With a sigh of weariness of mind and soreness of body, Lark offered her prayers and snuggled beneath the clean, beaconing softness of the sheets and quilt. She fancied a moment she was resting on a cloud—swaddled in the linens of heaven. She smiled as she closed her eyes, for if the soft bed were a cloud made of heavenly linens, then the two men for whom she would now cook and clean must indeed be no less than guardian angels. She mused that it had been a long, long time since she’d slept in such a haven of safety. With two such capable men as the Evans brothers so close at hand, Lark knew she would sleep well. Not only had she found a means of earning wages, food, and shelter for the winter, she’d happened upon a sense of sanctuary she’d not experienced for many years—ever so many.
CHAPTER THREE
“Good morning,” Lark cheerily greeted as Slater entered the kitchen the next morning.
He looked startled and quickly adjusted his suspenders. “I didn’t think you’d be up and about yet, girl.”
She smiled. Indeed, the sun had not yet risen, though a warm orange glow peered over the horizon. “Why ever not? Those were your instructions. You said you and Mr. Evans rise before sunup.” She arched an eyebrow, proud of herself for having surprised him. “Now, if you’ll sit down…I have hotcakes and bacon ready.”
Slater shrugged broad shoulders, his face marked by an expression of indifferent surrender. He pulled a chair out from the table, depositing himself in its seat. Lark set a plate of hotcakes and bacon on the table before him, smiling as a grin curved his handsome lips.
Slater picked up a slice of bacon, mumbling, “Where is Tom? That ol’…he better think ’bout gettin’ himself outta bed. We gotta lot to do today.”
He was silent for a long space of time as he ate and seemed to enjoy the food. Lark owned a sense of pride, for it was obvious her cooking pleased him.
Suddenly, however, he scowled. Lark held her breath, worried that perhaps Slater had bitten into a hard lump of flour or salt in the hotcakes—that he’d found a flaw in her efforts.
“He better get his fanny out here,” he grumbled, however. “Maybe I oughta send you upstairs to look in on him. That would sure enough get him movin’. Don’t ya think?”
Lark felt her eyes widen at the suggestion.
“Matilda was always havin’ to drag Tom outta bed,” he continued, still eating. “That boy couldn’t get himself up on time if the house was fallin’ down.”
“Now, that ain’t true at all, Slater,” Tom said, yawning as he entered the kitchen. He grinned at Lark, running fingers through pillow-tousled hair. “If the house was fallin’ down, I’d wake…sure enough.”
Lark couldn’t help but giggle. Yet she bit her lip when Slater glared up at her.
“Don’t go encouragin’ him to smartin’ off, girl,” he scolded. “I have a hard enough time lightin’ a fire under him without him havin’ any conspirators nearby to herd him on.”
“Yes, sir,” Lark mumbled. She was nervous, anxious over having vexed him—that is, until he winked at her, implying he was only teasing her. He didn’t smile at her, but she read his implication all the same. Could it be that Slater Evans was as much a teasing trifler as his brother?
Tom sat down in a chair across the table from Slater. As Lark placed a plate of food before him, he scowled, studying his brother for a moment.
“You done combed yer hair already?” Tom asked then.
“Maybe I run my fingers through it before I come down,” Slater answered, placing his fork on his plate and stretching back in his chair.
Tom smiled and shook his head. “You never run yer fingers through it when I cook breakfast.”
“You don’t ever cook breakfast, boy,” Slater said.
“All the same…ya even put a shirt on before comin’ down,” Tom continued, shoving a slice of bacon into his mouth. “I think havin’ Lark around just might civilize ya a might.”
“I’m plenty civilized,” Slater said to Lark as she sat down next to Tom. She’d had her own breakfast already, but she didn’t see the harm in sitting a moment before moving onto the rest of her daily chores.
“Civilized enough to know it’s gonna take us all day to fix that length of fence that needs fixin’,” Slater continued. “And then I gotta ride over to Clifford’s place and get that bull. We’ll need to brand him soon. I don’t want to wake up one mornin’ and find he’s found its way onto somebody else’s pasture.”
