by Mary Burton
Quinn lifted his gaze to his father’s. “Would you, Pa?”
Mr. Barrington’s expression turned fierce as he looked over the boys’ heads at Abby. His voice was barely a raspy whisper when he spoke. “You don’t remember her?”
Quinn shook his head. “No, sir.”
He sighed, his shoulders slumping a fraction. “It’s been over a year and you were only three at the time. I suppose it’s natural.” He closed the book gently. “She didn’t look a thing like Abby. She was shorter and had blue eyes.”
Abby was shocked to feel a pang of envy for Elise. The dead woman had borne two wonderful sons and had forever captured Mr. Barrington’s heart. She hoped if she worked hard enough she could somehow make up for Elise’s loss but as she looked into Quinn’s young curious eyes, she knew he needed his memories of his mother. “Mr. Barrington, do you have a picture of Elise?”
His brows furrowed, he drew in a steadying breath before he glanced at the boys. They looked up at him with questioning expressions. “I do.”
Abby sat a little straighter at the prospect of seeing the face of the woman whose memory had shadowed her since her arrival.
Mr. Barrington rose and walked to a chest that sat at the edge of his bed. Abby had dusted the chest with the initials EB carved on it a dozen times. She’d been sorely tempted to open it but hadn’t.
Nervous anticipation sizzled in her veins as he lifted a worn Bible out. From the yellowed pages he pulled out two tintypes.
In the soft lantern light, Abby could see Mr. Barrington’s face harden with sadness. Deliberately, he closed the chest and rose.
He sat back down at the table, his callous-tipped fingers closed over the tintype.
Abby’s body itched with curiosity but she restrained herself. Folding her hands on her lap, she watched as the boys rose from their seats and stood beside their father.
Mr. Barrington unfurled his fingers and held the image close to the lamp. “This is your ma.”
Quinn lay his small hand on Mr. Barrington’s shoulder as he leaned closer. “How come she’s not smiling?”
“Most people don’t smile in pictures,” Mr. Barrington said patiently. And then before the inevitable “why” came, he added, “You have to sit real still until a big flash goes off. It’s easier not to smile.”
“Why’s she wearing a white dress?” Quinn said. “Didn’t she worry about it getting dirty?”
Whereas Tommy preferred tree climbing and playing to his studies, his older brother was a thoughtful child, who lapped up every bit of learning tossed his way. He missed few details.
Mr. Barrington smiled. “It was her wedding dress. Actually, it had been her ma’s dress. When women get married they often wear white.”
“She’s pretty,” Quinn said.
“She was very beautiful,” Mr. Barrington replied.
Feeling the interloper, Abby shoved aside her own interest and walked to the stove. She pulled a cup down from the shelf and poured a cup of lukewarm coffee for herself. Cradling the cup in her hands she listened as the boys asked questions about their mother.
“What’s the other picture?” Tommy asked.
Mr. Barrington set the first picture on the table. “It’s a picture of Quinn and your ma right after he was born.”
“Where am I?” Tommy said.
Mr. Barrington smiled. “You weren’t born yet.”
“But I am now,” he said.
“By the time you came along, we didn’t have time to sit for pictures. There was so much going on. I promised your ma we’d have another family portrait done in the fall, but then she got sick.”
“She’s pretty,” Tommy said.
Abby sat back at the table. She set her cup down and as casually as she could manage, she picked up the first tintype. Her throat tightened as she looked into the beautiful face. Elise Barrington had smooth, clear skin and pale blue eyes. Ringlets the color of gold framed her oval face. The white silk dress trimmed with lace molded to her delicate shoulders and slender neck. Elise’s pale eyes sparkled, as if she knew a secret no one else did. Abby had never learned to flirt. Joanne had been a master, but she’d found she was simply too straightforward to manage it.
As she looked at the picture, she felt clumsy and too tall. “She’s lovely,” she said.
When she looked up, she realized Mr. Barrington had been staring intently at her. In the lantern light his blue eyes looked sharper, more alert as if he were trying to read her mind.
Managing a faltering smile, she sipped her coffee. “May I see the other picture?”
Quinn handed it to her proudly. “That’s me and my ma.”
Elise sat in an upholstered chair and held a swaddled baby Quinn in her arms. Behind them stood Mr. Barrington, wearing a black suit, his hand on Elise’s shoulder. Mr. Barrington looked proud and stared directly into the camera.
What struck Abby most about the picture was how much Elise had changed in the year and a half. Her eyes no longer possessed the coy spark. The ringlets had been traded for a tight chignon. Yet, despite the changes Elise was still a lovely woman.
“Quinn, you are a handsome baby,” she said. “Why, you don’t look bigger than a sack of sugar.”
“He was a small baby,” Mr. Barrington said. “But he had a cry that would shake the rafters.”
Quinn looked closely at the picture. “I’m still pretty loud.”
“You are indeed, son,” Mr. Barrington said, laughing.
“Was I a small baby?” Tommy said.
Mr. Barrington ruffled his hair. “You were a big baby. Well over ten pounds. And you could cry just as loud as your brother.”
Tommy looked at Quinn and grinned. He was clearly proud of his capacity to make noise.
