Slater had not moved to kiss her since—not once. Oh, he was flirtatious enough, often teasing her about one thing or the other, but it seemed he no longer found her attractive in any regard. Oh, certainly he was friendly—at least he was friendly when he wasn’t tired, brooding, or grumbling about the weather. Friendly—but not too friendly.
For a time, Lark had determined it was the discomfort his shoulder afforded him each time the temperature would drop noticeably that caused him to often seem distracted or lost in his own thoughts. When the frigid cold would set in, or when he’d been working out in the wind, his shoulder would begin to ache, thus turning his temperament to a less than jovial venue. Lark found some comfort in knowing that the rice and herb pillow she made did seem to soothe the ache in him. It was several times she had the opportunity to study the scar at his left shoulder. When first she’d seen it, she’d determined it may have been made by a knife or some such similar weapon. However, one morning when he appeared in the kitchen, bare except for his trousers (having found his bureau lacking in underwear—indeed coming upon Lark in the very process of folding his freshly washed and dried drawers), she’d noticed a smaller scar at the front of his shoulder—a small, round-type scar. Normally, Slater’s suspender straps would’ve hidden this scar, but since he wore no suspenders in that moment, the scar was easily visible. Though she did not know a great deal about wounds, Lark knew enough to surmise that the scar on the front of Slater’s shoulder had been made by a bullet, while the terrible flesh-tearing scar at the back had been made by the same bullet as it had exited his body. Naturally, this discovery intrigued Lark—though something in her very soul whispered she should not inquire about it. And she didn’t.
Yes, friendly, but not too friendly. That was how Lark thought of Slater’s treatment of her. He still worked and laughed with Tom—sat in the parlor with everyone in the evenings after supper. He still played soldiers with Charlie, read picture books to Lizzy, and taught Johnny lessons in breeding and caring for cattle. He conversed comfortably with Katherine, reminiscing about John or counseling her on matters of finance. Still, with Lark he seemed almost indifferent at times.
Of course, Lark often wondered if it were merely she who had changed. Did Slater really treat her so differently than he had before? Other than not having kissed her in near to three months, she thought perhaps his behavior was not so altered where she was concerned. She thought it was simply the fact that she loved him—so desperately loved him—that caused her to think him indifferent. Certainly he talked to her as often as he did the others. Certainly he was kind and teasing. Lark even inwardly recognized that he was kinder and friendlier than he had been when she’d first arrived. Yet she’d hoped for more. She’d dreamt of more—especially after having been kissed by him—so deliciously kissed by him.
Often, late at night when Lark found sleep entirely elusive, she would think on his words—on what he’d said the first time he’d kissed her—the first time he’d really kissed her.
Let’s quit dancin’ around it…just do it…and get it over with, he’d said. Then I’m sure we’ll both settle down…and get right back in the saddle of everyday livin’.
Could it be that Slater had gotten over it—whatever it was? Could it be that he’d simply been curious—momentarily tempted by her youth and femininity—and that kissing her once or twice had satisfied his interest where Lark was concerned? Or could it be what she’d feared from the moment he and Tom had received Katherine’s letter? Could it be Slater still secreted deeper feelings for the sweetheart of his youth than anyone suspected?
In the dark of night, however, it didn’t matter what Slater’s reasons were for not kissing Lark again; it only mattered that he hadn’t. Lark was in love with him! She loved his playful nature—even his brooding one. She loved the dark brown of his eyes, the tiny wrinkles at the corners of them—loved his strong, square jaw, his powerful hands, his rhythmic saunter. Yet more than all that was handsome and attractive about his face and form, she loved his wit, his tender heart where Katherine’s children were concerned, his patience, and his intelligence. Sometimes in the dark cold of night, Lark wondered if she could stay at the ranch—for being near to Slater without owning his admiration, affection, and love had begun to be quite painful and haunting.