“Well, let me eat my breakfast in peace…before ya go plannin’ my whole life out,” Tom grumbled.
Lark smiled, amused by the fact Slater had finally gotten the best of his brother’s good mood.
She glanced to Slater to see him grinning at his brother. He nodded and winked at her again.
Lark’s smile broadened. She was beginning to understand—Slater was nearly as playful as Tom was! He simply came about it from a different point of view. Where Tom was always smiling, teasing, his mood always discernible, Slater was measured, guarded—a rascal.
“Well, while you’re eatin’ yer breakfast in peace,” Slater teased, “I’ll get busy. Finish up and meet me in the barn. I’ll show you how a man shoes a horse.”
“Oh. You plannin’ on watchin’ me shoe, Slater?” Tom countered.
Slater smiled and stood, saying, “Just get yer fanny out there. The mornin’s half wasted already.”
“The sun ain’t even up yet, Slater,” Tom grumbled.
Slater chuckled, and the sound caused an odd sort of thrill to run through Lark’s limbs. “That was a right fine way to start the mornin’, girl,” he said, nodding at her with approval. “Thank ya kindly for breakfast.”
“You’re welcome. Thank you, Mr. Evans,” Lark said.
“We’ll be seein’ you about noon then…for some lunch. All right?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Lark agreed. She knew the heavy sigh he exhaled was due to the fact she’d addressed him so properly. Still, he didn’t scold her—simply took a weathered hat from its place on the chair by the front door and left.
“See…he ain’t all that bad once you get to know him, is he?” Tom asked once the front door had shut.
Lark shook her head and smiled. “No…I suppose not. He just makes me a bit nervous somehow.”
“That’s ’cause he’s so good-lookin’,” Tom chuckled. “All women everywhere in the world get a little jittery when ol’ Slater’s lingerin’. The amusin’ thing is…he don’t even know it. He just believes anything feminine in nature thinks he’s mean and worn out. Ain’t that somethin’?”
Lark smiled. “Why would he think that?”
Tom shrugged broad shoulders. “He’s got some strange kind of humility, I guess. Like a disease or somethin’. Whatever the reason, he thinks he’s on the finishin’-up side of life instead of the startin’-out side.”
Lark frowned. Slater Evans was thirty—that’s what she remembered hearing the day before. Thirty wasn’t old. Why, most great men didn’t even begin greatness until far into their thirties. She thought it sad—that Slater Evans would go about his days and nights thinking the best part of his life was behind him.
“I expect it’s ’cause he’s been livin’ a man’s life for so long,” Tom continued. “He left home to cowboy when he was fourteen, you know. That there’s sixteen years of man life. That’s about ten years ahead of the rest of us.”
“Fourteen?” Lark breathed, astonished. “Why ever did he leave home so early?”
Tom finished and placed his fork on his empty plate. He sighed, leaning back in his chair the way Slater had done earlier—as if he’d eaten too fast and his stomach was too full.
“Slater was restless,” he explained. “He fought with our pa somethin’ awful. They was too much alike, Ma always said. He couldn’t wait to be his own man. Now, me…I was content to help Pa run the ranch.” He smiled at her and continued, “I didn’t see no reason to make life harder than it had to be before its time.”
Lark nodded. She understood. How wonderful it
would have been to have a home—linger in comfort, security, and routine until she’d been of an age to leave along a more natural course.
“Slater…he came home two years ago after…when he was ready to. He’s content here now, I think, but he woulda never been happy if he hadn’ta left first. Matilda always said he finally run his oats out. Banged himself up a piece doin’ it too.”
Lark shook her head. “I would have loved to have grown up here,” she wistfully mumbled. “I can’t imagine wanting to leave.”
Instantly, she scolded herself for having spoken her thoughts aloud. She blushed a little, horrified that she’d revealed so much longing in her intonation.
Still, Tom seemed unaware of it. “Where did you grow up, honey?” he asked.
“East,” she answered.
