by Amelia Rose
"When we talked about it, though, we were just talking about the possibility and whether you wanted to." He paused and I almost fell asleep. "Now, I'd like to ask you to consider staying on at Big Sky."
Something in his voice made me look up. I folded my arms, leaned back on the davenport, blinked several times in the low light of the parlor. "Why?"
"Sarah's lonely, Kitty," he said, as if it were the most obvious observation in the world. "She doesn't think I know, but she misses you and her mother and her friends and plays at that opera house and the desert."
He had leaned back against the couch and his face was very white. William was even more exhausted than I.
"She was friends with Cynthia Getties," William said simply and that small puzzle piece clicked into place. That was why Sarah had so carefully almost defended Cynthia in every instance, why I'd had the idea she wouldn't say she'd seen the woman starting the fires even if she had, at least she would have thrown doubt on the subject. It explained her wistful response to my saying Cynthia had approached me with the shawl, and to why Sarah had talked about Cynthia going back to her family rather than being arrested or staying and running the farm herself.
"They were friends." I didn't mean it as a question, but William almost treated it that way.
"Sarah was friends with her. The Getties woman, she's…" He stopped and thought briefly about the word he wanted. "Unpredictable. Her husband treats her ill and she, in turn, treats her friends badly. They have no kin in the area and no children of their own, but she's never left him or gone back to her family."
"Sarah said Mrs. Getties' mother is ill?"
"Ayah."
I said, very quietly, "She tried to burn down your ranch. You know she was part of it, even if she just knew and didn't warn you."
I didn't look at him as I spoke. From the corner of my eye, I could see he didn't turn toward me when he spoke, either.
"Ayah," William said again. "But it's what Sarah wants."
I could hear the women in the guest bedroom. Their voices came back down the short hallway. They'd soon have the room turned out and ready.
"If I stayed, would I be in the way?" I asked.
"You going to act like a guest?" William asked.
"Have I thus far?"
I looked at him when I asked and saw that he thought to tease but changed his mind. "You've more than done your share."
I breathed and didn't say anything. It would be easier to go back to Virginia City at this point. There was Robert here, and there was Luke, and I thought now that only part of what I felt when I thought of Luke was that I wanted someone to run with and ride with and someone whose need to carry out bad ideas matched mine, someone who would race me up a tree.
Easier would mean running. Leaving Sarah. Leaving the ranch, the people I'd met, the calves I wanted to see grow up.
"Also? He's in love with you," William said, misreading whatever thoughts he thought I was having.
"Robert?" I asked, and was surprised to find less anticipation and more discomfit at the notion.
William patted me in a brotherly way as he rose, hearing Sarah and Mrs. Lord starting down the hall toward us. "No, little sister. Luke."
The night was warm. The stars stood out in bright glory in a now cloudless sky. No wind threatened to blow sparks from a fire or to tinder another blaze. Here, just miles away from The Big Sky Ranch, the light breeze smelled fresh and the air damp.
I sat in a rocking chair on the porch. The ranch hands were tucked into the bunkhouse, probably a tight fit with the Lord's men in residence, too. Sarah and William had retired for the night to the guest room, David and Mrs. Lord to their own quarters. Somewhere on the ranch was Robert McLeod, who Sarah said wasn't constant; who William said was seeing a girl from Redding.
Somewhere was Luke, who'd I'd been thinking of as a friend, a friend whose company I loved, whose well-being I feared for when the fire struck and I didn't know where he was.
A friend William said loved me.
Out of the frying pan, into the fire. Quite literally. I'd left Virginia City and my entanglements there and doubled them here.
Somewhere on the ranch, coyotes howled. Something rustled in the night and was silent again. There were no falling stars tonight.
I should go inside. Mrs. Lord had left me a pile of quilts and down pillows on the davenport, looking slightly askance at my sleeping there, but she'd said nothing. Truly, I wasn't certain I'd sleep, but at least I could close my burning, smoke-tired eyes.
I didn't get up, though. With the quilt around my shoulders, I was comfortable in the night, my spirit soothed by the vast darkness and my heart quiet in its debate.
A board squeaked, softly, at the far end of the porch. I wasn't surprised. I may even have been waiting for him. When he spoke, I was surprised to find it was Luke.
"I wanted to check on you after the day's events," he said. He was a dark silhouette against the night.
"I'm well," I said—a lie. My heart now beat much faster than it had, my peace fled, my spirit filled with fire. "And you?"
"Ashamed," he said, not sounding it.
I turned to look directly at the dark figure. "Of what?"
He stepped closer and I stood without thinking. "Of enjoying the day," he said, his voice husky and deeper than usual. "At least Big Sky is standing, the herd is safe. Because this afternoon, it was—"
Different, I thought. Thrilling. Something was happening.
And because Luke had been there, every step of the way—give and take, back and forth, each of us listening to the other, making decisions and suggestions and doing something that mattered.
Climbing the cottonwoods had mattered, too.
Since I'd come out into the night, I'd thought about going home, back to Virginia City. My mother was there, my kin, my friends. It was what I was accustomed to and I'd never thought I wouldn't be returning, not when I'd boarded the train, not right up until tonight. Even when Sarah had talked about my staying, I'd thought it was comfort, to make me feel I'd made the decision when I went back to Virginia City and Mr. Overton's plans and my life there.