Abby felt a twist in her heart. “I hope my babies are as handsome as you two boys.”
Mr. Barrington’s smile vanished instantly. He rose, lifting the boys under either arm. “It’s time for bed, young bucks.”
She knew she’d said something to make him angry. Already, she’d learned to gauge his moods.
He carried the boys to their large double bed. Earlier she’d washed their faces and hands and wiped their teeth with tooth powder. He tucked both under the covers, whispered something to them that made them smile, then kissed them good-night.
The nighttime ritual had fallen into a predictable pattern. As soon as Mr. Barrington had finished his good-nights she moved in behind him. She and the boys said a simple prayer her mother had taught her and then she kissed the children.
Tonight though, the air was charged with energy. The pictures and her mention of children had left them both unsettled.
Mr. Barrington rose and walked outside to the front porch.
Abby followed him outside, quietly closing the door behind her. The air was crisp, but the sky was clear. Countless stars twinkled.
He turned around. Pale moonlight glowed on a fierce expression that took her breath away.
She leaned her shoulder against the rail post. “If that look is meant to frighten me, it doesn’t. You might as well save it for the renegades and rustlers.”
Respect flickered in his eyes before he turned. “I don’t understand why you are here.”
She struggled to keep the emotion out of her voice. “I like it.”
“How could you like such a life? The work is backbreaking, the hours long.”
“This place breathes life into me. I’ve never felt more alive in my life.”
He tightened his hands over the railing. “Don’t set your heart on this place or me. You’ll end up hurt or worse.”
She sighed impatiently. “You are a frustrating man, Mr. Barrington. I am in Montana because I want to be. I’m not chasing your dream, but my own.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
She shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”
He studied her. “I don’t understand you. Why come out here? Why didn’t you marry in San Francisco? You are good wife material.”
/> She laughed. “You make me sound like a plow or a chair.”
Unrepentant, he shrugged. “It was meant as a compliment.”
At first she wasn’t sure if she’d answer him. San Francisco was far away now, and a part of her past forever. But Mr. Barrington had been nothing but honest with her and she owed him as much. “I was trapped between two worlds. My bloodlines put me above the servants yet I didn’t have the social graces that elevated me to my aunt and uncle’s station, either.”
“So you carved out a place for yourself in the kitchens.”
“It wasn’t as bad as you make it sound. I was always so busy. My aunt and uncle had many parties and loved to show off my baking talents. Often I cooked for other families as a favor to my aunt and uncle. For a time I considered opening a bakery.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I wanted a family. I would have had little life outside of work if I owned a bakery.”
“And there was never anyone for you to love in a big city like San Francisco?” She imagined a hint of jealousy underlined his words.
Crimson rose in her cheeks. “There was, once.”
He leaned his head back against the porch post, studying her. “What happened?”
She’d not spoken of Douglas to anyone in years. Her shame had run too deep. This conversation should have been awkward considering that they were strangers in so many ways. But talking to him was as natural as breathing. “His name was Douglas. He was a distant relative of my aunt’s visiting for the summer holiday. Immediately, he seemed to take a fancy to me. He was quite charming.”
Mr. Barrington grunted. “I know the type.”
She shrugged. “Unfortunately, I didn’t. At the time I thought he was the best man in the world. He promised me the moon and I believed him.” She leaned out over the railing and stared at the stars. They’d been the same stars she’d gazed at with Douglas so many years ago. The stars remained constant, while she was nothing like the girl who’d been fooled by a man who whispered words of love in her ear.
“He lied.”
The night chill seeped into her bones. “Yes.”
He was so close she could feel the heat of his body. He raised his hand and she thought for a moment he’d touch her. Instead, he let his hand drop. “You deserve a man who can give you a proper home and children, Abby.”
“Yes, I realize that now.”
A heavy silence rose between them. “I can never be that man.”
“Why not?” The anguish in her voice was palpable.
“I’m used up. There’s no love left in me.”
Pride had her lifting her chin. “Ah, but that’s where you make your mistake. Love is not what I am after. I simply want a place where I belong.”
“Then you best leave here now. Because you don’t belong here.” He turned and strode toward the barn.
Her insides were quaking and for a moment she struggled with tears that welled in her eyes. A moment passed before she took a deep breath and regained control of herself.
Why was she doing this to herself? Why not take his advice and leave? She certainly didn’t love the man.
Love.
She shook her head. No, not love. She’d never fall into that trap again.
Mr. Barrington had left a lantern glowing for her by the door. Picking it up, she returned inside the cabin, kissed each of the sleeping boys on their cheeks then climbed the small ladder up to her loft. Too restless to sleep, she knelt on her pallet. The lantern burned softly as she changed out of her work dress into a nightgown and unpinned her hair. Unbound, it teased the top of her hips.
She picked up her brush from beside her pallet along with a silver mirror that had belonged to her mother. She started to brush her hair, counting out her nightly one hundred strokes.
Abby knew she was a hard worker. She was dependable. Mr. Barrington had already come to rely on her. She’d taken over the morning and evening milking of the cows and he trusted her completely with the boys.
But did he find her attractive?