Slater frowned. He’d paused on the front porch and lingered near the open kitchen window. Why was it that Tom found it necessary to tell the girl Slater’s personal business? Why did he find it necessary to spin such a piece of nonsense as telling her Slater made women jittery? He swore under his breath as he stepped down off the side of the porch. It seemed Tom’s gums were always flapping about things that were none of his business—and certainly nobody else’s. Slater didn’t want the girl knowing anything about himself—not his past, his manners, or his ways of thinking. He’d have it out with Tom about his flapping gums later, for there was something else gnawing at his mind—something far more intriguing than the life and times of Slater Evans. Yep! Slater found the mystery of little Lark Lawrence far more interesting than his own.
His experience had taught him well, and he knew when someone was running. Oh, maybe his brother had a blind eye to anything unusual or suspicious in nature—but he didn’t. The pretty little filly his brother had hired on to keep house and cook—she was running.
“East,” he mumbled to himself. It was all the girl would give them of her origins. “East,” he mumbled again, frowning as he considered her answer. It was obvious by her tone, her speech, even her mannerisms that she’d had a proper upbringing. Why then was she wandering the world on her own? What was chasing her? What would drive her to enough desperation that she would seek employment from two unmarried men—two unmarried men who lived on an isolated ranch with four other unmarried men?
Slater frowned. He wasn’t worried about Tom mistreating her—or himself. They were both gentlemen of sorts—rough gentlemen maybe, but gentlemen respecting of women all the same. Still, a rather unsettled sensation rose in him whenever he considered the cowboys working the ranch. There was Eldon Pickering—even older than Slater and a good man. Slater’s concerns over whether Eldon would find Lark’s presence a little too distracting to keep his mind where it should be weren’t too awful thick. Still, Ralston Bell, Grady James, and Chet Leigh—the other cowboys working the ranch—they were younger, a little more inclined toward occasional bad behavior. Lark was pretty—very pretty. Slater knew the cowboys could hardly ignore her.
His frown deepened. What in tarnation had Tom been thinking? He was always dragging home some crippled dog or wounded sparrow—literally. Still, Slater knew Lark was different. Crippled dogs and wounded sparrows didn’t inspire lustful thoughts in cowhands. After all, though he was weathered and old and possessed an unusual amount of self-control, even Slater had been aware of her—allowed his gaze to linger on her soft lips, to wonder how her hair would feel slipping between his fingers. Nope, having such a pretty thing on the ranch wasn’t good—or safe—for anybody.
Slater exhaled a heavy sigh. He shook his head, discouraged. He’d have to protect her—sure enough he would—and he’d grown weary of protecting folks. Slater Evans simply wanted to run cattle, repair fence, shoe horses, and linger under a bright blue sky—that’s all. He didn’t want to have to worry about his cowboys saying something improper to a young girl—or worse, doing something improper. Nope. In that moment, he simply wanted to saddle his horse, ride out to the canyon rim, stretch out in the grass, and watch the clouds drift.
Suddenly, he felt tired—as if the small amount of sleep he’d managed to find the night before just hadn’t been enough. His shoulder ached, and he reached across his broad chest and squeezed it, willing the soreness to go away. He didn’t have time for a sore shoulder. There was work to be done and a wounded sparrow to keep an eye on—rather, a fleeing lark.
After breakfast, she’d given the Evans brothers’ house a good looking over before beginning the daunting task of putting things back in order. Having been awash with a sense of overwhelming tasks at hand, Lark had decided to start with the front rooms. Her thinking was that the front rooms were the rooms first viewed by the Evans brothers upon returning home each evening and therefore, once tidied, would offer a good example of how having a housekeeper might benefit. It was plain they were both satisfied with her cooking. Yet she felt the need to prove that a tidy house would also be worth paying a wage. Thus, Lark washed the kitchen windows, dusted furniture, and swept. After she’d tidied the parlor (for clothing, books, hats, socks, and even a length of barbed wire were strewn here and there throughout), she took the parlor rugs out and gave them a good beating. She hung them over the hitching post to one side of the house to allow them to breathe some fresh air too. If there was one thing Lark didn’t like, it was the smell of dusty rugs. She wasn’t sure why, but she just didn’t like it.
