Seasons of Glory

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  With her knees weakening and her heart fluttering, Biddy feared she would collapse where she stood. Mr. Rankin being the only support in reach, she clutched at his sleeve. He gripped her other arm. “You okay, ma’am? Here, let me help you to the swing. It’s just over there.”

  “If you’d be so kind.” Was that wavery voice hers? Biddy leaned heavily on Smiley’s strength as he guided her to the wooden swing. Standing in front of her and holding her shoulders until she plopped onto the broad seat, Smiley gave her arm an awkward pat. Fanning her hot and sweating face with a hand, Biddy breathed out, “Thank ye, Mr. Rankin. I do believe I’ll be fine now.”

  “If yer sure, Miss Biddy.” But still, he backed up a few paces and frowned in apparent concern at her. “You want a drink of water? Or somethin’ stronger?”

  Biddy shook her head and waved away his offer. “No. ’Twas just the shock. It will pass.” She folded her hands in her lap, stared at them, thought about what Mr. Rankin had just told her, and then sought his gaze. “I don’t see how the boys could think such a thing. Why, we found writing paper from Boston and a broken spur of the sort only the Lawless gang wore. How could our”—she swallowed on the word—“neighbors get those things?”

  “Well, that’s the hell—pardon me—the heck of it, ma’am. The boys are hearin’ that some of the ranchers acted in cahoots with shootists from back east. Otherwise, how come it is that no one reported any strangers hereabouts? Nor found no bodies other’n those?” He nodded his head to indicate the three graves on the hill.

  After a silent moment, the foreman added, “We know J. C. didn’t go down without no fight. And as good a shot as he was … well, it just seems there would have been … others. The thinkin’ is, there was others, but they was carried off. At the very least, folks hereabouts seen somethin’, and they know. But they just ain’t sayin’.”

  “Merciful heavens.” Biddy raised a hand to shade her eyes from the sun as she focused on Smiley. “Are ye sayin’ that some of the folks who came to the funeral could be the ones who killed me Catherine and Mr. Lawless and Old Pete?”

  Smiley looked down at his boots. “Could be.” He then raised his head to look directly into her eyes. “I’m thinking, fer her own pertection, you need to tell Miz Glory … the truth about her folks.”

  Biddy’s blood ran cold in her veins. “No. ’Twould kill her. She has so much pride.”

  “I reckon. But pride can be a hurtful thing. Just thought I’d mention it. The truth is bound to come out sooner or later. Which is another reason to want Riley Thorne off the property. He can’t be trusted. Especially with Miz Glory.”

  * * *

  Glory didn’t trust Riley one whit. How could she? The man was a Thorne. Why, even though he’d been a perfect gentleman so far on their ride, he could at any time choose to assault her virtue. Riding her chestnut mare alongside his big gray gelding, she cut her gaze over to the silent man next to her. He’d all but ignored her once they’d ridden out of the yard and onto the grazing lands.

  Vexed with his inattention, Glory wondered if it wasn’t her he was interested in, then what? She narrowed her eyes in thought until it came to her. Why, the land, of course. The thousands of acres of prime grazing land were what occupied his days and his conversations. Her grip tightened reflexively on her mare’s reins, even as her features set in stubborn lines. Not one inch would he, or anyone else, take from her. It was Lawless land. Her land. Hannah’s and Jacey’s land.

  Riley suddenly reined in his gelding. Reining in her thoughts and her mare, Glory watched the source of her poutish mood dismount. Holding the gray’s reins, he bent over to pick at something in the dirt. Then he pulled a handful of tallgrass. Glory rolled her eyes. “What now? We’ve examined cattle droppings, frowned at the dried-up rills, shook our heads at holding pens needing repairs. Are you now going to have me graze?”

  “Hardly.” Riley straightened up, studied the grass fisted in his hand and walked his gloved fingers up a stalk or two. Lifting it to his nose, he smelled it, and then opened his fist to sort through the roots. Shaking his head, he cast it to the wind. He turned to her and said, “It’s awfully dry.”

  At her limit with his endless concerns for her land—and now apparently every blade of grass on Lawless property—Glory fussed, “And I suppose that too is my fault? Maybe you think I can withhold the rain.”

  Riley chuckled. Finally. He’d been so deadly serious for the past two hours that she’d been ready to scream. “You would to spite me, wouldn’t you?”

