Loving the Lawmen

by Marie Patrick

  “And Gabby? Did her family die of diphtheria as well?”

  She shook her head, but didn’t speak for a long time. Her body stiffened, and she clasped her hands in front of her. He shouldn’t have asked her or delved into things that were not his concern. He wanted to know, but at the same time, he didn’t. He didn’t plan on staying long, and the last thing he needed was to get involved with this family, such as it was. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  Theo swiped at her eyes and shook her head slightly, dismissing his apology. She swallowed, her throat moving as she did so, drawing his eye to her smooth, sun-kissed skin. His gaze followed her jawline; then shifted to her high cheekbones, pert nose, and almond shaped eyes framed in thick, dark lashes; and once again, he had to remind himself to pay attention.

  As a former lawman, he’d always had to be aware of his surroundings, but this woman, in the course of a few hours, distracted him like no one else ever had, married or not.

  And it wasn’t only her. It was this place.

  His gaze moved to her mouth, and finally, her softly spoken words penetrated his mind.

  “Gabby’s parents and older sister perished when their house in town caught fire. Doc Foster, Gabby’s neighbor, heard her screaming and pounding on the window in her bedroom, trying to get out. Her clothes were starting to smolder, and her hair … He broke the window and saved her before the flames could … She wouldn’t have survived if he hadn’t. She … ” Her voice tight, she stopped speaking. She turned away and her gaze focused on a spot in one of the stalls, but he could still see the way her throat moved as she swallowed. When she continued, her voice seemed much more hoarse.

  “You noticed the faint scars on her hands, but there’s more … on her legs and back. Doc Foster—he’s a good friend—brought her to me while he searched for her relatives. He never found any so she stayed with me instead of going to an orphanage.” She gave an elegant shrug of her shoulders, as if taking in and raising someone else’s child was an ordinary occurrence. Perhaps for Theo, it was. “She was a scared little thing when she came to me, hurting in so many ways. I didn’t think I could help her. It took time and patience and a lot of Granny’s special salve, but eventually, most of the scarring faded. At least on the outside. She is the darling little girl you see, but she doesn’t touch people very much. She accepts very brief hugs but never gives them like she gave you, so thank you.”

  Eamon didn’t quite know how to respond. His throat constricted, not only because of what had happened to that sweet little girl—to all of them—but because no one had thanked him for anything in a very long time. He was warmed by the show of gratitude … and afraid of it as well. He’d been kind. Nothing more.

  She cleared her throat, then continued down one of the two aisles between stalls, pointing out things he’d need to know, as if they’d never had their conversation, dismissing her brief emotional moment.

  He followed her lead, pretending she hadn’t been upset. Still, his heart ached for all of them. She’d given him a peek inside her heart and was obviously embarrassed that she had. He would respect that. The children’s stories touched him more than he wanted them to.

  He pushed such thoughts aside and focused on what she showed him.

  He liked the stable. He’d seen bigger in his travels, but not many. None nearly so clean or well ventilated and bright. Windows at the end of each stall along the walls, as well as both big doors, had been opened to catch the spring breezes and sunlight. There were thirty-two stalls in all, eight along each wall and sixteen in the middle with a narrow space between them big enough for a man to pass. Fresh hay carpeted the dirt floor in each. He looked up toward the roof at the loft filled with bales of straw and noticed birds’ nests in the rafters. There were no lanterns near any of the stalls, but there were several attached to the wall at the front and back, near the doors.

  The corners of Eamon’s mouth twitched as his gaze went from the birds’ nests over his head to the floor below … and Theo’s menagerie at his feet. The last he’d seen of them, they’d been following Lou. Happy waited patiently, big brown eyes silently begging for attention. He couldn’t resist and scratched the dog under his chin. He’d always loved dogs, although he’d never had one growing up, nor did he have one while he was a U.S. Marshal. His life, such as it was, wouldn’t have been fair to the animal. The cats rubbed their bodies against his legs, the sound of their purring a low rumble. And the duck? Mallory just stared at him, probably still deciding if he was a worthy human. He wasn’t.

