Loving the Lawmen

by Marie Patrick

  Before he could make his escape, Theo caught him, those lovely eyes of hers beckoning him closer, the smile on her face welcoming. “Eamon, please come in.”

  Still, he hesitated, but her smile widened. The decision was taken from him as Gabby grabbed his hand and pulled him inside the homey kitchen, for despite its size, the room was indeed homey. “We saved a place for ya,” she told him as she led him toward his seat, then lowered her voice into a stage whisper. “Don’t be ’fraid.”

  Eamon took his seat, aware that every eye was on him, and the urge to escape from this room was so strong, he nearly bolted. He took a deep breath and forced himself to look around the table. The expressions on the faces he saw were welcoming and friendly. Not one of them looked at him with censure or blamed him for his brother’s death. Of course, they didn’t know about Kieran. Or his failure to keep him and his family safe.

  “Thank you, Marianne. Everything looks wonderful,” Theo said as she took her seat.

  The woman blushed as she set a basket of bread on the table, then slipped into her chair. A warm glow colored her face as she smiled. “Whose turn it is to say grace?”

  “I do believe it’s Gabby’s turn tonight,” Quincy replied, his lips twitching at the corners, “but I should check my list, just in case.”

  “It’s my turn.” The little girl nodded with enthusiasm, her grin infectious. “Yesterday, Tommy said prayers, and the day before, Charlotte did.” She folded her hands, closed her eyes, and recited a blessing Eamon remembered his own mother saying almost every night.

  Eamon didn’t pray, not in the usual sense. Rather, he spoke with God, talking to Him more than he spoke to anyone aside from Traveler, but he listened now, showing the proper respect, even folding his hands and bowing his head as the familiar words flowed over him. “And thank you for makin’ Mr. MacDermott come to our farm.”

  Gratitude shook him, rocked him deep in his soul. In the past two and a half years, no one had reason to be thankful for his presence, and now, in the space of an afternoon, one person had thanked him and the other was pleased he was here. He wasn’t quite sure how to react to that, and along with the gratitude filling him, he experienced panic as well.

  He jumped, startled, when Charlotte called his name and passed him a bowl of mashed potatoes, the bowl so much bigger than her hands and yet she managed. He focused, took a big spoonful of the potatoes, and passed the bowl to Gabby—the chatterbox—on his left just moments before another bowl came his way, this one filled with green beans topped with slivers of almonds.

  Theo’s family talked, all of them, often at the same time as they passed plates and bowls from one hand to the other, and this, too, reminded him very much of his younger days. His mother had always set a nice table, no matter where they were, and there was always enough to eat. She’d often say if you left the table still hungry, it was your own fault.

  He did not contribute to the conversation and instead concentrated on the food on his plate. He took a bite of his dinner and sighed. He’d had leg of lamb before, but not like this. The lamb melted in his mouth, the rosemary and garlic the perfect complement. Marianne Burke was a genius.

  “Who wants to start?” The question came from Granny, who held court at the head of the table.

  Lou leaned toward him and drew his attention. “Every day, we all tell one good thing that happened. It can be something simple.” He grinned, his lively blue eyes twinkling. “Or it may be something truly momentous.”

  “M-me!” Thomas nearly jumped from his seat with excitement. “I g-got an A on m-my spelling test t-today.”

  And so it began.

  Earlier in the day, when Eamon had breathed in the fresh Colorado air, he’d known a moment of peace so rare, it had taken his breath away. Now, sitting around this table, listening to the children talk about their day, something shifted in his heart. Despite the tragedies they had suffered, the children still had the capacity to look for the things that made living worthwhile.

  His entire body stiffened with the thought, and he shook his head just in time to notice that the entire room had gone silent. All eyes were on him. Again.

  He focused and his gaze traveled from one to another, finally settling on Theo. Again, he saw no disgust or revulsion on her face. In fact, he saw the opposite. Kindness. It was there in the warmth of her startling green eyes.

  “It’s your turn, Eamon. Tell us one good thing that happened for you today,” she encouraged him, her smile soft and sweet.

