Weathered Too Young

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  “Well, Miss Lark…you don’t have no idea yourself how much you’re gonna help us out,” he told her. “Now, you get to cookin’, and I’ll get to workin’.” And with that, he left and followed his brother out the front door.

  Lark listened and frowned as Slater Evans began to complain to his brother. Tom and Slater were still standing on the front porch. From her place in the kitchen, she could hear every word, being that the window was open.

  “I cannot believe you, Tom,” Slater growled. “What’s got into you? Hirin’ that little runt of a thing? We been doin’ just fine on our own. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with hard jerky and biscuits. It puts hair on yer chest.”

  “I already got enough hair on my chest, Slater,” Tom said. “Besides…she’s mighty pretty. Even you gotta admit that,” Tom chuckled lowly.

  “She’s a baby, Tom,” Slater grumbled. “And it’s all too plain what she’s up to.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “She’s runnin’ from somethin’,” Slater growled.

  Lark gulped and continued to listen.

  “Oh, come on now! You’re always so suspicious of everybody,” Tom argued.

  “You just don’t see women travelin’ ’round the country by themselves. Somethin’ ain’t right about it. Besides…with a pretty little filly like that livin’ under our roof, you and me’s gonna get accused of all kinds of doin’s. What’ll folks think?”

  “Now, Slater, you ain’t never cared what other folks think…not in all yer life. You’re just angered at me for not consultin’ you about it first. That’s all, and don’t think I ain’t wise to it. I’ve been yer younger brother for far too long not to be.”

  “I ain’t just talkin’ to the wind, Tom. She’s hidin’ somethin’. I know she is.”

  “Is that so? And what if she is? Ain’t we all hidin’ somethin’, big brother? I woulda thought you’d know that better than just about anybody.”

  “Hmmf,” Slater grumbled. “I’m tellin’ you, Tom, I feel trouble simmerin’. You mark my words. Trouble…it’s in the air.”

  “I know right well what ya feel simmerin’, brother,” Tom chuckled.

  “She’s your wounded sparrow, Tom…not mine. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  Lark heard heavy footsteps stomp across the porch—descend the porch steps. They were gone.

  

  Lark exhaled the breath she’d been holding. She needed a place to winter—so very desperately! But it was obvious that if Slater Evans had his way, she’d be sent packing. Frowning, she turned back to the sink and began the task of preparing an evening meal. Inhaling deeply to calm herself once more, she smiled as she gazed at the heap of carrots, potatoes, and herbs she’d gathered from the cellar. The sight of the slice of beef Tom had stolen from the smokehouse caused her mouth to water. She would thoroughly relish cooking that evening and prepare such a fine meal that Slater Evans would be purely bewitched into keeping her on.

  As she began to slice the vegetables, Lark whispered a prayer. She was so thankful to have a place to spend the winter. The previous winter had been miserable. The Larsons were kind to let her sleep in the barn as payment for helping around the house and with meals. Mrs. Larson, being consumptive, wasn’t able to carry out many of her duties as wife and mother. When she’d passed away early in the spring, Mr. Larson divided the children among his sisters and set out to find a new life somewhere else.

  Thus, Lark had to leave the Larsons. Still, being a fine seamstress, she’d been able to find work with Mrs. Macy, the seamstress in town. However, Mrs. Macy was elderly and decided to close her doors. Mrs. Macy had begged Lark to stay with her, but Lark was unable to find work and knew the aged widow could not afford to have her living in her home. So with that chapter of her life at an end, she set out to find another position to sustain herself. It wasn’t an unfamiliar way of life to Lark Lawrence. Indeed not. The truth was it had been nearly two years since she’d left—since she’d escaped—since she’d begun taking care of herself. So she’d left Mrs. Macy and set out to find a new place to winter—and it seemed as though she had been successful.

  

  By the time the sky was pink and orange with a tranquil sunset, a hearty beef stew and freshly baked rolls were waiting, warm, scenting the kitchen with a soothing, beckoning aroma. Lark hoped the meal was as good as it smelled—hoped the other tasks she’d been about, like tidying and freshening the house, were noticeable.

  As she placed a mason jar filled with wildflowers in the center of the freshly polished kitchen table, she heard her new employers talking as they ascended the porch steps. She smiled, pleased by the sound of their low, masculine voices. It comforted her—caused her to feel safe—somehow protected.

