Widow Woman

by Patricia McLinn

  She stood, raising her eyes, then her chin.

  “You’ll ride a section. Come spring, we’ll see how this suits.”

  “I need a couple weeks before I start.”

  Her raised eyebrows drew no more explanation.

  “That’s not unreasonable, Chell,” muttered Shag. “A man’s got to kick loose now and again, and Nick ain’t been off the Circle T to speak of for months.” Heat painted her throat and cheeks as images of how the men kicked loose surged into her mind. She spun away without meeting Nick’s eyes again.

  “Two weeks, then.”

  * * * *

  He’d wondered how he’d do cooped up with Andresson all winter, anyhow. It meant delaying his return to Texas, but he’d waited this long. And he’d have money coming in instead of only going out. All in all, remaining in the Widow Terhune’s employ for now was for the best, Nick told himself.

  Even if she had fired questions at him like judge and jury with sentence already decided. Gambling, stealing, whoring, that was what she thought of him.

  It left a burn in his gut that a bottle of medium-good whiskey hadn’t doused. So the next day he rounded up Andresson, loaded supplies in a wagon he bought and headed to the old Wallace place, now his. He and Andresson chinked the logs best they could, cleaned nests from the chimney, boarded gaps in the shed to shelter a milk cow. They’d worked so hard he hadn’t had an instant to waste on the Widow Terhune.

  After two weeks, he rode to the Circle T. Shag gave him instructions—ride the west section checking for ailing or trapped cattle, in the fiercest weather break ice on watering holes and clear snow so creatures too stupid to do it for themselves could live, and ward off predators, four-footed or two.

  Shag gave him supplies, his choice of packhorses and three mounts, said someone would come by in a month with more supplies, and Nick headed to the shack.

  His home was four walls, an old rock fireplace, log bedstead, rickety table and a single chair. Not much worse than the Wallace cabin.

  Nick doubted many Circle T losses came from winter stealing, but it didn’t hurt to let anyone interested know a watch was being kept. Nick spent the first month roaming, leaving open signs of his presence. He didn’t set eyes on another human. He’d expected that condition to last.

  But coming over a distant rise, he spotted a figure heading toward the shack.

  Good as his word. Shag, on the big rawboned roan he favored, was picking his way down the incline with a loaded packhorse trailing. Nick leaned forward on arms crossed over his saddle horn. The supplies would be nice, but damned if he wasn’t glad to see the old man, too.

  Frowning deeply, he turned Brujo and took a roundabout way to the cabin. If Shag left by the time he got there, he’d get by.

  * * * *

  “Anything new?” Shag asked after a nearly silent supper.

  The foreman not only hadn’t left before Nick returned, he’d started cooking. Smoke from the chimney and good smells when he opened the door—a man could get used to that, Nick thought with a self-aimed caustic smile.

  “Nope.”

  Shag grunted. He sat in the chair, smoking and whittling, rocking on the hind legs, setting it flat, then tilting back again. Nick set a stool against the far wall for a backrest.

  The old man knew if there’d been anything of interest, a good hand would have told him straight off. Nick waited for whatever came next.

  “You know, you oughta take up whittlin’.”

  It wasn’t what Nick had expected. “Why?”

  “Something to keep you occupied, here by yourself.”

  “I’m not complaining.”

  “You could make something useful.”

  “Maybe rockers for that damned chair. The way you use it, it’d be safer.”

  “Now that’s a fine idea,” Shag said. “Wouldn’t be too challenging for a beginner. Get yourself a couple of good strong pieces of wood and it could keep you busy long quiet nights when nothing new’s happenin’.

  “You know,” Shag added, “as long as the weather holds, plan on coming into the main house for a couple nights end of next week.”

  Nick raised his eyebrows. It sounded more an invitation than an order. Neither made sense. “Why?”

  “It’s Christmas.”

  “So?”

  “We celebrate at the Circle T. We bring in you boys when we can, have a nice dinner. Do a little singing, a little dancing. Nothing fancy, but it gives you boys a break before the worst of winter.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Shag stared at him, disapproval clear in the lowered line of his brows. “What do you mean, no thanks?”