  He swallowed his mouthful of green beans, stifling the urge to admit he’d found a bit of paradise when he stumbled on to Morning Mist Farms. Instead, his gaze shot to Marianne. “This is the best dinner I’ve ever had.”

  Chapter 4

  Eamon tugged on the reins and stopped Traveler on a rise overlooking Whispering Pines Ranch. He pulled his hat lower to block the sun from his eyes.

  Something was wrong. He felt it deep in his bones.

  The ranch seemed deserted. The big two-story house set in the middle of a vast green lawn looked forlorn and empty. Brock and Kieran must have headed out, but if that were so, then why was the wagon still in the crushed stone drive near the front door?

  He squinted, focusing on the house. Nothing moved except the horses tethered to the wagon, nervously pawing at the ground, moving the buckboard to and fro. A chill skittered up his spine, and his muscles tensed.

  Where were his brothers? And Mary? Had stopping to remove the rock from Traveler’s shoe made him too late to help? Had the Logans already come as Jefferson Logan had threatened?

  His gaze roamed past the wagon to the front door. The feeling that something wasn’t right persisted. He clenched the reins in his hands, then nudged Traveler’s sides to move forward. The horse walked down the slope as silently instructed. Eamon didn’t take his eyes from the house, fully expecting to see one of the MacDermotts—his brothers or Kieran’s beautiful wife, Mary—open the door but it remained closed.

  The horses and wagon rolled back and forth as he approached. The wind moaned and sighed, bringing with it the faint echo of cows lowing in the field and the whinny of horses in the pasture beyond the barn and stable. A window shutter slammed against the wall somewhere in the back of the house. Or perhaps it was the back door that hadn’t been closed properly. The unexpected bang made him jump a little every time.

  Eamon tugged on the reins, bringing Traveler to a stop beside the buckboard. He peered over the wooden slats and saw several cloth-sided valises filling the interior. A small smile lifted the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t late after all. He was just in time. They hadn’t left yet.

  He slid from the saddle, letting the reins dangle to the ground and strolled around the buckboard toward the porch. He mounted the steps and strode across the porch, then slowed his pace. The front door was already open, but the scent wafting through the door wasn’t Mary’s well-known apple pie. It was the coppery smell of blood and the acrid burn of gunfire.

  “You must be that other MacDermott, the U.S. Marshal. Too bad that badge ain’t gonna help you.”

  The voice came from his left as a man stepped around the corner of the porch. Eamon turned, and his heart constricted. He knew this man, though he’d never met him face to face. Tell Logan. Thief. Rustler. Murderer. His Wanted posters, along with the rest of his family’s, graced the walls of every sheriff’s office from here to Albuquerque and a hundred places in between. He—and his brothers—were the reason he was here.

  Eamon reached for his weapon, but he wasn’t fast enough. He had just cleared leather when Tell Logan grinned, blinked twice, and fired.

  Eamon awoke with a start, a harsh sob stuck in his throat, the sound of the shot Tell Logan fired ringing in his ears. He swallowed the cry and concentrated on breathing deeply until the visions in his head vanished. Reaching up, he smoothed his fingers over the ugly scar on his chest between his collar bone and his heart. The action brought pain—not physical, but emotional, the ache never disappearing co
mpletely though his flesh had healed. Half an inch lower, and he wouldn’t have survived the bullet at all. Kieran hadn’t. Neither had Mary. Or Matthew, their young son. Only he, Brock, and Desi Lyn, Kieran’s daughter, had managed to stay alive after the ambush.

  He sat up slowly, momentarily disoriented by the soft mattress beneath him and the roof over his head. He had expected to see stars, but instead, saw the heavy beams of the rafters above him. Moving the thin blanket aside, he sat up, planting his bare feet firmly on the rag rug on the floor, then scrubbed his hands over his face, removing the last vestiges of sleep. The hazy light of the morning sky before dawn brightened the room.