  As they entered, Tom drew a deep breath and smiled. “Mmm-mmm!” he hummed in exclamation. “Smell that, big brother? Heaven, that’s what it is. That’s the smell of heaven.” Tom sighed a sigh of contentment, and Lark smiled. At least one of the Evans brothers was pleased.

  Slater Evans remained silent and scowling.

  “Smells good enough to eat, Miss Lark Lawrence,” Tom said, stepping into the kitchen.

  “Well, I hope it tastes good enough to eat,” Lark said, nervously glancing to Slater.

  Slater Evans’s scowl softened some, and he nodded a greeting. Lark forced a friendly grin in return.

  “Could be I’m a little tired of jerky and biscuits myself,” the menacing man muttered as he sat down at the table.

  Lark puffed a breath of relief. She’d been afraid Slater Evans would still overrule his younger brother and send her away.

  As the two weary-looking men sat at the table, Lark began, “Mr. Jacobson said you employ cowboys…but that they see to themselves. I neglected to inquire after them before you left…so I went on Mr. Jacobson’s word and prepared just what I thought you would need.”

  “We have four hands ridin’ for us,” Slater answered. His dark eyes met her gaze, and Lark struggled to keep from glancing away. After all, it was rude not to look at someone when they were addressing you—especially one’s employer. “The boys see to themselves, and Eldon Pickering is a fine cook. He sees to their meals,” he explained. He shrugged his very broad shoulders, adding, “Anyway, they’re out roundin’ up right now. They’ll be gone a couple more days, I suspect.”

  “Oh, good,” Lark sighed. “I was afraid I hadn’t prepared enough.”

  Quickly, she went to the stove and ladled stew onto two plates. She’d placed a pat of butter on a roll—and then another—and added the warm bread to the plates.

  “Here you go, gentlemen,” she said, placing the plates on the table—one in front of Tom and one before his brother. “I hope it appeals to you.”

  She smiled, feeling more hopeful as the faces of both men brightened. The stew would be good—she knew it would—and both Tom and Slater would want nothing more to do with jerky and hard biscuits once they’d tasted the stew and soft, warm rolls.

  Tom glanced up to her as she stood beside the table. Smiling, he said, “Sit down, Miss Lark. You must be starvin’ to death.”

  Lark shook her head. “Oh no, I couldn’t. I’ll wait until you’ve both finished.”

  Both men looked to one another and then to her with sincerely bewildered expressions.

  “You’re funnin’ with us,” Slater said, glaring at her with doubt.

  “Well, no. I thought I should wait until you’ve finished and clear things away before…” she began.

  “Oh, for cryin’ in the bucket,” Slater said, shaking his head. “Where you from, girl?” Slater chuckled.

  “East,” Lark answered.

  “East?” Slater asked. “Well, don’t folks east sit down to their supper all at once?” He shook his head once more and said, “Now, get yerself a plate and sit down with us, girl. We’re just two ol’ cowboys. And we don’t have the patience to be treated no different.”

  Lark looked to Tom for reassurance. He smiled.

 
“What are you lookin’ at him for?” Slater asked, however. “I live here as much as Tom does. Ya don’t have to look to him for everything.”

  “Well, ya scared her clean outta her corset, Slater,” Tom scolded, grinning. “Ya make out you’re such an ol’ grump.”

  “I am an old grump,” Slater said. He looked to Lark again. “I said to get yerself a plate and sit down with us, girl’,” Slater reminded.

  “Don’t mind Slater, honey,” Tom said, yet he nodded at her to do as Slater instructed. “He’s a might better with cattle and horses than he is with people these days.”

  Lark nodded and turned to retrieve another plate from the cupboard.

  “Honey?” she heard Slater ask his brother. “She ain’t even been here a day, and already you’re callin’ her honey?”

  “What of it?” Tom asked.

  “Well, I never heard ya call Matilda ‘honey,’ ” Slater said.

  Lark ladled stew onto a plate for herself. She placed a pat of butter on a roll and returned to the table. When she looked at him, Slater nodded his approval, even for the lingering scowl on his handsome brow.

  “I think you oughta be the one to give thanks this evenin’, Slater,” Tom said.