  “I don’t need a break.”

  “Chell expects the hands in for Christmas.”

  “You hired me to ride this section, that’s what I’ll do.”

  Shag said nothing more then, but the next morning, as they both readied to ride out, he said, “We’ll be expecting you come Christmas.”

  “Then you’ll be disappointed.”

  Shag shook his head as he mounted the roan. “Chell won’t like it, won’t like it at all.”

  * * * *

  A week passed. Snow fell in the upland, well over a horse’s fetlocks in most places. Wind swept other areas clean of anything but a trace. Down below, a dusting covered nearly everything except where animals had stirred it up. Not enough to force wolves down from the higher areas, or to hold up Nick as he checked a section of foothills.

  First thing, he found a handful of head blocked in by a snowdrift and he tramped down the snow to convince them they could get through. It was near midday and he was considering stopping to heat coffee while he chewed some jerky.

  As soon as he found out who was behind him.

  He kept Brujo moving at the same pace until he reached a hillock big enough for his purposes, then reined the horse off the narrow trail. Out of sight, he dismounted, and found a spot to look over the trail.

  A distant glimpse of a horse’s hindquarters was all he got before the hillock temporarily blocked his view. He waited, not allowing any guesses of who the rider might be, because being set to react one way could slow him if the situation called for another.

  But when the rider came into view a few minutes later, Nick realized this might be the one explanation he hadn’t been prepared for.

  Rachel Terhune.

  Even bundled in a heavy coat, with a scarf high around her neck and a hat tugged low on her head, he recognized her. He could tell himself his certainty came from recognizing the horse as Dandy, but he’d known before that.

  He pushed his hat back and watched as she made her way toward where he waited.

  As soon as he saw Dandy’s ears prick forward—another instant and the horse would have whickered—he stepped out into the trail and called, “You looking for me?” Her head shot up, her hand reached for the rifle. “You tracking me so you can shoot me?”

  By her expression, she didn’t share his amusement. But she didn’t pull the rifle free of its holder. That was something.

  “Don’t tempt me.” Her mutter was low enough that he likely wasn’t supposed to have heard.

  She halted Dandy and dismounted. He stilled the muscles that started a move to assist her. Instead, he repeated his first question. “You looking for me?”

  “Yes. I picked up your trail at the shack.”

  The cold and wind had flagged her cheeks red, slightly chapped her lips and sparkled her eyes.

  “I’d’ve been back.”

  “I didn’t want to wait.” Her eyes flicked away.

  Of course she hadn’t wanted to wait—it would have made it much too late to reach the home ranch tonight, which would have meant spending the night in the shack—with him.

  “Want something to eat? I was going to light a fire for coffee. Take the chill off your bones.” God, he sounded like some pathetic hermit who’d do most anything to keep her around a little longer.

  “No. Thank you. I have something to say to yo
u.”

  “Must be important.” She must have left before full light, and she’d have a hell of a long day in the saddle.

  “You are expected at the main house the day after tomorrow,” she said with a snap in her voice that told him he’d riled her, “in time for supper. It’s Christmas Eve, and all the Circle T’s hands will be there, plus a few neighbors. Is that understood?”

  “First I heard of a boss ordering a hand to a party,” he said with a purposefully insolent drawl.

  “First I heard of a hand loco enough to refuse an offer of a party,” she returned.

  “Why don’t you leave it as me being loco, then.”

  She faced up to him, hands on hips and eyes narrowed. “I am responsible for my hands’ well-being at the Circle T, Mr. Dusaq. If I had a hand who was sick and too stubborn or too stupid—” she raised her eyebrows suggestively at that possibility “—to take his medicine, I’d order him to take it.” She crossed her arms. “And I’d make sure he followed the order.”

  They stared at each other a long moment before she added, “Consider this your dose of medicine.”