  He turned his attention to Theo, who had been speaking, though he’d missed some of what she’d said. Again.

  “ … have simple chores, such as helping to wash the supper dishes, making their beds, and keeping their rooms clean. They also help in the stables, but only under supervision. Either Wynn or I do that, sometimes Quincy. In a pinch, Granny will supervise, too. Gabby, Charlotte, and I collect the eggs every morning. Thomas is learning to milk the cows but isn’t quite comfortable with it yet. Lou and Wynn do it now. I think it’s good for children to learn responsibility early, but I try to match their chores to their strengths, something they do best. A talent, if you will.”

  She shrugged her slim shoulders as she led the way outside, the small parade of animals once again following her into the bright sunlight. At the end of the paddock where Maizie grazed from a feedbox in the shadows, several chickens joined the procession as they turned and headed back toward the barn and the house. Theo gestured to the garden to her left, either unaware of the growing number of followers behind her or so used to it, she didn’t notice anymore.

  Either way, Eamon found it amusing as he followed the strange procession.

  “Granny grows things—flowers, vegetables, herbs. She also makes her special salve, guaranteed to cure just about anything. As I mentioned before, Marianne cooks and bakes. That’s her special talent. It’s what she enjoys doing, and she does it well. She’s teaching Charlotte, who seems to have a knack for it, too. Wynn has a gift for the horses. They run like the wind for him. Lou can build or repair anything. Give him some wood planks, a hammer, and nails and he’s happy. And Quincy … well, he manages everything.”

  She laughed then, a musical lilt that filled the air and made him suddenly feel freer than he had in a long time.

  “It’s his strength. He organizes nearly everything here, and there’s a rhythm to the days that’s pleasing. The only thing he doesn’t do is manage the breeding business.” She glanced at him and flashed a smile in his direction, a beautiful smile that captured his attention and actually scared him. For in that moment, she once again looked like an angel.

  As if an angel or this place could help him. The sarcastic bite of his thoughts shot through his mind, and his muscles tensed. Is that what he wanted? Did he want to settle someplace and stop running away from his dreams as well as his nightmares? If he were honest with himself …

  He nearly scoffed aloud. He had quit being honest with himself some time ago. “—to find your special talent, Eamon.”

  He tried to concentrate on everything she’d told him. For a man who often didn’t hear another human voice for days on end, it was a lot of information to take in, especially in one fell swoop, all of it spoken in her hoarse, much too pleasant voice. He did notice that not once since he’d been shown the horses had she mentioned Henry, and suddenly, he had to know why. “And Henry?”

  She smiled, though it was a sad smile. “Henry?” She shrugged. “Henry dreamed. Big dreams about what we could accomplish. Coming to Colorado and starting this farm was his idea.”

  “Does he help with the horses?”

  She shook her head, and the sadness of her smile reached her eyes before she averted her gaze. “Henry’s not with us anymore.”

  Not with us anymore? What did that mean? Had he left, abandoning her and the dreams they’d had? Had he passed away? He would have asked, but the pensive look on her face stopped him and he didn’t press for an ans
wer. “What about you, Theo? What’s your special talent?”

  “Mine?” She stopped and faced him. “I’m not sure I have one, Eamon, although Granny insists I have a gift, but I wouldn’t call it that. What I have is common sense and patience, enough to help an animal heal itself. Like Maizie.” Her eyes were wide and such a beautiful shade of light green, almost peridot, it almost hurt to look, but he couldn’t turn away nor did he want to. He saw hints of gold and sparks of blue in their depths … and love.

  Eamon found himself being drawn into the love he saw shining there but somehow managed to resist the magnetic pull. He didn’t deserve the kind of comfort he saw there. He closed his eyes and counted to ten, hoping to break whatever spell Theo Danforth had cast over him.