  Slater scowled at his brother. He looked to Lark and mumbled, “Tom always thinks I’m more in need of talkin’ to the Lord than him. Thinks he’s already got his place in heaven and that I’m still a long way off from earnin’ mine.”

  “You said it…not me,” Tom said as he offered a hand to Lark.

  Lark placed her right hand in Tom’s palm, smiling as she saw him reach across the table and take Slater’s hand. She startled, however, when she felt Slater take her left hand. Tom let her hand lay easily in his palm. Yet Slater’s grip was firm.

  As Tom and Slater closed their eyes, Lark closed hers, bowing her head with respect.

  “Dear Lord,” Slater began, “thank ya for this fine day…for the hard work me and Tom done. Thank ya for talkin’ Clifford Herschel into sellin’ me his little bull…”

  Lark nearly giggled out loud. She couldn’t help opening her eyes just a bit to glance to Slater. He wore a frown, as usual, and seemed sincere in his prayer. She looked to Tom, however, to see him grinning, as usual—his shoulders bouncing with a barely withheld chuckle.

  Slater continued, “Thank ya, Lord, for this house and ranch…for the good boys me and Tom got cowboyin’ for us. Thank ya for this food…and it does smell good, Lord…so I suppose I oughta be thankin’ ya for the girl too. Thank you for dumpin’ this little wounded sparrow on Tom’s side of the porch so that he can have somebody to call honey and so I don’t have to keep makin’ biscuits.”

  Lark heard a low chuckle escaped Tom and bit her own lip to keep from laughing—for she had the feeling that Slater Evans was entirely sincere in his offered prayer—at least, mostly.

  “Thank ya for the good earth, the sun, the moon, and the stars, Lord,” Slater continued. “And for them lilacs we had last spring. They sure were nice. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Lark managed, though Tom chuckled the closing word.

  As the men released her hands, Lark opened her eyes.

  “I forgot to mention,” Tom began, winking at Lark, “that ya might want to keep yer distance when Slater’s prayin’. Ya never know when he might be struck by lightning…and ya don’t want it to swallow you up when it does.”

  “I pray just fine,” Slater said.

  Lark held her breath as she watched him pick up the spoon she’d previously set on the table and tentatively tasted the stew. Already she knew the Evans brothers well enough that her stew could taste like mud and Tom wouldn’t say a word. But she wasn’t so certain it would be easy to please Slater.

  “Mmm!” Slater said, however, his frown finally fading. “It’s good,” he added, nodding to Lark and smiling.

  It was the first time Lark had seen a smile break his face, and it was fascinating! At first sight, she’d thought him a very handsome man—even for his scowling and grumbling. But with a smile donning his face, he was truly extraordinary!

  Lark sighed, relieved, and watched as Tom plunged his own spoon into the stew.

  He too nodded and smiled, pleased with the flavors of the meal placed before him. “Matilda never done stew this good,” Tom said.

  “No indeed,” Slater agreed. He looked to Lark and smiled once more. “It’s a fine meal, girl. A fine meal.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Evans,” she said. “I’m glad you’re pleased.”

  “My name’s Slater,” he said, pulling apart the buttered roll and biting into one half.

  “Yes, sir,” Lark said, nodding.

  “Sir?” He was frowning at her again. “How old do think I am, girl?”

  “Well, yer actin’ like you’re old enough to be her granddaddy,” Tom teased.

  “Well, I am old. I’m at least old enough to be her daddy,” Slater grumbled.

  “Slater, you’re thirty…and that ain’t old. And it certainly ain’t old enough to be her daddy,” Tom chuckled. He turned to Lark. “Thirty…that ain’t old, is it, honey?”

  Slater answered for her. “Shoot, Tom…twenty-five is old to a young thing like her. Ain’t that right, baby?”

  It was the way he’d said the word baby, not as if he meant to point out her youth but rather as an endearment—similar to his brother referring to her as honey. It made Lark uncomfortable—because she liked it!

  “I have to agree with your brother, Mr. Evans,” she somehow managed to answer. “Thirty isn’t old.” He grinned at her as he chewed his bite of bread, and it gave her courage. In that moment, she began to understand, and she would let him know that she did. “You’re not fooling me with your decrepit old-man behavior, sir.”

