Loving the Lawmen

by Marie Patrick

  Nessie continued to stare at him. She didn’t respond, though he knew she wouldn’t, nor did she just spontaneously drop milk into the bucket. Eamon inhaled deeply and tried again … and again, all under Nessie’s curious, mocking brown eyes. She was patient with him though and didn’t kick, although she could have.

  It took more than a few tries, but eventually, the rhythm of milking came back to him. A feeling of accomplishment accompanied the tentative squirts of liquid into the pail. One of the trio of kittens that had been watching—and waiting—next to Lou waddled over to him and sat, big yellow eyes on the milk making its way into the pail.

  Eamon glanced at the kitten. “Sorry, pal. None for you today. I’m lucky I’m getting it where it’s supposed to be.” The kitten mewed and watched for a long time, eyes focused on the pail. He licked at the milk already on the fur around his mouth, but Eamon concentrated on getting the milk in the bucket, ignoring the feline and his occasional meows until the kitten wandered toward Wynn across the aisle, willing to take his chances on another human.

  By the time Eamon moved on to his third cow, he had his own rhythm. True, he was slower than either Lou or Wynn, but in his own defense, it had been a long time. “What’s this one’s name?” he asked Lou as the boy emptied a pail of milk into the galvanized canister in the center aisle.

  Lou glanced at the cow and grinned. “Silly Boy.”

  “Silly Boy?”

  “It used to be Sally, but Gabby renamed her. She doesn’t seem to mind.” The young man shrugged and shuffled back to the little room to clean his buckets, get fresh water and towels, and begin again with another cow.

  They worked in companionable silence, the only sounds in the barn that of the cows’ hooves shuffling against the straw on the floor, the rhythmic spurts of milk into buckets, the soft murmur of words spoken to the animals. Peaceful. Soothing. Like the rest of Morning Mist Farms, as he’d discovered yesterday. Despite the number of people and the sometimes boisterous conversations, there was tranquility here he couldn’t deny. This place was different from anywhere he’d ever been. It wasn’t just the geography, although the farm was nestled in a natural Eden—bright sunshine and blue sky, meandering streams, lush green grass, towering trees, and mountains in the near distance—it was the people. Theo and her family. No wonder everything thrived here.

  Eamon took a deep breath and let it out slowly, his hands in constant motion.

  The barn door slid open, allowing more light to spill into the interior of the building. Quincy tugged off his gloves as he stepped inside. “How we doing, boys?”

  “Almost done, Pop. Got more milk today than yesterday.”

  “Excellent.” He rubbed his hands as he came farther into the barn. “I’ll take the cows to the back pasture today. Give them a change of scenery. Plus the grass is getting a little high back there.” He came even farther into the big room and stopped short. “Oh, Eamon, didn’t see you there.”

  Eamon gave him a nod, but his hands never stopped moving. He had found a comfortable rhythm and didn’t want to lose it. “Morning, boss.”

  The big man grinned, then moved a little closer, inspecting the contents of Eamon’s pail. “Good, good.”

  One of the kittens chose that moment to pounce on Quincy’s boot. “And good morning to you, little one.” He stooped and picked up the silver-and-gray-striped kitten, holding it close to his chest. He shook his finger, and the kitten immediately swiped at it with his paw. “Have you had enough milk today?” The kitten purred, then rubbed his milk-wet chin on Quincy’s finger.

  Eamon watched the man interact with the kitten and couldn’t help noticing the expression on his face.

  That’s what happy looks like. The thought rumbled through his head as he turned away. Long forgotten memories sprung free from the place in his heart where he kept them locked away, reminding him that he, too, had once been happy and as close to carefree as one could be and still be in the job he’d had. He glanced back at Quincy. The joy on his face hadn’t changed. If anything, his smile grew as the kitten snuggled closer. For reasons Eamon couldn’t explain, seeing Quincy’s expression made him a little jealous. It had been a long time since he had worn a similar look or felt that way.