  “You saw the barn when you settled Traveler so let me show you some of the other outbuildings.” She led the way to the chicken coop, a large square building where chickens pecked at the grain scattered on the ground. There must have been at least a hundred of them, all clucking and chirping and scratching at the dirt, both inside the fenced-in area and outside, as the gate was wide open. A rooster, perched on top of the henhouse, flapped his wings and crowed, but the hens simply ignored him.

  “Ninety-two at last count, not counting the chicks,” she answered his unspoken question, as if she could read his mind. Was that her special talent? “And all of them great layers.”

  As he suspected, the inside of the building was clean, despite being home to so many chickens. He even spotted an egg, one that had been missed earlier in the morning, or perhaps the egg had been laid after collection. Why, though, would anyone need ninety-two hens? That was a lot of eggs, even for a family of her size, although Wynn and Lou were in that age between child and adult when they grew quickly, like weeds left untended. If he remembered correctly, when he and his brothers were that age, they ate everything that wasn’t nailed down.

  “Quincy sells eggs, milk, butter, and cream to the hotel in town. It’s part of our agreement, and we all help.” Again, she answered his unasked question and drew his attention as she stepped away from the henhouse. “Only a few more things to show you out here.”

  Eamon tried to take it all in, but Morning Mist Farms was big. Too big by far for a man who spent so much of his time alone. His gaze took in the ice house she pointed out as well as several other buildings, though he already knew what they were, having seen them when he first walked into the yard. It was good to know he hadn’t lost his powers of observation though. What he hadn’t noticed before was one curious-looking thing that reminded him of a gypsy wagon, minus its wheels. Instead, it perched on a platform, never to be moved again. Wooden steps led up to a bright red door. Painted flowers adorned the surface. He was about to ask about it, but never had the chance.

  She touched his arm again, her fingers infusing him with warmth and that curious feeling he was beginning to like and dread at the same time. “Come into the house,” she invited. “Henry and I designed it on our journey here, though neither one of us could be considered an artist. I can’t draw a straight line, even if I use a ruler, but I knew what I wanted, and as long as we were dreaming, I dreamed big. A big house with lots of room, but not just a house. I wanted a home. A place where people could be comfortable and feel welcome. A place that didn’t move.”

  A place that didn’t move? It was a strange thing to say about a home, but he didn’t ask for clarification. Again, it wasn’t his business.

  She led the way through the porch and opened the back door into the kitchen. “It took someone with real talent to turn our scribbling into what you see now.”

  Eamon stopped as soon as he entered the house. He understood there were a lot of people living and working here, himself included now, but the kitchen reminded him of the one in the hotel in Wyoming, where he’d spent a month washing dishes and waiting tables for very little pay and even less respect. It still amazed him what he was willing to do to fill an empty belly and emptier wallet—anything except sell his pistols or strap on his gun belt once more.

  He nodded at Granny, who turned to glance at him, a warm, welcoming smile on her face, though she never stopped peeling vegetables. She stood at the counter beside the sink, working the knife over a potato while the children sat at a long table, doing their homework. He became the center of attention in moments as the children turned their eyes in his direction. Pencils stopped scratching on paper and a primer lay spread open on the table, forgotten, while curiosity brightened their faces.

  He tried not to notice—surely, there had been other farm hands before him—and continued his survey of the room. A huge stove, one of the biggest he’d seen, and an icebox, smaller than the one in the Cheyenne hotel, but not by much, graced one wall amid ample counter space and glass-fronted cabinets. Several windows, covered with lacy curtains, were wide open to catch the breezes and filled the room with bright light. He inhaled and smelled rosemary. Though he’d eaten a short time ago, his stomach still growled and he wondered what mouthwatering entrée would meet his tongue for supper. If it tasted anything like it smelled, he would be in heaven.

  “Eamon?”

  He glanced away from the oven and its tempting aroma to see Theo standing in a short hallway between the kitchen and dining room, glass-fronted cabinets on both sides of her, a long polished table covered in fine lace behind her. “The dining room is this way.”