Yet how could she leave him? How could she find the strength to strip herself from his presence forever? Furthermore, why would she do so? She loved him, and she loved laboring in service to Slater and Tom—Katherine and the children. Her life at the Evans ranch was more like living a life in the company of family than anything she’d ever known. Even when her mother had still been living—even then their lives had not been so comfortable and safe, so warm and happy. Why then would she leave? Why leave comfort and a measure of happiness, a good wage? Why would she leave? Still, every time she found herself staring at Slater—her heart beating brutally inside her at the thought of his attention (or kiss)—she would wonder if she could stay, for she longed for Slater Evans to want her. More than anything she wanted him to want her—to love her.
Even for all her heartache and worry, however, Lark still knew happiness—and hope. As early spring brought fresh air to breathe, yellow sunshine to warm, crocus and hyacinth to sprouting in the flowerbeds around the house, life on the ranch began to brighten once more. Calving had begun, and Lark delighted in seeing the new calves romping on the horizon as much as the children did. They were warm and sweet and smelled of milk and grass.
Charlie loved the new calves perhaps more than anyone. One morning, he’d gone missing. Lark and Katherine were nearly mad with worry by the time Slater found the boy out in the pasture, sitting in the new grass, talking to a calf he’d come to favor.
Yes, spring was lovely, and Lark could not bring herself to leave the ranch—to leave those she’d come to love—even for the desperate longing to own Slater’s favor that sometimes threatened to overwhelm her.
Tom had taken Katherine and the children to town. The weather was beautiful—especially for late March—and Tom had convinced Katherine that it would do the children good to have a change of surroundings for a while. Lark didn’t want to go to town. She’d begun hot ironing the parlor curtains and wanted to finish before supper. Slater had chosen to stay behind as well, being that Outlaw had broken through a fence while trying to charge Black-Eyed Sue. It seemed spring had rejuvenated the old Hereford bull, causing him to find the presence of Sue even more maddening than usual. Outlaw didn’t bother too much with Little Joe, Slater’s other Hereford bull. Slater claimed it was the fact that Sue had matured so quickly over the winter months, and now that he was more than two years, and big even then, Sue looked far more menacing than he had in late summer. Furthermore, Pete Walker had driven in Slater’s Black Angus heifers. Slater figured Outlaw didn’t like the fact that there were five new heifers on the ranch now that Black-Eyed Sue had exclusive bids on—that Outlaw didn’t. Outlaw was “feeling his age,” as Slater put it—adding that he understood how the poor fellow felt.
So it was that Lark was at the house alone. Oddly, she found the quiet and solitude very soothing. With the children so often trapped in the house over the winter, Lark’s ears had begun to ring with the sound of their play or whining. Now she was able to think as she ironed the parlor curtains—to think or to hum to herself a bit.
All the morning long she put the hot iron to the curtains. When she had finally finished (thankfully much earlier in the day than she’d anticipated), Lark decided to allow herself a moment of fresh air. Slater hadn’t come home for a noon meal, and she assumed he’d chosen to simply eat jerky with Eldon and the others.
Stepping out onto the back porch, Lark smiled. Spring was lovely! She glanced over the side of the porch to see that several tiny crocuses had begun to bloom. The sight of their deep purples and bright yellows cheered her very soul, and she smiled.
She heard a whinny and looked up to see that Dolly and Coaly had been let in
to the corral for some fresh air and the chance to run and play. Dolly nodded at her, stomping the ground and whinnying once more.
Lark giggled and called, “All right! All right! I’ll come for a visit.” As she stepped off the porch and started toward the corral, however, she added, “But only for a moment. Those parlor rugs are so dusty I can hardly breathe.”
By the time Lark had made her way to the corral, Coaly was at the fence too. Lark smiled as both horses nuzzled their velvet noses into the palms of her offered hands. “I’m sure you girls are drinking in this day, hmmm?” She patted both horses and brushed their necks with her hands, speaking to them in a quiet, loving voice as she did so.