  And whose fault is that? the little voice in his head, the one that sounded suspiciously like his brother, Kieran, demanded. You’re the one who walks away when things are going well. You’re the one not allowing yourself to be happy. I forgave you a long time ago. So did Mary. Teague and Brock, too. Isn’t it time you forgave yourself?

  With effort, Eamon forced his brother’s voice to shut up, then turned away and finished milking the cow. He rose from his stool, then poured the milk into the canister.

  “All right, little one. Get along.” Quincy placed the kitten on his own four paws and grinned when he scampered toward the closest pail, his already full belly making him waddle.

  When the milking was done and the last pail of creamy liquid had been poured into one of the four big canisters and two smaller jugs, Quincy placed the tops on them, then gave instruction to Lou and Wynn. “Roll those canisters into the spring house, boys, and start separating the cream from the milk in the canisters from yesterday. After that, you can wash up for breakfast.” The boys moved quickly—the sooner they completed the tasks, the sooner they could eat. He turned and tilted his head slightly, his eyes gleaming. “Help me clean up in here, would you?”

  “Of course.” Eamon reached for the stool he’d recently vacated, as well as the pails, towel, and washcloth, then followed Quincy, who did the same with the items the boys had left. After putting everything away—the towels and washcloths in a basket to be washed, pails left to soak in the vat of simmering water on top of the potbellied stove—the farm manager offered another invitation.

  “Walk with me, Eamon. You haven’t seen Morning Mist when it’s the prettiest. I love the mornings here. Nothing better than sitting on the back porch with a cup of coffee and my pipe and watching the world come alive.” He grinned. “Not that I get to do that often, but every once in a while … ”

  “Sure.” Eamon hooked his thumbs in his trouser pockets and trailed him from the little room.

  Quincy stood in the doorway and gave a short, sharp whistle followed by a longer one. Almost as one, the cows gave him their full attention. “Move it out, girls. We’re going to the back pasture today. Number eight to those of you who can count.”

  Eamon burst out in a chuckle at the thought cows could count, but as if they understood every word Quincy said, the cows moved out of the barn and strolled in a semiorderly fashion toward the farthest pasture without being led by either person or dog, then disappeared into the fine mist hovering over the landscape. He and Quincy walked behind the last cow, which just happened to be Nessie. She gave Eamon one final look, bovine humor still gleaming in her eyes, and sauntered through the gate. Quincy closed it behind her and folded his arms on the top rail.

  “Breathe in that fresh morning air, Eamon.” Following his own advice, Quincy pulled air into his lungs, the grin on his face widening. “Ever smell anything so wonderful or see anything so beautiful?”

  “No, sir, not in a very long time.”

  Quincy turned toward him, his brows raised but his grin still firmly in place. Curiosity danced in his eyes, and his mouth opened as if a question waited on the tip of tongue, trying to force its way over his lips, but he was too polite to ask. Then again, maybe he was as straightforward as Theo, blunt and direct. “Tell me about yourself, Eamon.”

  Eamon stiffened, just a little. He hated that invitation to blurt out his life’s story. “Not much to tell. I’ve been around. Done a few things.”

  A subtle change in the man’s complexion and the nearly imperceptible flicker of an eye, not enough to be noticeable to everyone, but for a man who spent most of his adulthood risking his safety, even his life, on reading a man’s expression, Eamon noticed and his muscles tightened. Quincy didn’t believe his noncommittal answer for
a minute.

  “You aren’t a farmer,” he stated rather baldly.

  “How could you tell?”

  “Oh, you milked the cows just fine.” Quincy gave a little chuckle. “A little rusty, like you hadn’t done it in a long time, but there’s something else.” His eyes shifted over him, before he focused on the cows in the pasture, and the fine mist hovering over the field once more. “You’re not a drifter, either. You may have been traveling, but—”

  Though he tried to remain casual and relaxed, the simple fact was that Quincy Burke guessed too much for Eamon’s comfort. He covered up his unease with another question. “What makes you say that?”