  He gave a quick nod to Granny, then started to join her in the passageway but stopped when he heard the rumble of wagon wheels over hard-packed dirt, followed quickly by a chorus of barking and meowing with a few quacks thrown in. The rumbling ceased, replaced by a man’s booming voice as he greeted the animals and followed by the sound of horses’ hooves moving toward the barn.

  “They’re home.” Theo touched his arm, startling him. He glanced at her fingers on the sleeve of his shirt, then at her face, and came to the conclusion that she liked to touch as she moved passed him toward the door and held it open.

  A few moments later, a woman with dark auburn hair twisted into a coronet atop her head walked through the open door, a wicker basket filled with paper-wrapped packages and letters hanging from her arm. A generous smile lit her face and excitement made her amber eyes twinkle as she pulled the letters from the basket and dropped them into Theo’s hand. “They’re all coming, Theo! Two more than last—” She stopped midsentence as her gaze fell upon him. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize we had a guest.” She rushed forward, her hand extended in greeting, her mouth still spread in a generous grin. “Hello, I’m Marianne Burke.”

  Eamon took the hand offered. “Eamon MacDermott. A pleasure to meet you.”

  “Marianne, Eamon will be working with us.” Theo offered an explanation to his presence.

  The woman bobbed her head. “Welcome.” She slid her warm hand from his grasp and moved toward the sink beside Granny, where she started removing the packages from the basket and laying them on the counter.

  A moment later, an older man with a touch of gray at his temples and a square jaw that seemed chiseled from granite stopped in the doorway of the kitchen. Again, Theo performed introductions. Curiosity gleamed from the man’s lively blue eyes as the two men shook hands. “Welcome to Morning Mist Farms. Are you ready to start working? We’ve got a lot to do.”

  “Of course.” Eamon put his hat on his head, nodded to everyone staring at him, and followed the big man outside.

  • • •

  An hour or so later, face and hands clean after helping Quincy move the silver galvanized canisters from the back of the buckboard into the springhouse, Eamon answered the timid knock on the door to his room to find Charlotte standing on his tiny front porch, her long brown hair done up in braids, honey brown eyes wide and filled with anxiety.

  She shifted from one foot to the other and opened her mouth several times, but no words came out. Her fingers twisted the hem of her shirt, the one she’d changed into when she’d come home from school. A smudge of dirt could be seen on th
e garment of brown calico with tiny yellow flowers. Again, her mouth opened and a bright blush stained her cheeks as she shoved her hands into the pockets of the trousers she wore.

  Her shyness was painful to see, and the kindness Theo insisted he extend to everyone came to the fore, though he hadn’t needed her reminder. He tried to be kind always as one never knew the journeys of others or what hardships they faced, just like no one would ever know that he himself wasn’t worthy of the same compassion.

  “Hello, Charlotte,” he said, careful to keep his voice calm and friendly, the same gentle tone he’d use on a frightened animal.

  “Mama Theo says come for supper, Mr. MacDermott,” she blurted in a rush, bobbed a quick curtsy, and fled back to the main house. Eamon watched her for a moment, then left his little room, carefully closing the door behind him.

  The aroma hit him as soon as he entered the back porch. His mouth watered as the scent of rosemary, garlic, and fresh baked bread joined together to tickle his nose. He made his way to the doorway and stopped, unable to take another step despite the delicious aromas tempting his appetite. The kitchen bustled with activity, a chorus of children’s voices mingled with adults’. There was nothing formal here … just people who truly loved each other, and it showed. A family, as his own had been before tragedy drove them apart. It was all too familiar.

  He didn’t belong here, not in the midst of all this … love. He certainly didn’t deserve to be breaking bread with these good people. Seeing the joy in which Theo’s family interacted with one another made him long for things he wasn’t worthy of having. He backed up a step, intending to head back to his room and the solitude to be found there, even though his stomach growled in hunger again.