“If Slater catches me, he’ll turn me over his knee,” she said. “He thinks I spoil you two, you know.” Her smile broadened as Dolly stomped the ground with one enormous hoof. “That’s right, Dolly,” she giggled. “He is a hypocrite…for I’ve seen the way he pampers you when he thinks no one’s watching. If he thinks for one minute that I thought he was really eating five apples a day out of the crates in the cellar…really!”
Lark lingered with Dolly and Coaly for a time. Yet as she looked up, glancing beyond the corral, she decided that the fresh air near the corral wasn’t quite fresh enough. The warm horizon beckoned, and she soon found herself meandering toward the canyon ridge. Oh, the canyon was too far for a simple stroll, yet she’d heard Tom tell Slater just that morning that the river winding through the small canyon was already running high. She wondered if she might be able to hear the water—hear the rush of the mountain’s melted snow as it raced down through the canyon.
She found she had to be wary, however. She’d forgotten how many walking stick cactuses grew between the east fence and the canyon. Some were nearly as tall as she was, and though they owned a certain wild beauty, Lark surmised the prick of their needles would be painful to experience.
All was still and peaceful as she walked. Meadowlarks called back and forth, and the breeze was fresh. Lark fancied that the sagebrush and chamisa were already beginning to show a hint of color. Soon everything would begin to green up a bit; soon the wildflowers would begin to sprout. The thought caused Lark to smile.
“Howdy.”
She startled—gasped as she turned to see a man standing a short distance behind her. He had dismounted his horse and stood with the bridle reins draped casually over his shoulder. Immediately, the pace of Lark’s heartbeat increased—but not for the same reasons that it increased in Slater’s presence. This hammering of her heart was all too familiar to Lark. Though it had been months since she’d known fear for the warning in her bosom, Lark recognized it immediately—a sense of menace. How had he managed to come upon her so quietly? She hadn’t heard a hint of his approach!
“Hello,” she managed, forcing a friendly smile. She sensed malice from the man, but she would not let him know she sensed it.
The man offered a smile. It was meant to be a friendly, calming smile, but it was marred by yellowed and rotting teeth and more portrayed malevolence than innocence. “Good mornin’, ma’am,” the man said, touching the brim of his hat in greeting.
“It is a good morning,” Lark said as she began to walk in the direction of the house.
“I’m…uh…I’m lookin’ for a feller by the name of Slater Evans,” the man began. “He’s an old friend of mine, and folks in town tell me he lives here about.”
Simply the feeling of dread that enveloped Lark the longer she lingered in the man’s presence told her that he was no friend of Slater’s. The man was tall with long blond hair—braided and hanging down his back nearly to his waist. A broad, livid scar traveled diagonally from his forehead just above one eyebrow, down and over his nose, to disappear beneath a scraggly red beard.
“Yes…he does live near here,” Lark said. For she knew the man would not believe her if she entirely lied.
“Might you be Mrs. Evans, ma’am?” the man asked, his smile broadening.
Lark forced an amused laugh. “Me? Oh no, sir. Not me,” she told him. “You want the Evans ranch. This is the Thornquist’s place. I work for Mrs. Thornquist.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, his smile fading to a grin. “Then where might I find the Evanses’ place?” he asked.
Inwardly, Lark offered a prayer of thanks, for it seemed the man had believed her—at least for the moment. “Well, you’re almost there,” she said, smiling. Knowing that the man must’ve come from town, she turned and pointed east. “The Evanses are just about three miles out from us…just a little farther east. Beyond them is the Jacobsen place. So if you get to their place, then you’ve gone too far.”
The man slowly studied Lark from head to toe, and the obvious perusal heightened her fear. “Well, I need to get back,” Lark said. “I just stepped out for a breath of fresh spring air. It was nice to meet you, Mister…”
“Nice to meet you too, ma’am,” the man said.
Lark watched as he mounted his horse—noting he wore a large, sheathed knife on one hip, his gun at the opposing thigh.