  The man shrugged. “Just a feeling,” he admitted, confirming for Eamon that he had no proof to back up his statements, just a hunch that probably settled low in his belly, the same sensation Eamon experienced quite often when something just wasn’t quite right. “You watch everything, constantly alert, like you’re waiting for trouble, like—”

  Quincy stopped speaking, just cut himself off and once more turned to study him. Eamon’s mouth dried. For a moment, he thought Quincy would see his guilt and blurt out his shame. Instead, the farm manager gave him a slight nod. “Morning Mist Farms is a wonderful place, Eamon. It can help you if you let it.” He adjusted his hat, pulling the brim a little lower. “Come on, let’s eat.”

  Relief surged through him that Quincy hadn’t prodded deeper. He wasn’t ashamed of his life as a U.S. Marshal. He’d been a good one, a fair one. No, that part of his life he could share, if and when the moment presented itself, but why bring it up if he didn’t have to? The inevitable question as to why he quit would open a Pandora’s box of misery, and he just didn’t want to relive that particular time in his life.

  Eamon followed the man down the path between enclosures, passing the sheep already munching on sweet grass, the fine mist hovering over the fields beginning to dissipate, giving way to the vibrant green that extended all the way to the tree line in the distance. Neither man spoke as they sauntered across the barnyard to the back porch. If Quincy had questions, he kept them to himself, but his last comment about letting the farm help him wormed into Eamon’s brain. Was such a thing possible? Could a place help him? Help him with what?

  He pushed the questions away. Firmly. Things in life didn’t happen like that. A place could never take away his guilt nor could it bring forgiveness or happiness.

  “You comin’?” Quincy’s voice intruded into his thoughts, and Eamon realized the man was waiting for him, holding the kitchen door open in invitation.

  His feet moved forward of their own accord, bringing him across the porch to join the farm manager. “Thanks.”

  His mouth began to water as soon as he stepped past Quincy and into the kitchen, the aromas rising into the air tantalizing his nose. His belly growled, though he’d eaten his fill last night and left the table groaning. Marianne and Granny were busy putting out the last of the food. There were flapjacks and eggs and crispy bacon. Fluffy, flaky biscuits. Triangles of toasted bread with four different types of toppings aside from butter—blackberry and strawberry jam, peach marmalade and apple butter, each jar labeled in neat handwriting Eamon assumed was Marianne’s. Granny’s twisted, gnarled fingers didn’t leave much confidence she could hold a pen in the way required to form the fancy loops and twisting curls of the letters. Of course, the handwriting could have been Theo’s.

  “Is there anything I can do?” he asked as he stood beside the chair he’d occupied last night at dinner. Without a word, Marianne handed him a pitcher of milk and pointed to the glasses beside the children’s plates. Eamon poured, then took his seat as everyone took their places at the table, except for Theo. He hadn’t seen her since she’d handed him his coffee earlier. Where was she? In the stable with the horses? Did she not join the family for breakfast?

  Thomas said grace, and as soon as everyone repeated “Amen,” plates and bowls were passed around, much the same way as the night before.

  “Since it’s Saturday and none of you have school, what’s on the agenda for today?” Quincy asked as he spread strawberry jam on a triangle of toast and slipped it onto Gabby’s plate.

  “We’ve been invited to a picnic,” Lou announced and grinned, showing white teeth with a small gap between the two front ones, then nudged Wynn with his elbow. “Lanie Tuttle invited Wynn personally. I think she’s sweet on him.”

  Wynn turned a deep red, the color staining not only his cheeks but his neck as well. “She is not!” He returned Lou’s nudge with a little more enthusiasm. Milk sloshed from the glasses. Indeed, the entire table moved a bit as the younger children started chanting “Wynn loves Lanie!”

  “I do not!” Wynn declared and elbowed Lou once more. More milk soaked the tablecloth as the table moved a little more. A coffee cup, thankfully empty, tipped over, and once again, Eamon was struck by how familiar the scene was and how much he missed his brothers. He’d been on the receiving end of that chanting and elbowing more than once before his father put a stop to it.

