He breathed a few choice words under his breath and silently chastised himself. If only he'd been able to get to New York sooner. He should have been there for Julia when Robert died. And he should have been there for Zoe when Julia died. He would make it up to her. Zoe needed him, and he would take care of her.
He'd been in the army too long. He'd been without a home too long, sleeping in a bedroll on the hard ground listening to snores and grunts, eating army grub and living day after day in the saddle, a Winchester and Red Horse, an Arapaho scout, his only companions. He'd spent too much time guarding other men's lives, other men's wives and families. It was long past time to make a place for himself. For Zoe.
Pulling the slicker over his head, he readjusted his hat as fat, spattering drops began to fall. Not relishing the long ride back to Omaha where he'd taken a room in a boardinghouse, Booker urged Gideon toward where his property adjoined the Coulson’s on their northern border. He'd weather out this storm in the sod house.
Thunder rolled across the heavens, and he kicked the horse into a gallop. In less than half an hour he'd located the stream and followed it to the old buffalo wallow shown on the map Augie Wynn had given him. Augie had farmed this hundred-and-sixty acres the past four years. He and his family had moved on to the Dakotas when Booker decided it was time to use the land himself.
He topped a shallow rise, and lightning illuminated the soddy. Booker smiled. It was in as good a shape as Augie had promised. A lean-to jutted from the north side, a sound haven for Gideon to rest. Booker unsaddled the animal, wiped him down with a gunnysack and gathered his rifle, saddlebags and bedroll.
He dashed through the pelting rain. The door swung open on silent leather hinges. Booker fumbled in his gear for matches and lit one, holding it aloft to orient himself in the darkness. A lantern stood directly in the center of a sturdy table. Striking another match, Booker turned up the wick, held the match to it and replaced the lamp, noticing the clean glass.
He glanced around, his eyes adjusting to the lantern's glow. Everything was clean and tidy. The Wynns had been gone for at least a month, yet there wasn't even a coat of dust on the tabletop.
Booker removed his hat, and his sixth sense kicked in. He ducked out of his poncho, slowly, shifting the Winchester from one hand back to the other. He pulled back the lever, feeding a bullet into the chamber, and turned.
A cot hugged the limed wall, and beneath a cozy pile of furs, a bulge indicated its occupancy. Booker knew he'd made enough noise to wake the dead, but the sleeper didn't seem disturbed. He stepped closer. "Hello?"
A slight movement rustled beneath the animal skins.
"Hello," he called louder.
The form rolled but remained buried.
Booker took the last remaining step, rifle ready in his right hand, and jerked the fur back with his left. "Well—what the—?"
A youth with tousled hair and sleepy hazel-gray eyes was pointing a Colt Navy .36 at his heart.
bookmark:Chapter 3
Chapter 3
image:flourish.png
Thunder rumbled in the background. Cushioned from the weather in the roomy, wood-paneled dining room of the sturdy, two-story house, the Coulson family gathered around the enormous table.
"We had a lovely morning," Trudy cooed, and helped herself to a tiny portion of the creamy mashed potatoes as they passed. "Didn't we, dears?"
Madeline responded with an enthusiastic nod. "Mrs. Creighton decorated her parlor in the most stunning shade of emerald green."
Almost a carbon copy of her married sister, Elsbeth, Madeline was an accomplished seamstress. Her stitchery surpassed even the older ladies' of the Mission Circle. Throughout the Coulson home, her needlepoint screamed for attention—the exquisite marigold clusters on the dining chairs, assorted cushions and even a lampshade in the parlor. Nearly every wall displayed her needlepoint.
Even though there'd been no decision made on the groom, Madeline's energies had been directed to her wedding dress for the past eight months. The project was a masterpiece of tiny seed pearls and delicately embroidered ribbon-bearing doves on pristine white satin. With her minute figure and dark, shiny hair, Madeline would be a stunning bride.
"Perhaps when we're in St. Louis we can shop for new drapes and a carpet for the parlor," Trudy suggested, a familiar enthusiastic twinkle in her eye.
Thea's father smiled benevolently and stabbed a thick slice of beef from the platter.