  Glory raised her chin a prideful notch. “Most likely I would. Now tell me why you said ‘It’s awfully dry’ like it’s a judgment from heaven.”

  “It may be—for your stubbornness.” Riley dusted his gloved hands together and grinned at her, showing startlingly white teeth against his tanned face. He then sobered, notched his Stetson up, and put his hands to his trim waist. “But I was thinking of fire.”

  Glory sucked in a breath and dismounted. Holding Daisy’s reins, and mimicking Riley’s actions, she squatted down to paw a strand of tallgrass. She noted its yellow-brownish color and how it snapped easily in two when she bent it. She then sought Riley’s gaze. “It is October, Riley. Shouldn’t it—? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Something in the considering way he stared at her alerted Glory’s feminine sixth sense. Right now, grass didn’t concern him half as much as she did. Her stomach quivering, her mouth dry, she all but whispered, “Is something wrong?”

  Riley nodded, scaring her further. “About a hundred things I can think of.”

  Slowly, Glory rose to her feet. The prairie wind settled, seemed to hold its breath and wait, like she did. The sudden awareness of their aloneness, of him as a man and herself as a woman, and what that meant, made Glory’s heart thump in slow beats. Looking at him now, she focused on the finer characteristics of Riley’s face. The straightness of his nose, the wideness of his mouth, the tiny scar on his chin.

  Knowing she was staring—but so was he—Glory lowered her gaze a fraction. And caught her breath. Crisply curling and blackish hairs peeked over the top of his combination suit. She wanted to touch them. It was that simple. That complicated. And touch his neck, his broad shoulders. They were so thickly muscled and … manly.

  Gone was the skinny boy her sisters had teased her about during her growing-up years. He’d been her best friend, Glory mused, and her worst enemy over the years, depending on her age and the state of the feud between their fathers. But gone now was the boy who’d cradled her in his arms when she was a baby. Who’d held her hands to help her with her first steps. Who’d dried her tears when her black kitty got crushed under a horse’s hooves.

  The boy was gone. The man stood here in his place. Almost close enough to touch. All she had to do was reach out. If she did, he’d come to her. She knew it. She looked into his eyes. He knew it, too. Glory’d never been so afraid in all her nineteen years. Being aware of a man was one thing. Knowing what to do about it was a whole other thing. True enough, Mama’d always said that the love between a man and a woman was sacred and beautiful and good.

  Until this moment, though, Glory’d always pictured love as paper hearts and ribbon-tied wildflowers and store-bought candy. But looking at Riley, she’d bet none of those pretty pictures danced in his head. No, she suspected she danced there instead. So, this quivering in her belly, this wanting him, this yearning for his touch, was what Mama’d really meant. This … physical side to love. What a married man and woman did in bed.

  Glory sucked in a deep breath at her wayward thoughts. She’d never looked at any other boy and thought beyond the hearts and flowers part of love. Riley’s not a boy, her heart reminded her. Glory bit at her bottom lip. A single tear clouded her vision, spilled over, and rolled down her cheek. Her soul was damned. He was a Thorne.

  Straightening up, Riley’s expression quickened. His gelding trailing behind him since he still held its reins, he took a step toward her, his other hand o
ut. “What’s wrong, Glory?”

  She sniffed and hauled in a stuttering breath. “Nothing,” she gurgled out before spinning away from him and nearly colliding with her mare. The normally docile creature reared its head and sidestepped in alarm. Glory held tightly to the reins and cried out over her shoulder, “Don’t you touch me.”

  Too late. Riley’s hands were on her shoulders. He turned her to face him and his big-boned gray. “I asked you what’s wrong. Why are you crying?”

  “I’m not.” Then she burst into tears and flung herself into his embrace. Against the soft fabric of his red-and-black flannel shirt, she wailed, “You. You’re what’s wrong. How come you have to be so—? So—oh, I don’t know … such a man, Riley Thorne?”

  “Such a—? What are you talking about?”

  When he tried to hold her away from him, Glory clung tightly. She just couldn’t look into his brown eyes right now. “No, leave me be.”

  His chuckle echoed in his chest, vibrating against her cheek. She breathed in his musky scent with each breath and listened to the sound of his husky voice. “How can I leave you be while you’re holding onto me? And honey, if I could leave you be at all, I wouldn’t be on your place now.”