Her mind drifted to that first picture of Elise. The young girl had exuded feminine charm. It had been her eyes and the slight quirk of her lips.
Abby picked up the silver-backed mirror and glanced at her reflection.
The sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose had always made her look younger, less sophisticated. And she’d never been fond of her nose, far too short and perky.
Abby glanced down her nightgown. Her breasts were large and full, and it had been her experience that men liked large breasts. More than once she’d caught the butler looking at her body. But she wasn’t petite like Elise.
She propped her mirror against the wall and held her hair up in a looser, more fashionable hairstyle.
The style didn’t suit. No amount of fancy hairstyles or perfume would ever make her as pretty as Elise.
She touched her fingertips to her lips, remembering Mr. Barrington’s kiss. In that moment they had seemed to fit together very well, almost as if their bodies had been fashioned with the other in mind.
Frustrated, Abby laid her head against her pillow, then rolled on her side and blew out the lantern. She lay in the dark staring into the utter blackness. Slowly sleep crept through her limbs.
Abby had nearly drifted completely off when she heard the howl of wolves. At first she thought it a dream and rolled on her side away from the door, hugging the blanket close to her chin.
But then she heard Mr. Barrington get out of bed. She’d not imagined the sounds. He’d heard them, too.
She sat up to the sound of him pulling on his pants and boots. Leather rubbed against the bedpost—he’d reached for his gun belt, which always stayed within arm’s reach.
Her fatigue vanished and in an instant her heart hammered against her chest. Where was he going? In the weeks she’d been here, she’d never known him to stir at night.
Steady purposeful steps echoed in the cabin as he moved to the front door. The door opened, then closed.
Abby strained to hear. There was the sound of the boys’ deep even breathing. The distant howl of a coyote.
An unsettled feeling seeped into the marrow of her bones.
Something was wrong.
In the dark, Abby felt around for her boots then slipped them on. Next, she searched for her shawl. When she found it at the base of her pallet, she tossed it over her shoulders.
If she had any sense, she’d have lit a lantern. But Mr. Barrington had not. What she’d heard outside had not been a dream. He’d heard it, too.
Gingerly, she eased down the ladder. She’d spent enough time in this cabin to know its furnishings and layout by heart. To her left was the kitchen and to her right the bed where the boys slept.
Despite her familiarity with the room the night’s utter blackness threw off her senses and she found herself moving more slowly than normal.
She bumped hard into the front door, stubbing her toe.
Pain shot up her leg and tears flooded her eyes. “Blast,” she whispered. Gripping her toe she drew in deep, even breaths until the pain passed.
She eased her weight back down onto her injured toe, testing it, until she was certain she’d not broken it.
Slowly, she lifted the latch and cracked open the front door. Easing outside, she closed the door quietly behind her.
Abby took one step when strong arms clamped over her mouth and banded around her waist. She was dragged against a hard-muscled chest.
Chapter Eleven
Abby should have been afraid, but she wasn’t.
She was mad that someone would come onto her porch and accost her after all the sweat and time she’d invested. With Mr. Barrington nowhere in sight, she wondered if this cretin had ambushed Mr. Barrington, as well.
Fear sliced through her as she pictured him bleeding and injured. Desperate to find him, she did the first thing that came to mind. She drove the heel of her boot into her attacker’s shin.
Save for a soft grunt, he
r attacker made no sound. Instead, he tightened his hold, and, lifting her off her feet, carried her toward the barn.
Abby struggled, her shawl dropped to the porch, but her efforts accomplished nothing, other than draining her own strength. She tried to kick her assailant again but each time he was ready for her, sidestepping her attacks easily.
“Stop fighting me, damn it!”
At the sound of Mr. Barrington’s gruff voice, Abby froze. He half drug, half carried her across the yard to the barn. Kicking the barn door open with his foot, he pulled her inside and then closed it. He flipped her around and pressed her back against the door. She stared up into his shadowed face, just inches from hers. His hot breath brushed her cheek.
“Why did you grab me?” she whispered.
“There’s someone or something outside.”
She moistened her lips, which still tasted salty from his hand. With only her nightgown, she was very aware of her nakedness. “Who?”
“I was trying to find out when you came outside.”
She ignored the irritation in his voice. “I heard you get up and leave. I thought there was a problem.”
“There is. Now stay put.”
“Don’t you need a light?”
“No.” He eased his gun from its holster and started to move outside, his actions as graceful and lethal as a mountain lion.
Abby started to follow.
Mr. Barrington stopped. “Stay put.”
“I can help.”
“Stay.” His order sliced through the night air, cutting through any future arguments. When he was certain she’d obey, he disappeared into the night.
In the distance, the howl of wolves echoed in the dark. Abby’s heart slammed against her rib cage.
The boys! Abby remembered the boys were in the cabin alone. What if whoever or whatever was out there doubled back and took the boys? Unable to stay in the barn, Abby fumbled around until her fingers skimmed the handle of a pitchfork. Holding it high, she peeked out of the barn.
At first she didn’t see Mr. Barrington. Then she saw the glitter of moonlight on the barrel of his gun. He moved across the yard, a wraith moving as if he’d been born to roam the night.