“Tell those Evans brothers we said hello,” she said, smiling and resuming her walk back toward the house.
“Yes, ma’am,” the man said.
“Bye, now,” Lark said, smiling and waving as the man rode off—east.
Instantly, a terrifying sense of panic gripped her! Lifting her skirt, she turned and began running back toward the ranch. She had to tell someone—she had to tell Slater! Nothing in her would accept that the stranger was a good man—that he owned only the intention of visiting with an old friend. He’d inquired about Slater. Therefore, whatever his malevolent intentions were, they were directed at Slater.
Lark glanced over her shoulder to ensure the man was still riding east and not following her.
She cried out as a sharp pain exploded at the top of her right arm. In looking over her shoulder, she’d missed seeing the large walking stick cactus in her path. She stumbled, wincing with pain as she looked to see the cactus needles protruding from her upper arm.
“Ow!” she gasped as she pulled one needle from her flesh. But there was not time to remove the remaining needles. She had to warn Slater. The needles could wait until she was back to the ranch house, at least.
Her chest burned with the excretion of running in the cool spring air, but soon the ranch house was in sight.
“Slater!” Lark called as she approached the corrals. Dolly and Coaly raced across the corral when they heard her, nodding happily in anticipation of her returning to offer them attention.
“I’m sorry, girls,” Lark said, pausing long enough to stroke each horse’s nose a moment. “I have to find our Slater.”
Lark glanced down at her arm again, however, for the pain inflicted by the cactus needles was increasing to a near excruciating intensity. She gasped, “Oh no!” when she saw that the needles were no longer visible above the fabric of her sleeve. Whether it was their natural way or because of the exertion of Lark’s run for home, the cactus needles had begun to work their way deeper and deeper into her flesh.
“Slater!” Lark cried. Oh, he had to be within the sound of her voice—he had to be! Lark knew she must remove the cactus needles from her arm immediately, before they drove themselves completely into her flesh. The pain the cactus needles were inflicting was monstrous, and Lark could no longer keep from weeping for the sake of it. Still, she was worried for Slater. In less than half the hour, the man she’d met would know she had lied to him. She had to find Slater! Yet the pain in her arm was nearly paralyzing. Lark’s body had begun to tremble.
“Slater!” she cried. Still, she had no idea where to look for him. She didn’t know where Outlaw had broken through the fence—didn’t know if mending the fence was even still his task. She swallowed the lump of fear in her throat and angrily brushed the tears from her cheeks—though more simply streamed from her eyes.
She had to remove the cactus needles, and then she’d be able to saddle a horse and ride out to look for Slate
r. Until the needles were pulled from her arm, however, she was nearly helpless.
Hurrying into the house and into the kitchen, Lark reached back with her left hand, struggling to unfasten the buttons at her collar.
“Please, please!” she sobbed as her fingers endeavored to work the buttons at the back of her shirtwaist then. At last her shirtwaist was unfastened, and she carefully slipped her arms from her sleeves, wincing and crying out, for each movement caused pain to flame up and down her arm—even through her body.
Once her shoulders and arms were free of her shirtwaist, she studied the place where the cactus needles were wounding her. The needles, which had once merely pricked her flesh—the greater part of their inch length appearing above her skin—now only showed perhaps a quarter inch above it. Lark wondered if she could indeed remove all the needles, still working their way deeper and deeper into her tender arm, before several managed to disappear entirely.
Her hand was trembling so very violently that she couldn’t grip the short end of any cactus needle protruding from her flesh. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she inhaled a deep breath, held it, and tried again. This time she managed to grip a needle with her fingertips, but as she tugged on it, the pain of the resistance it offered caused her to cry out. Angrily, she brushed at her tears. She had to find Slater—had to warn him. She tried again, moaning and weeping as she managed to extract one of the cactus needles. Panting with pain and relief, she looked to her arm. At least twenty more needles were there—twenty! How would she ever remove them all?
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