  Glory blinked, stared at the indifferent wilderness beyond the security of Riley’s arms, and sniffed. “Why are you here—really?”

  Riley shifted his weight, settling her more against him. His hand rubbed up and down her back. “Because I…” He huffed out a breath and started over. “Because … it’s the neighborly thing to do.”

  Glory frowned at the large-checked pattern of his shirt, and then pushed back until she was held loosely in his embrace. Her hands now on his chest, she looked up into his eyes, noting the fine lines at their corners. “Liar,” she accused.

  Riley gripped her arms, rocking her gently as he admonished, “Don’t do this, Glory. Don’t you look up at me like this.”

  “Why not?” Glory tipped her tongue out to moisten her parted lips and waited for what seemed a breathless eternity for Riley to move, or to answer her. Surely if she looked away now, the season would be a different one. Perhaps frozen winter. Or scorching summer.

  Caught up in his arms, she watched the play of emotion over his handsome face. And realized he was a stranger to her in more ways than he was familiar. Whatever battle raged in his head, it seemed to deepen the sharp angles of his high cheekbones and square jaw. A subtle change in the shade of his tanned and taut skin alerted her to his decision, just as surely as did his tightening grip on her arms. His brown eyes narrowed, sighting on her lips with the singular intensity of a crouching predator.

  Glory became afraid. Something wild, something untamed and unknown lurked just beneath the calm exterior of this man. And this barely controlled fierceness in him wanted her. A trembling overtook her. His kiss would sear her heart, scar it for life, she just knew it. And yet … she still wanted it. Wanted him. What was wrong with her that she’d feel this way? How could she betray—

  Riley’s head lowered with the frightening suddenness and deliberation of a hammer on a nail. His lips claimed hers. Shocked, Glory opened her mouth to protest. But the words curled up and died like paper in fire. Wide-eyed, she stiffened until her rigid stance made her legs ache. But Riley’s demanding kiss only deepened. He pulled her tight against him, his tongue dueling with hers.

  To her shock, Glory realized her eyes were closing, realized she liked the firmness, the moistness, the hunger in his lips. She liked the taste of him, too. She liked the hotness between them, the melting together of their bodies. The wonderful tingling and surrender of her—

  Riley broke off the kiss. He pulled back sharply, let go of her, stared at her. With eyes wild and fierce, he faced her, staring as if at a phantom. As if he’d been jarred awake while sleepwalking. Glory steadied her feet and clutched her hands together over her heart. She couldn’t look away from him, not even when he wiped her kiss off his lips.

  Something in her heart tore at such a gesture. He hadn’t liked her kiss.

  “That’s why,” he said, his voice no more than a hoarse growl. “That’s why you can’t look up at me like that. Because that kiss … that’s only the beginning, Glory. And you don’t know the first thing about what goes on between a man and a woman.”

  Hurt, angry, a study in insulted innocence, Glory poked out her lip. “I do too know the first thing. It’s that kiss. And guess what, Riley Eugene Thorne? I don’t care if you didn’t like it. Because I did.”

  Satisfied when his brown eyes widened, Glory spun on her heel and realized she was still holding Daisy’s reins. With a quick flick of her wrist, she tossed them over the horse’s head and mounted the docile creature, settling herself in the saddle. From her seated height, she then looked down at Riley.

  He didn’t move or protest or do anything else to sweeten the moment for her. He’s going to make this hard, darn him. Her first kiss, and it was done out of anger. And he hadn’t even liked it. Glory swallowed, called on her Lawless strength, and hissed down at him. “Did you hear me? I said I liked it. And you—a Thorne, no less.”

  With that, she put her heels to the chestnut. And left Riley standing there.

  * * *

  The front door slammed. Determined footfalls, all the louder for being booted, echoed through the main house. Seated in the sunny, formal parlor—her departed Catherine’s favorite room—Biddy paused in her mending and looked up, frowning at the noise and then sighing. With Jacey gone, there was only one person who’d tear through the house this way. Glory be, ’tis Glory Bea.

  “Biddy? Where are you? I want Riley Thorne thrown off this property!” The footfalls and the yelling stopped. Then, “Do you hear me? Biddy, where are you? I hate him, and I want him gone by nightfall.”