I'd left Virginia City because it was too difficult for me there. I'd started to think about leaving Big Sky because it was too difficult here.
I wasn't ready to leave.
I was ready to be Kitty again, though; the Kitty my father had admired and my mother sometimes despaired of.
"The fire left the buildings untouched," I said, repeating what Luke had said. "So it should be alright for me to admit: I had fun today."
He laughed. He didn't even hesitate. "So did I."
And I trusted you and you didn't let me down, you stayed with me and you helped and you have the same spark I do, that's what I see in your eyes: Life. Interest. Excitement.
"You didn't talk to me last week." I let it stand as an accusation.
"You didn't seem lonely."
I almost laughed. That was an accusation.
"Someone had to keep me company."
"You don’t mind the number of other young women he keeps company?"
"I'd have minded if someone had told me."
"Seems t'me several people did, Miss Kathryn," he said out of the darkness.
"I've asked you not to call me that."
"You've told me that's what you're called when people are het up at you."
That made me smile. He couldn't see the smile in the dark, after all. "Luke," I said. "Can't you call me Kitty?"
"Reckon I can," he said.
Neither of us spoke, then. The hour was late and our meeting unusual. I couldn't see his expression in the darkness and he couldn't see mine, and my usual awkwardness deserted me.
"I'd ask you to go for a walk with me, Kitty, but—"
"—But it's dark?" I hazarded.
"But walks with you are fraught with danger."
I was torn between considering it a compliment and mentioning that, because he was with me for every dangerous walk, from the
cottonwood climbing to the cottonwoods burning, that perhaps he was the catalyst. I thought about laughing.
In the end, I chose to take a step closer.
He was the one to close the distance between us, taking both of my hands in his and drawing me nearer. Standing so close in the star and moonlight, I could just make out his dark eyes. The challenge was still there in them, that wildness I'd seen on the day I first met him and identified as the same look I probably had in my eyes now.
His mouth on mine was soft, his lips dry, his hands lightly holding mine. One breath, two, and he drew back.
I didn't let go of his hands. I hadn't been ready for him to pull back but something was on his mind.
"You came to visit your sister," he said. "Unexpectedly, I got the idea." When I didn't respond, he asked. "Is there someone waiting for you at home?"
I let out the breath I'd been holding. "There was someone there. He wasn't the reason I left," I said, surprising myself. "I think I was. He's not waiting, he's marrying." At his expression, I added, "He's not marrying me." Which still, truly, probably wasn't why I had left.
Luke nodded. "And home?"
I smiled, not that he could see it in the darkness. "I think home is here, now. I'd like it to be." With you, I thought, but didn't add. "Is there anyone you're stepping out with?" Hoping the answer was no.
"There was a girl."
My spirits flagged. Not unexpected, by any means, but if he had promised her—
"No one since then."
The next kiss was just as sweet, my arms around his neck, his lightly on my waist, our bodies close but not touching. I was grimy and soot-covered, streaked with charcoal and my hair had escaped its braid, been re-braided and escaped that, and now curled around my face in the damp night air. Luke was kissing me when I was absolutely being myself. I would have nothing to hide from him.
At last, I pulled away from him. I'd begun to sway on my feet. "I have to sleep."
He nodded and touched my lower lip with his forefinger. "Will you stay in California?"
I hadn't realized I hadn't answered the question. I had said I thought California was home now. But he hadn't asked me for anything and I wasn't ready to give without invitation. "Are you asking me to stay?"
I saw his lips twitch, faintly, in the dark. "I'm very likely asking a great deal more than that, Kitty. But it's late and we're tired. Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," I said, and it sounded like a promise.
Chapter 9
Sarah and I sat on the porch outside the ranch house at Lord's Acres. It was the first time Sarah had left William's side since we'd arrived the previous day, and that had only been accomplished because William had risen that morning, eaten, and headed back to Big Sky to assess for himself everything his men had already told him.
His behavior had left Sarah content and smug, more like my sister than she'd been most of the month I'd been with her.
Lord's Acres was south and west of Big Sky and faced more open grazing land than Sarah's ranch house. We sat facing south, staring down into a sheltered valley. If fires came here, they'd tear up the hills and burn out the ranch houses quick. Not thoughts I would have entertained or speculated with before the previous day.
Sarah was the happiest I'd seen her during my stay, maybe because the events with the Getties had happened. I suspected Mrs. Lord would join us on the porch soon—she was very glad of having company, it seemed, and I liked her, she was open and forthright—but as long as I had Sarah to myself, I had questions to ask her.
I didn't look at her. I looked out over the valley. I needed to sneak up on her and tread gently.
"When I came here," I began, thinking how very long ago that seemed now, "You said you were happy."
"Did I?" Sarah asked. She sounded uncertain.
That worried me. "Aren't you?"
There was a long pause, during which we watched a couple of the ranch dogs being set upon by a magpie that wanted simply to harass and the ranch hands could be seen in the distance doing something I couldn't make out.