Thea took her seat on her father's left and smiled across the table at her stepmother. "We could use some new kitchen towels while you're shopping."
Trudy offered a distracted half nod. "Lexie, dear, will you remember toweling when Madeline is shopping for fabric?"
Lexie gave a delicate shrug and buttered half a slice of Thea's bread. It grew more and more obvious to Thea that Lexie didn't share her mother's and sisters' enthusiasm for shopping, nor did she share their zeal for the society customs they'd brought from St. Louis. She seemed to much prefer riding horseback over sitting in the shaded buggy, and she'd read all of Thea's books at least once. Whenever possible, Lexie enjoyed time to herself.
From the other end of the table, Denzel spoke up. "Did you have company, Thea? Someone was riding out when I brought the team in."
Denzel waited for a reply. MaryRuth cast a questioning glance. Thea snuck a peek at Zoe, who sat at her elbow. Silent as always, the pale-haired little girl calmly ate her meal.
"Yes, I did," she began carefully. She'd planned to talk to her father alone, but she’d been so busy preparing the meal and mopping up the muddy floor, the occasion hadn't presented itself. "A gentleman claiming to be a certain person's uncle came to see me."
MaryRuth's gaze slid knowingly to Zoe. "Did he have any proof? Did the certain person recognize him?"
"He didn't show me anything," Thea replied. "The little person was n-a-p-p-i-n-g, and it had been years since he'd seen—h-e-r."
"What did you do, Thea?" her father asked. Rain drizzled down the floor-length window behind him.
"I told him he'd have to bring Mrs.—the agent back with him."
"Good." Jim chewed thoughtfully. "Where's he from?"
"I'm not sure," she replied with a quick glance to make sure the conversation had gone over Zoe's head. "He had army-issue boots and saddle. Said he had some land nearby and was going to build a house."
"Did he tell you his name?" her father asked.
Thea spelled out Hayes.
Jim Coulson regarded his son-in-law. Denzel stared back at Thea, an odd expression flaring in his gray-green eyes.
"What?" she asked softly.
"He's the son of a—"
"Denzel," MaryRuth cut in gently.
Denzel laid down his fork. "He's the bluecoat who owns the Hazel Creek section your pa wanted. Augie Wynn told 'em at the mercantile that he'd be comin'. He leased the property to Wynn till he was good and ready to get here himself."
Thea rolled the information over in her mind. Mr. Hayes... Zoe's uncle... was the man her fathered lost the creek land to? She cast a tentative glance at her father.
He avoided her eyes and peppered his steak.
The subject had been an unpleasant one in the Coulson family for the last four years. Mr. Hayes's integrity and intent had been questioned more than once. Thea had imagined him a land baron ogre, not a disturbingly handsome and virile man. His stern expression and clipped manner characterized a soldier unaccustomed to having his wishes denied.
Mr. Hayes had the land her father wanted, and now he wanted Zoe. A cold disappointment settled in Thea's heart. If a wealthy, respected man like her father couldn't do anything about Booker Hayes, what could she hope to do?
* * *
Thunder volleyed above the soddy. Rain pelted the bark roof. The noise registered, but Booker's attention focused on the old weapon the youth pointed without the slightest tremble in his long, knobby-knuckled fingers. His gaze locked with the boy's, he backed up and slowly leaned to lay the Wincheste
r on the table. "I don't mean you any harm, son. I just need a place out of the storm."
The lad's wary hazel eyes inspected him from head to toe and back. "Who are you?"
"Name's Hayes. Got caught in this downpour on my way to Omaha. I knew the Wynns had moved on, so I thought I'd stay the night in here out of the weather."
"You a lawman?"
"No."
The boy's distrust wasn't appeased; he kept the gun in his hand and Booker under observation as he slid from the narrow cot and gestured with the barrel. "There's a bed over there."
Booker nodded. "Want a fire in the fireplace?"
"Suit yourself." Dingy lightweight summer drawers hung on the boy's lanky frame. Cautiously, the youth perched on a chair at the table.
Gathering small pieces of wood from a pile near the door, Booker soon had a fire burning in the fieldstone fireplace. Some of the dampness seeped from the room. He hung his slicker and suit jacket over the backs of chairs and slid his gear under the bed. He tossed his bedroll on top. Finally, he returned and reached for his rifle.
