaggerated. Furthermore, the way his brother teased him—even his last remark before leaving—indicated Slater Evans had some breath of a sense of humor in him—somewhere.
“You just ignore ol’ Slater, and you’ll be just fine. He’s full of beans and other stuff anyhow,” Tom said. “And that there reminds me…let me show you where we keep the supplies and all. We usually like to eat our supper about sundown this time of year. That all right?”
“Oh yes. It sounds wonderful!” Lark exclaimed. And it did! Food aplenty? Shelter? A bed? The idea of one or the other was delicious—but all three? Divine! “I had better get started if dinner is to be served promptly.”
As she followed Tom into the kitchen, Lark could hardly contain herself. Real food—perhaps even meat and sweets now and then! It had been so long since she had a good supper. Her mouth watered with anticipation as Tom showed her where the vegetables and meats were stored. The rich aroma of the smokehouse nearly swarmed her into a faint!
“I’ll give you a hint ’bout Slater,” Tom began
as they returned to the house. “He loves baked things. Mainly sugar cookies…with sugar and butter frostin’ on the top ’specially. If you wanna get on his good side, you get him some sweet thing baked tomorrow.” Tom winked at Lark, and she nodded. “Now, I gotta be gettin’ back to work. You go on ahead and fix whatever you’ve a mind to. We’ve been eatin’ leather and dust for so long that anythin’ would taste good by now. Except rabbit, of course.”
“Of course,” Lark giggled.
Tom smiled and began to leave, yet Lark caught his shirtsleeve to stay him. “Thank you, Mr. Evans,” she humbly said. “You’ve no idea how much you’ve helped me.”
Tom was touched—deeply moved by the girl’s obvious gratitude. He smiled down into the lovely face of the very pretty young woman. It was obvious she didn’t have much at all in the world—that life was treating her harshly. Her dress, though clean and fresh-looking, was very well worn. Tom figured it had once been red, but it was more a dull shade of brown now. Lark Lawrence looked a might too thin to him too. Still, she was mighty pretty! Her long chestnut hair was pinned up neatly, and her green eyes flashed with hope and enthusiasm. When she smiled, it made a body feel as if he’d stepped out the door in the middle of winter, only to find spring had snuck in and turned everything to blossoms. She was small but sturdy-looking, with a voice like music. He thought how much nicer it would be to hear her happy, light voice call him in for supper, instead of poor Matilda’s. He’d begun to grow guilty every time he’d come in for one of Matilda’s suppers. She’d grown so old—so tired and worn. Yet she’d insisted on mothering him and Slater until the day she died. He thought of the old woman now—missed her—hoped she was up in heaven doing nothing but her knitting.
Weathered Too Young Page 2