  “The saints preserve us,” Biddy muttered aloud. “First Mr. Rankin and now this.” Laying aside her blouse and the button she intended to sew on it, the put-upon nanny came reluctantly to her feet.

  “Biddy?! Where are you?” Glory’s shouts and trodding steps heralded her approach to the parlor.

  “’Tis in the parlor I am, young lady,” Biddy sang out, following it with, “Not that young ladies would be bellowing and stomping around like a man in a barn, mind ye.”

  That brought Glory to the door. Her high color, windblown hair, and frowning mouth elicited a raised eyebrow from her nanny. In a pouting temper, one which would last for days if not checked, the child stood in the doorway, her feet apart, her hands fisted at her waist. And glared. “I want him gone, Biddy. Today. This minute. Now.”

  Even knowing full well who she meant, Biddy stalled the inevitable by asking, “Who is it yer wantin’ gone, and why?”

  Glory advanced into the room, flinging her papa’s sheepskin coat off and tossing it onto an upholstered wingback chair. “Riley Thorne is who,” she all but snarled as she passed by. Swept up in the windstorm that was Glory, Biddy turned and watched her stomp to the window by the piano and stare outside. Suddenly she spun around. “He kissed me. And then didn’t like it.”

  Biddy’s hand went to her mouth. “Merciful heavens,” she mumbled through her fingers. It was happening. Her and Louise Thorne’s worst fear … and secret fondest hope.

  Glory tromped back to her and crossed her arms under her bosom. Her green eyes flashed with gold specks, rivaling a spring meadow dotted with marigolds. “Who does he think he is, kissing me? I never invited him to do such a thing. Why, the man’s a Thorne. You asked him here, Biddy, and so you can tell him to leave. I want no part of a conversation with him.”

  Understanding as she did the real reason for Glory’s fit of temper, and biting the inside of her cheek against the urge to chuckle, Biddy lowered her hand from her mouth. “Are ye telling me ye want Riley gone because he kissed ye? Or because he didn’t like yer kiss?”

  Glory stared wide-eyed at her, screeched, and spun around. Biddy allowed herself a secretive smile. So young Mr. Thorne took a liberty with our little miss, and s
he liked it more’n he had. Or so he told her, the devil. Watching her baby’s slender back, right now so rigid with temper … and no small amount of wounded feminine pride, Biddy admonished, “Now, Glory, yer not thinking straight.”

  Hands fisted at her sides, Glory pivoted like a toy spinning-top to face her. “Oh, yes, I am. I never want to see his face again. How dare he … kiss me—a Lawless? Now, are you going to tell him to get his gear and clear out?”

  Biddy pursed her lips. This had gone far enough. Hands held together at her waist, she narrowed her eyes at her baby. “No, I’m not, young lady. ’Tis only yer pride that’s wounded.”

  Looking every bit the spoiled youngest child that she was, Glory backed up a step. “The only wounds there’ll be—if he’s still here come suppertime—will be on Riley’s Thorne-y old hide, if I have my way.”

  “And there it is, miss, the crux of your behavior—‘yer way.’ Granted, ’tis no one’s fault but me own and yer dear mother’s for that. But true it is, yer so used to getting yer way in all things that ye can’t abide someone who’d dare deny ye.”

  Warming up to her subject, seeing but not heeding the suddenly crestfallen expression that claimed Glory’s features, Biddy pointed a finger and shook it to emphasize her words. “Yer no longer a babe now. Yer a woman. And high time ye acted it. Look around ye. ’Tis ye who are responsible for keeping this ranch going. Ye made a blood oath with yer sisters to do just that. And ye can’t do it alone. ’Tis help yer needin’—Riley Thorne’s help, as it turns out. An’ ye’ll just have to swallow yer dislike for it bein’ that way. From now on, ye must do what’s right for all, and not what’s good for just yerself.”

  A heavy silence followed Biddy’s outburst. Staring now into Glory’s wounded face, seeing her stiff posture, and hearing her own words, Biddy put a hand to her chest, felt her heart beating dully. She’d never spoken to Glory thus. The child was doing the best she could. It was all so new to her, and she’d just not found her way yet. And what did ye do, Margaret Jensen? Ye told her she’s failing everyone.