"I'm going to take the bullet out of the chamber. If the rifle gets bumped or falls, it'll go off."
The boy's gray gaze jumped apprehensively to the Winchester and Booker ejected the bullet.
Using the opportunity, Booker grabbed the Colt from the kid's lax grip. The youth lunged from the chair and attempted to retrieve the gun.
Booker merely turned sideways, checked the empty chamber and tossed both guns beside his bedroll. Immediately, the boy dropped his hands from Booker's forearm.
The kid was hiding. A runaway, probably; he didn't have the look of an outlaw. Booker'd seen his share of outlaws.
He'd seen men living on the edge of civilization, seeking escape in one form or another. He'd seen what this hard country could do, and he hated to see it in one so young. But this kid's wariness wasn't hard-edged—his caution was simply self-preservation. His story could take any form.
The boy backed away from Booker, edging toward the door.
"Look, kid. I'm not going to hurt you. What are you going to do? Go running out into the rain in your drawers?"
Shamefaced, the lad studied a spot beyond Booker's shoulder.
"What's your name, son?"
"I ain't your son!" A belligerent tone covered his embarrassment.
Booker nodded. "No. You're not. Do you have a name?"
He raised his chin. "I got one."
A minute passed.
"Okay," Booker conceded, and turned. "A man doesn't have to tell anything he doesn't want to in these parts." He opened his bedroll and smoothed it out over the mattress. "I just figured since we're spending the night together, we could exchange a few pleasantries, but consider your business your own." He unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged out of it, loosened his trousers and glanced up.
The boy jerked his gaze away.
Booker sat on the bed's edge and worked off his boots.
"Lucas."
Booker raised his head.
Lucas met the stranger's dark eyes. He was intimidating, no doubt about it. Tall as a tree, dark as midnight and flint-hard like the devil himself. But his calm manner and matter-of-fact speech balanced out his stern appearance. The man exposed his muscled upper body, tanned skin smoothed over rock-hard muscles, and his broad chest covered with a pelt of black, curly hair. Lucas couldn't help but admire the man's physique and strength, a far cry from his own knobby, undeveloped body; nonetheless, a common thread wove itself into the crackling warm air.
They were two men needing a place for the night. The stranger's preparations for bed made him more human, somehow. He took off his boots just like everyone else.
"Pleased to meet you, Lucas. If you had ammunition for that relic, would you know how to shoot it?" The black-haired Hayes stepped out of his trousers.
Lucas hadn't a clue what to do with a gun, but he didn't want to tell the man that. He shrugged.
"Thought not," the unsparing man replied. "I'll bet you're a quick learner, though. If we're both still around tomorrow, I'll give you a lesson." He slid the guns under his bed, opened his bedroll and crawled inside. "Blow out the lantern, would you?"
Lucas stared at the long form beneath the covers. The man had exposed Lucas's helplessness, but didn't seem inclined to take advantage of it. For whatever reason of his own, he appeared content to take shelter in the sturdy little sod house and leave Lucas to himself. No one had ever left him to his own means before. Adults always wanted to herd him about, put him to work, decide what was best....
He blew out the lantern and slipped back beneath the furs. It looked like Hayes would let him go his own way, and though he couldn't trust the man, he could abide him—for the time bein'.
* * *
Thea smoothed Zoe's corn-silk hair back from her forehead and inhaled her fresh, clean scent. They lounged against the headboard of Thea's bed, a book in Thea's lap. Zoe yawned and pointed to the page. In her white nightgown with eyelet at the neck and hem, she painted a picture of childlike innocence and trust.
Thea blinked against the sudden sting behind her eyes and focused on the illustration Zoe's tiny finger pointed out. "It's a colt, sweetheart, a baby horse. Isn't it pretty?"
Zoe trusted her. She counted on her to care for her and keep her safe. Heaven only knew what she'd witnessed and lived through since the deaths of her parents. Certainly, life had not given her the sense of security and love she needed to thrive. Thea could give her those things. She believed beyond a shadow of a doubt she'd be a wonderful mother.