  Despite the chill, the silence seemed to sizzle, the way air could with a storm brewing. Nick slid his gaze from her to the southern horizon. Sometimes when the air got that way the storm never really blew up. After a spell, the air settled, the sky cleared and everything went calm. If you could wait it out.

  He returned his gaze to her still-challenging stare.

  “Ma’am.” He tugged at his hat brim for the slightest salute.

  Surprise filled her face. She covered it quickly and, like a good general, didn’t dally once she had her victory in hand.

  She swung into Dandy’s saddle. “We’ll see you Christmas Eve.”

  * * * *

  “Nick! Glad you decided to come!” As soon as he’d dismounted from Brujo, Shag clapped him on the back through the duster he wore over his heavy wool jacket.

  “I didn’t decide. I followed an order.”

  “So you did,” Shag said, grin undimmed. “Now, the order is to have a good time. Here, let me help you with that, and we’ll get inside. Supper’s ‘bout ready and you’re the last to ride in.”

  They unsaddled and tended to Brujo, then Shag ushered him to the kitchen. A smell of warmth and hot food rushed out the open door to tug Nick inside. He breathed in, catching the additional scents of clean house, pine boughs festooning doorways and something more. Something he might have called a scent of good humor if he hadn’t known better.

  “Got another place, Ruth? The prodigal cowhand’s arrived,” Shag announced.

  That drew a chuckle from all but one of the assembled people.

  Rachel Terhune, wearing the same dark dress she had that day in Hammer Butte, sat at the head of the table. Her head came up quickly. Nick saw surprise in her eyes, but wasn’t certain if he’d read pleasure, too, before she dropped her gaze to the table. He kept busy returning friendly greetings from the others. It felt odd, settling back among the group—familiar and something else he uneasily described to himself as comfortable. It wasn’t a feeling he had much experience of.

  Henry was there, along with Joe-Max and Fred. He’d expected them. But he lifted a surprised brow at the sight of Davis, who turned a dull red and muttered something Nick didn’t catch.

  There wasn’t time to ask how the young hand he’d left on his spread had landed at the Circle T before Ruth served up a special supper. She’d turned salted and dried fish Shag brought from Hammer Butte into tasty fried codfish balls, added hearty rice and bacon, scalloped onions, sour milk biscuits and fried beef, and they all applied themselves to the pleasures of eating. Over raisin pie and coffee, a sprinkling of remarks showed that Davis had arrived that afternoon, and Nick relaxed some.

  “And now, as some of you know—” Rachel spread a smile over Shag, Ruth and the two long-time hands, “it’s been a tradition to read a little book written by Charles Dickens.” His eyes followed her hand as she picked up a slim, leather-bound volume from beside her plate. He knew that slender hand, looking delicate trimmed by the white cuff, could rein a horse, rope a steer and stop a man from insanity. Or drive him to it. “My mother first read me this book when I was a girl.” Her eyes skimmed across Nick, to rest on Davis and Henry. “I hope you newcomers enjoy it, but you’re free to leave any time.”

  No one moved.

  Nick figured he’d absorb a few minutes of the reading and then, after somebody else made a move, he’d go, too.

  “ ‘Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that,’ “ she began.

  No one left. And, although Nick soon found watching her face wasn’t a pleasure to be indulged in overlong, he couldn’t stop listening to her voice, and the story it wove. He was uneasily surprised to see how much time had passed when she came to a halt.

  “ ‘I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,’ said the Spirit ‘Look upon me!’ “ Rachel Terhune read.

  With that, she closed the book and announced, “We’ll finish the story come morning. But now Shag has a few things to pass out to you.”

  Wrapped in colorful material and tied with string or yarn, there was something for each of them. For Ruth, a length of delicate lace. For Fred, a packet of his favorite sweets. For Henry, a special tobacco. For Joe-Max, a harmonica. For Davis, a pamphlet on doctoring animals.

  “Aren’t you going to open yours?” Shag demanded.

  Nick had noticed Rachel was the only one not to receive a package, and decided that while Shag might be passing out the presents, they came from the Circle T owner’s meager resources.