"I'm happy with William," Sarah finally said.
"That's what you said then."
"Well, it's true," she said, sounding like she half meant to laugh.
"But what about the rest of it?" I insisted.
Sarah turned slowly to look at me and there was no point in avoiding her gaze and staring at the valley. "The rest of what? You're being awfully cryptic, Kitty."
"The letters," I said. Because those were the things weighing on my mind, tangible proof that something wasn't right. "Those letters you started and stopped and never sent me."
"I meant to," she said. "I started every one of those letters with the intention of finishing and sending them to you."
"And then what? You became busy?" I sounded as if I were sulking.
"No. I'd start them and I was writing about things that were happening—there was a lot going on every day, new things, new cows, William and the ranch." She brushed her hair back off her forehead; the day was heating up. "I'd get about a page in and there would be all these things that should make me happy. And they didn't."
She turned then and looked at me. "I've missed you. When I'd write, I'd miss you so much, I was ready to take a train and go home. I've never lived anywhere that wasn't a town before, Kitty. We both grew up in Gold Hill only you're still there and I was so far away."
I didn't know. I couldn't have. I'd thought she wasn't writing because she was too busy, too happy with her new life. That would have been better. I didn't want to think of Sarah so lonely and alone. Except, I wasn't willing to lose anyone else. I'd lost Johnny and that had sent me on this journey. I wasn't willing to risk losing Sarah on the off chance I'd gain something else from that.
My next question squeaked out, as uncomfortable as if I were asking a stranger for something.
"Did my daily letters upset you?" Because I'd still been in Gold Hill, living the life I thought Sarah had left willingly.
She laughed, loudly. "Kitty, they kept me sane. I was so happy to get them. I'd get the mail from Mike, he'd go and pick it up, and I'd get all your letters at once, you didn't know that, did you? Your daily letters were only picked up once or twice a week. I'd get maybe three, maybe five, and, once, eight of them. The calves would need feeding and the supper would need making and there'd be cleaning and weeding and I'd be at the kitchen table, reading your letters and laughing. There'd be a dozen questions from you that I wanted to answer and all these things I'd think of that I wanted to tell you and…" She shrugged.
"And it all started over again?"
"Having you visit has been wonderful. Having Cynthia Getties as a friend was happy at first. They're right up the creek! I could visit. But the poor woman isn't right and, even if she was, now she'll either be going to jail or to Nebraska."
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Well, of course, I couldn't be friends with her now. And she's the kind of person you're not really friends with; you just don't know it until it's too late."
"Sissy Tompkins," I said.
"Who?" Sarah asked, wrinkling her brow.
I waved it away. "Not important." And it wasn't anymore.
"So if you stay…" Sarah said. "If you stayed and if you lived right up the creek to the north—" Then she broke off and blushed.
I stared at her. "How on earth would I do that? Would I live in the trees?"
Sarah looked startlingly smug.
"Do you know something I don't?"
"Many things," Sarah said and rose to go indoors.
"Where are you going?" Because I was still talking, I wanted to know more than what I'd asked her so far.
"Come find me when you get back," Sarah said, heading through the door into the ranch house.
"What?" She wasn't making any sense. Maybe Sarah had gone mad. A mad Sarah would be a bad thing.
"When you get back from your walk," she said, and shut the door behind her.
"Sarah!" I stood up and started fo
r the door before I heard footsteps on the porch boards. I turned. Luke's dark hair was combed back, under control for a change. He'd taken pains to comb it back and he'd washed the majority of ash and soot from his face. I had as well, though my clothes still smelled of wood smoke.
"Luke?"
"Kitty, would you go for a walk with me?"
Perhaps Sarah wasn't as mad as I had thought.
What do you know that I don't?
Many things.
We walked south from the farm house, down into the valley, following the gentle slope of the land that would feel more like a hill on our return. Luke didn't immediately speak, just walked with his hands in his pockets, admiring the world around us. When we reached the bottom of the hill, we stopped in the shade of a stand of poplars that guarded a nearly empty stream. Luke leaned against one of the trees and looked past me again, the way he had in the barn that one day when I'd wanted to throw farm equipment at his head.
Today, I thought that staring past me was just Luke's way of dealing with the awkward, tongue-tied moments of life. Maybe I wasn't as alone in my discomforts as I thought.
Maybe I wasn't as alone as I'd felt in many ways…
"Kitty, I meant what I said to William earlier."
I didn't feel tongue tied around Luke. Too much had gone on between us, friendship and its loss and the fire.
"You've said quite a bit to William of late," I said.
"About the Getties' grain farm."
I raised my brows. "David Lord said it's not even for sale yet."
"He told me it will be. Mr. Getties will have to pay for a lawyer and for restitution, and he may very well go to prison. Mrs. Getties will go home, or to prison, or to somewhere, but I don’t see that woman staying in that house or on that farm."
"She was Sarah's friend," I said. I didn't want to banish anyone who made Sarah happy.
Luke shook his head, briefly pursing his lips. "Cynthia Getties is no one's friend. She's not quite sane, I think, Kitty. Whether she started that fire or only tried to put it out, she was still a part of her husband's plan."