The child cast her a blue-eyed plea. Thea drew her body close enough to snuggle and read until Zoe slept. She eased her down into the bed and covered her with the sheet and quilt. Kneeling beside the bed, she ran her fingers across Zoe's silken cheek, fanned them through her golden hair and leaned to kiss her brow. Such a beautiful child—fair and lovely and just the right size.
Of their own volition, her eyes slid to Zoe's legs beneath the light cover. She knew the humiliation Zoe would suffer. She'd learned just how cruel children could be. They would taunt and ridicule her because of her leg. The world was full of Irving Jacksons.
Bathing her, Thea had been unable to discover any reason for her limp. She had no scars or deformities. But Thea was no doctor.
Standing, she pulled the pins from her hair, uncoiled the length and methodically worked her brush through. After plaiting a loose braid, she undressed and slipped her cotton nightdress over her head. The sheets were cool and crisp, but the pleasure was lost on her.
When that Hayes fellow came back with Mrs. Vaughn, she would have to give up Zoe to him. He wouldn't have gone to so much trouble to seek her out if he wasn't telling the truth.
Despite his callous demeanor, he must have a soft spot inside for Zoe. She remembered the glimmer in his mahogany eyes when he'd turned away from the sleeping child. Maybe Zoe looked like his sister. Maybe she was the only family he had, and maybe he did plan to build a house for them.
Thea stared at the moonlight reflected on the ceiling and reminded herself of her own family and many blessings. She didn't have a husband or child of her own, but she did have a family to love and who loved her. Until Zoe had come along, that had been enough.
Now... Now Thea was reminded of the dreams she'd buried. Dreams of her own home, her own children, her own....
No. She couldn't do it. Couldn't conjure up all those long-buried fantasies. Couldn't revive the fancifully woven hopes and yearnings she'd managed to cast aside. Would not torture herself with bold pipe dreams that would never be.
She squeezed her eyes shut, and tears trickled down her temples into her hair. She was oversize, orange-haired, and well past marrying age. She'd long ago thrown her passion and ardency into caring for others, vicariously enjoying glory and attention through her lovely half sisters.
Zoe belonged with her uncle. I could be a mother to her. She'd had no business allowing herself to fall in love with a child who wasn't hers in the first
place. I could give her all the love and attention she needs and that I need to give. When Mr. Hayes and the agent came for Zoe, she would have to comply with their wishes. Don't take her; God, don't let him take her!
The rain dwindled to a light pattering against the roof. Thea ran her palm across the delicately stitched wedding quilt that was to have been on her marriage bed. She listened to Zoe's even breathing and once again struggled to accept the fact that she would not have a child of her own.
Could be the dark man wasn't Zoe's uncle at all... Perhaps he'd see she was the best one to care for Zoe... Perhaps he'd give up and go away.
Perhaps she'd sleep sometime before morning.
* * *
Lucas awoke with a start. Sunlight streamed through the open doorway. From outside came the sounds of footsteps and water splashing. He slid from the cot and dressed.
He could hear Hayes's low voice as the man spoke to his horse. Lucas checked beneath the bed. No guns. Cautiously, he stepped into the sunshine.
"Morning!"
Lucas jumped and turned. Hayes was fully dressed in slim black trousers, a soft flannel shirt, polished knee-high boots and a black, flat-crowned hat. He led a massive night-black stallion by the reins.
"Hungry? You'll find something in my saddlebags under the bed." He checked the cinches beneath the horse's belly and tugged one tighter.
"You leavin' without your gear?"
"I'll be back. I have business in town."
What kind of business? Business like squealing to the authorities? Obviously, Lucas's short stay was over. He'd been lucky to find this place the day before. Too bad he couldn't have stayed awhile. Till he figured out what to do, where to go and how to get there without the authorities or that lowlife Bard finding him.
"You want a ride into town?"
Lucas glanced up in surprise.
Hayes mounted the stallion, leather creaking beneath his considerable weight.
Lucas shook his head.
Hayes settled his hat low over his eyes. "Need a job?"
He contemplated the man and the question. "What kind o' job?"
Land of Dreams Page 4