  He sat still, letting his body calm after reliving the devastating events that had sent him on this journey of isolation—punishment for failing to protect Brock and Kieran and his family, a penalty for being late on that fateful day, penance for not going after the Logans prior to them descending on Paradise Falls and Whispering Pines, Kieran’s ranch. If he had been five minutes earlier, he wouldn’t have been taken by surprise. Tell Logan wouldn’t have shot him and left him to die. Ten minutes earlier and he might have stopped Zeb, Tell’s brother, from killing Kieran, Mary, and little Matthew. He could have stopped the outlaw from shooting Brock.

  He could have prevented it all … if he hadn’t been late, if Traveler hadn’t gotten a rock in his shoe. Such a small thing to dig a rock out of a shoe, but the precious minutes it had taken caused devastating consequences.

  Eamon swiped at his face again, then rose from the bed, slid into a pair of trousers, grabbed his shirt, and headed for the door. There was a rocking chair on the little front porch, the perfect place to watch the sun rise and see the mist for which this farm had been named while his heartbeat returned to normal and the last of the nightmare disappeared. He slipped into his shirt, but didn’t button it, and grabbed the doorknob.

  He opened the door and nearly collided with Theo, her hand poised to knock. If she hadn’t been paying attention, she would have rapped on his chest. As it was, she appeared startled and a little flustered as her eyes widened and slowly drifted from his chest up to his face.

  “Oh! You’re up,” she stated the obvious, her voice, usually hoarse, sounding a little breathless as a blush colored her cheeks, making the new-grass green of her eyes more brilliant. If she noticed his scar, she was too well-mannered to mention it, but he did observe her gaze dart back to the patch of smooth, discolored skin as she handed him a cup of coffee and stepped off the porch. “Lou and Wynn are waiting in the barn for you. They’ll show you what to do.”

  Eamon watched her as she beat a hasty retreat and started walking toward the henhouse. Marching, actually—the hem of her dark brown split skirt swirling around the tops of her tooled leather boots as she quickly crossed the yard, muttering to herself.

  He lifted the corner of his mouth a little … until she stopped and faced him once more, her gaze seeming to burn him as it traveled from his bare feet to the top of his head, and his halfhearted smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Breakfast will be ready by the time you’re done with the milking.” She tilted her head and gave him a tremulous smile, one that made his heart beat faster, though why he couldn’t begin to understand. He’d just met her yesterday, for pity’s sake. Not even twenty-four hours ago. And she might or might not be married!

  Maybe he was just as startled by her as she had been by him.

  “If you need anything laundered, just leave it on the chair.”

  She gave him another beautiful smile, then disappeared behind one of the buildings, the dog, cats, and duck following behind her. He remained in the doorway, coffee cup in hand, just staring. Bringing the cup to his mouth, he took a sip and promptly burned his lip and tongue.

  That’s what you get for ogling the boss lady!

  He brought the cup to his mouth once more, but this time, blew on the hot brew before he sipped.

  Tonguing the slightly burned place on his lip, Eamon stepped back inside his room to get ready for the day. A few minutes later, he dropped his dirty laundry on the chair on his little front porch as instructed, then pushed open the barn door and stepped through, greeted by the warm smell of animals and hay. Pale sunlight streamed in through the windows, but a few lanterns had been lit to create a glow that reflected on four tall, galvanized canisters in the walkway between stalls. Like the stable, the barn was huge. It would have to be. There were a lot of animals—draft horses, sheep, and pigs, as well as the cows. The buckboard he’d seen the day before, as well as a buggy and a sleigh, was housed here, too.

  He greeted Traveler in one of the stalls near the door, rubbing the horse’s nose, promising to let him run in the field after breakfast before he turned his attention to the sixteen cows lined up in the middle of the barn, waiting to be milked. The calves were already outside in one of the pastures, waiting for their mamas. He could hear them bawling beyond the barn as he walked closer to the cows and spotted Lou squatted on a stool, his hands in constant motion, milk squirting into the pail beneath the cow’s udder.

  “You milk cows before?” the young man asked as he turned his head and noticed him. He twisted his hand a little and spurted milk at one of the kittens waiting patiently beside a bucket.

  “I have.” He didn’t lie, but it had been a long time ago … in another life—when he had been young and innocent, before guilt became his constant companion. He watched the boy. Lou had a nice, steady rhythm, which he didn’t break as he nodded toward Wynn, who was just putting his stool and two pails on the ground beside one of the other cows.