  “Yeah,” Nick said. But the foreman had noted his delay, and followed the direction of his gaze.

  “She’s said every year since she started this after Terhune died that all she wants is this party,” Shag said in a low voice. “But there’s a package for her upstairs.”

  “I wasn’t saying—”

  “I know,” Shag said. “Now pull that bit of string and let’s see what you’ve got there.”

  A whittling knife.

  Shag’s grin grew so huge. Nick couldn’t help returning it.

  “No excuse not to start on those rockers now, eh?”

  Shag opened his own package to discover a tortoiseshell comb, which drew a spate of teasing down on him about vanity over his mane of hair.

  The evening broke up on that note, with the hands happily trooping across frosty dirt to the bunkhouse. For men accustomed to rising before the sun, the hour was late, and the beds soon welcomed their occupants. All but one.

  Nick slipped out the center door to satisfy a craving for a cigarette, ignoring any other cravings. He shook tobacco from his pouch into the paper, rolled and licked it, twisted the end, then struck a match and drew in deep. He didn’t smoke constant, and he’d never taken to chewing, but sometimes he craved the bite in his lungs, the heat of smoke in his mouth and nose.

  “Nick?” Davis stood three feet away. “Nick, are you mad I came here?”

  “Why should I be?”

  “I was supposed to stay at the cabin all winter.”

  “You’re not chained.”

  “No. But, uh, I didn’t want you to think I told anybody about . . . anything. I didn’t. Shag showed up last week, like he knew all along I was there, and said to come for Christmas. It seemed unneighborly to say no.”

  “You did right, Davis.”

  “You think, Nick?”

  “Yeah. But you’d better get in out of this.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Good night, Nick.” The younger man hesitated, then added quickly, “Happy Christmas, Nick.”

  A knot of warmth in his chest caught Nick by surprise. “Happy Christmas, Davis,” he answered, but he wasn’t sure Andresson heard before he closed the bunkhouse door behind him.

  A flicker of light drew his eyes to the main house, the upstairs room he knew was Rachel Terhune’s. Perhaps she’d climbed the stairs, after helping Ruth straighten the kitchen and prepare for t
he next day’s festivities, to find the present Shag had mentioned.

  A pretty girl like you should be wearing pretty dresses.

  Not widow’s weeds. Not faded work dresses.

  It wasn’t likely Shag’s present ran to the expense of a new dress. Rachel Terhune surely missed having pretty dresses. Something other than a remade black. Or that old-fashioned riding habit. Something like she’d seen worn by the ladies of Hammer Butte. Something like he’d seen on women in San Francisco—and taken off a few.

  The figure above him came nearer the window, close enough that he could see she wore a white nightdress. A gentleman would have looked away. He’d never tried to claim that title even if others would have allowed it.

  With her wheat hair loose down her back, she appeared a creature of flowing paleness. Like the Spirit of Christmas Past she’d read about tonight, in its tunic of purest white.

  Christmas past . . . What had that been but another day of avoiding his father’s fist if he could and knowing he couldn’t avoid his tongue, another day of watching his mother weaken, another day of struggling to cushion his sister’s fate. He’d failed at that in the end, along with everything else.

  Nick flipped the cigarette away and went to his bunk.

  But he rested no easier than Ebenezer Scrooge had on that singular Christmas Eve. Nick’s sleep was disturbed, not by three spirits, but by dreams of one spirit, in white with wheat-gold hair and changeable eyes. These dreams produced a decidedly earthy reaction considering they were about such an ethereal being.

  * * * *

  Nick had never seen chores done so cheerfully as they were the next morning. Caring for the working stock, tending the horses, toting water buckets and splitting wood for Ruth’s stove. There was a good deal of joking and conversation about Mrs. Terhune’s story as they scrubbed up in the bunkhouse, donning their best pants, fanciest boots and cleanest shirts.

  “You coming, Nick?” Finally satisfied with the reflection of his tie in the rusty mirror, Davis was ready to head to the main house.

  “In a minute.”

  “Better hurry, or you’ll miss the readin’.”