  Tom chuckled and broke full into laughter. “She’s got you spiked, brother Slater,” he laughed. “Tarred, feathered, and nailed to the barn door!”

  Though he still wore a slight grin on his handsome face as he studied her, Slater mumbled, “Leastways I’m outta diapers.”

  Lark felt her own smile broaden. She liked the two men—the Evans brothers. They were kind, and she sensed they would prove to be very entertaining. Furthermore, it seemed as if her stew had ensured that she would be sleeping in a nice warm bed all winter. That in itself was worth smiling about.

  The two men ate several helpings of stew and rolls, all the while complimenting Lark on having prepared such a fine meal. They talked of other things as well—the new bull Slater had managed to purchase from a man named Clifford Herschel, the south fence that needed mending. Tom even mentioned a girl named Ella May. Apparently she was growing up. He’d seen her out at her daddy’s place, and she was turning into a fine-looking young woman. Both men talked about remembering when she’d been born—thus mused over their own aging awhile.

  When supper was finished, Lark was surprised when neither man left the table. Simply, they stretched back in their chairs, continuing their conversation as Lark cleared the dishes from the table.

  “Ol’ man Brown’s sellin’ that colt Montana sired,” Slater said, yawning.

  “The bay?” Tom yawned the question.

  Both men were tired—it was sorely obvious. Lark’s heart pinched a little, imagining how difficult it would be to maintain such a ranch as she understood theirs to be.

  “Yep. I’d like to have him,” Slater said, nodding. “He’s a good-lookin’ colt. I think we’d be smart to buy him.”

  “I think yer right. How much is ol’ Brown askin’?”

  “Too much. But I’ll talk him down.”

  “You always do,” Tom chuckled.

  As Lark stacked the washed and dried dishes in the cupboard, the long, laborious day began to make itself known on her body and in her mind. She managed to stifle a yawn—but just barely. Suddenly, she felt as if she couldn’t take another step, hear another word, or keep her eyes open a moment longer.

  “Gentlemen?” she began, folding her hands neatly at her waist as she stood at the he
ad of the table. Both Slater and Tom looked weary—worn to the quick.

  “I-I think I’m finished here,” she ventured. “Would it be all right if I retired for the evening?” She was nervous—afraid she would cause offense or had perhaps forgotten some task.

  “Of course, honey,” Tom answered. “I’m sure you’re plum wrung out. Though I can’t imagine you needin’ any beauty sleep.” He winked at her, and she smiled, delighted by his compliment—and kindness. “Still, tomorrow does come early…so you just go onto bed whenever the notion takes hold of ya. All right?”

  “Thank you,” Lark said, nodding. She felt a slight blush rise to her cheeks as Slater’s attention lingered on her a moment. “Thank you for allowing me to work for you both.”

  “Thank you for savin’ me from another meal of leather and flour paste,” Tom said.

  “Oh, you just go on and keep that up, little brother,” Slater growled. “Go on…if ya dare.”

  Tom chuckled and nodded to Lark.

  “Good night, Lark,” he said.

  “Good night,” Lark told him.

  Slater only nodded to her, but she said, “Good night, Mr. Evans,” all the same.

  She dropped a mild curtsy and left the kitchen.

  Once inside the cozy room with the pretty painting, lace curtains, and welcoming bed, Lark shut the door behind her, exhaling a heavy breath of fatigue and relief.

  Oh, she was tired! More tired than she’d been in a long time. Yet she knew a measure of comfort, for the Evans brothers had liked her meal. They even seemed to like her—though it was obvious Tom was still more accepting of her existence than Slater. She hoped she would begin to feel more at ease in Slater’s presence. Something about him greatly unsettled her, and she couldn’t imagine living months and months with such unsettling feelings—though she’d rather live with them than shelter in a cave all winter long.

  Opening her worn carpetbag, Lark withdrew her very tattered nightdress. As she changed her dress for her nightdress, she began to notice the throbbing in her feet. They were sore, worn from walking so far. It would be heavenly to sleep in a bed—to remove her shoes and simply rest well-sheltered. In truth, Lark didn’t mind so much sleeping under the summer moon and stars. Still, there was much to be said for resting on a mattress instead of the hard ground.