  “Wynn, would you show him where the stuff is and what to do?”

  “Sure. Come on back, Mr. MacDermott.”

  “Eamon, please.”

  The boy gave a nod and walked back the way he’d come in his loose-hipped gait, a gangly youth, all elbows and knees and long legs. Eamon would bet the boy hadn’t stopped growing either. Neither had Lou, for that matter.

  Eamon followed the young man to a small room at the back of the barn, opposite the one he’d been in yesterday. Instead of harnesses and halters and the other accoutrements for the draft horses, this room contained several three-legged stools, piles of small fluffy towels and washcloths in glass-fronted cabinets, and galvanized pails, like the one Lou filled. A large sink nestled beside a potbellied stove above a floor made of brick. Water simmered on top of the stove, steam rising toward the ceiling.

  “Grab a stool,” Wynn said, and handed him two pails, then walked over to the cabinet against the wall.

  Eamon looked at the pails. “Why two?”

  “One is for the milk. The other is for the warm water. We wash the cow’s udder with Granny’s special soap and dry it with one of these towels.” The boy took a towel, a washcloth, and a small square of soap from the glass-fronted cabinet and tossed everything at him one at a time. “Quincy’s rule. Not only is it healthier for the cow, but he says it calms them and they give more milk. I’m not sure if that’s true or not, because I’ve never milked cows anywhere else, but I can tell you we get a lot of milk.” He grinned then, his lips spreading wide to stretch the beginnings of a mustache on his upper lip. The youth grabbed the ladle out of the vat of water on top of the potbellied stove. “You’ll have to mix this with some from the pump. You don’t want it too hot. And you don’t need much in your bucket. We get fresh water for each cow. Clean towels and washcloths, too. No sense spreading anything.”

  Eamon shook his head as the boy slipped out of the room and walked to his waiting cow. He didn’t remember doing anything like this when he milked cows before, but then, it had been years. Many years. And certainly not on a farm like this.

  He placed the towel, washcloth, and soap on a small table near the sink; prepared his water, making sure it wasn’t too hot; then grabbed everything including his stool; and sauntered down the aisle toward the waiting cows. He dropped the stool and maneuvered it into place with his foot, then sat with his pails beside him. The towel, washclo
th, and soap went in his lap as he studied the udder before him, not quite sure where to begin. Or how. It had been longer than he thought. He turned slightly and studied Wynn’s actions, then mimicked them, washing the cow’s udder, then drying it with the towel. He dropped the used washcloth into the pail, then grabbed the other and moved it into place. Once again, he sat back and studied the cow in front of him.

  “It helps if you talk to them,” Lou offered, his voice disembodied by the big animal hiding him.

  “Talk to them?”

  “You talk to your horse, don’t ya?” Wynn asked, then nodded toward the bovine. “Same thing. That one there is Nessie.”

  Well, of course he talked to his horse. Didn’t everyone talk to their horses? He and Traveler held long discourses on any subject under the sun. Traveler may not participate in the conversation with words, but he whinnied or snorted in the appropriate places. He was a smart horse. Nessie, however, was a cow. He’d never spoken to a cow before. “What should I say to her?”

  “The same kinda things you say to your horse. It’s not the words, but the tone. You can call her the biggest pain in the a—rump, as long as you say it in a nice voice. Oh, and don’t forget to breathe. If you’re nervous, they’ll feel it.” The boy shrugged, then grinned. “Got no scientific proof of that. It’s my own theory and experience.”

  Eamon took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He made himself more comfortable and said, “Good morning, Nessie,” in the same tone he used when speaking to Traveler, then grabbed hold of a teat and squeezed like Lou and Wynn were doing. Nothing happened. No milk spurted into the pail.

  Nessie shuffled her hooves a little, then turned her head and looked at him. He could have sworn she was laughing at him and his feeble attempts to milk her.

  Eamon flushed, the heat rising up to his face, then smirked at the cow. “Wouldn’t it be easier for both of us if I placed the pail where it needs to be and you just … gave me the milk?”