As she continued to labor, Lark found a great sense of satisfaction and comfort in her work. It was obvious that the Evans brothers’ house had once even been a family home, for there were photographs in frames sitting atop a bookcase in the parlor and near every other surface throughout the residence. A basket filled with yarn and knitting needles sat next to one worn armchair, and Lark wondered if it had belonged to Slater and Tom’s beloved Matilda—or had it belonged to their mother? An old desk, dusty and cluttered with papers, stood in one corner. Lark had begun to tidy it but paused when she noted that the documents and letters scattered across its surface were dated nearly five years before—and many bearing the signature of “Vernon J. Evans.” It seemed the Evans brothers had left things just as they had stood when their parents had gone. She knew both their mother and father must’ve passed, for Tom spoke of them both in the past tense. Thus, as she tidied, she wondered when they had died—and how.
It was nearly noon when Lark finally paused in tidying to quickly make a batch of cornbread and pan gravy. She was not surprised when Slater Evans proved to be as prompt in arriving for his midday meal as he had been for breakfast. Tom arrived a few minutes later and joined his brother and Lark at the table.
“Mmm!” Tom moaned with satisfaction at the first taste of the cornbread and gravy. “Lark…this gravy is good!”
“I’m glad you like it,” Lark said. She was glad—glad and very relieved. She wasn’t sure how the men would take to gravy made with bacon drippings after only just having had bacon for breakfast.
“Mighty fine cornbread too,” Slater mumbled. In truth, Slater’s compliment meant more to Lark even than Tom’s. She knew Tom Evans would’ve told her the meal was fine even if it tasted like tree bark. She wasn’t so certain Slater would’ve offered a compliment had he not sincerely meant it.
“Thank you,” she told him.
“You’ve been busy this mornin’,” Tom said. “Them rugs in the parlor needed a good shake.”
“Yes, they did,” she admitted. “And I wanted to make certain…the clothing that was here and there in the parlor…I had planned to wash it all. I’m assuming it needs washing?”
Tom chuckled, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t rightly know, honey,” he said. “I don’t string my shirts and drawers all over creation the way Slater does.”
“Oh, you got yer own bad habits, Tom,” Slater said.
“Matilda nagged him about it. I swear she near wore a hole in his head with naggin’ him…but it didn’t do a lick of good,” Tom explained. “Slater still walks in the house every ev
enin’ and strips himself down to nothin’ first thing. Usually there’s a trail of clothes leadin’ up the stairs too.”
Lark looked to Slater—waiting for his retort—but none came. He simply continued to eat his lunch, pausing only to say, “Them clothes in the parlor was dirty. Just heap ’em up in the basket in the back of the house, and I’ll get to ’em eventually.”
“But I’m here now,” Lark reminded him. She must be allowed to work, to prove to the Evans brothers that they needed her now that Matilda had passed—or they might not think they did! “I’ll take care of the laundry.”
Slater ceased in eating—looked to her scowling.
“The laundry? You mean the wash?” he asked.
“Yes,” Lark answered. “Didn’t your Mrs. Simpson take care of that for you?”
“Well…well, yes, she did,” Slater admitted, still wearing an expression of concern, however. “But I don’t know how I feel about you doin’ it.”
“What do you mean?” Lark was truly puzzled. She was their new housekeeper, wasn’t she? Wasn’t she supposed to take care of the house, the laundry, the cooking—everything Matilda had taken care of for them?
Tom chuckled. “He don’t want you seein’ what a downright hog he is when it comes to gettin’ dirty.”
“That ain’t true,” Slater defended himself. “I…I just don’t know if it’s right…expectin’ a young girl to wash my drawers and all.”
“Most times you don’t even wear drawers, Slater,” Tom teased.
Slater pointed a fork at his brother. “Now, that ain’t true neither.”
Lark couldn’t suppress her giggles. They erupted suddenly, and she bit her bottom lip as she smiled, trying to stifle them. Joy—it seemed so unfamiliar suddenly—the joy nurtured by amusement. In that moment, Lark knew true happiness. She had shelter, food, protection, and companionship of sorts. Winter did not look so bleak now.
Weathered Too Young Page 4