  “Besides, you’re sweet on Evangeline Davis. I saw you carrying her books!”

  In an instant, the chanting changed from Wynn and Lanie to Lou and Evangeline, accompanied by the thwack of spoons hitting the table.

  “All right,” Quincy cut into the antics with a stern, no-nonsense voice. “That’ll be enough now. Boys, behave. There is no jostling at the table.” He turned his attention on the younger children and raised one eyebrow. The chanting died immediately. He picked up the platter of flapjacks and began passing it around the table as Theo rushed into the kitchen and grabbed the coffeepot from the stove. “Sorry, I’m late. I was reading yesterday’s mail.”

  She turned to face Eamon and smiled. His world tilted, his breath stuck in his lungs. Maybe he was suffering from mountain sickness. He’d heard some people had headaches and dizziness, queasiness, and difficulty breathing from being too high up in the mountains. Perhaps he had a touch of that and his problems would disappear once he became accustomed to being in the Rockies again.

  “Mr. MacDermott,” Gabby whispered and tugged on his sleeve to gain his attention.

  “What?” He looked at the platter in his hand. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said and quickly plopped two flapjacks on her plate, then passed the platter to Charlotte, but that didn’t stop him from glancing up and studying Theo as she went around the table to fill the coffee cups for the adults. He stiffened when she came closer and leaned between him and Gabby while she poured the steaming brew. Eamon inhaled, catching the scent of roses that seemed to waft around her.

  He closed his eyes for a moment in an effort to get his world back on its axis and tried to concentrate on the conversation around him. The task was easier said than done.

  “Before you can go on your picnic, I promised Mr. Osuch we’d fix his roof.” Quincy addressed both his son and Wynn as he nodded his thanks to Theo when she filled his cup. “We can do that after we get back from our morning run into town.”

  “But Pop!” Lou stopped in the middle of dishing eggs onto his plate, his features a study in disappointment. That, too, was familiar as Eamon had given his father the same expression on more than one occasion.

  “We’ll be done long before your picnic.” The older man drizzled syrup on his flapjacks, then passed the small glass pitcher to his left into Charlotte’s hands. “It’s a small repair. Mr. Osuch has been a good neighbor to us. We are returning the favor.”

  Assured he wouldn’t miss any of the picnic, the boy finished piling fluffy scrambled eggs onto his plate and passed the platter along.

  “You and Wynn can take the buggy, as long as you promise to bring it back in one piece. No racing. And no seeing how many people you can fit inside at one time, either. Took me forever to fix that spring after the last time.” He waited until his son nodded in agreement before he asked, “What else have we got?”

  There were other plans, but none as exciting as the picnic the older boys would attend.


  Theo seated herself in her customary chair, which just happened to be directly across from him, and once again, Eamon found himself drawn to her, his attention captured by her luminous grass-green eyes and generous smile. His flapjacks turned to sawdust in his throat, despite the thick, sweet syrup he’d poured over the stack.

  Quincy cleared his throat. “Eamon, would you like to come into town with us this morning? I could drop you off back here before the boys and I head over to the Osuch place.”

  Eamon stilled, a strip of crispy bacon halfway to his mouth. He hadn’t been to Pearce in quite some time, and it would be nice if he had more tobacco for his father’s old pipe, but would the magic—though he hesitated to believe such a thing existed—of this place disappear as soon as he stepped off the property? He’d never been a superstitious man, never believed that a black cat crossing one’s path could bring bad luck or that walking under a ladder would do the same. He carried no good luck charm and never had, but the thought of leaving this farm—even for an hour or two—made him think twice. He’d only been here one day, not even a full twenty-four hours. How would he feel a couple weeks down the road when he had some money in his pocket and struck out on his own again? “I would love to … but I think Theo has plans for me and the horses.” He glanced in Theo’s direction to confirm his suspicions.

  She smeared peach marmalade over a triangle of toasted bread, then raised her gaze to his and took a dainty bite. After she chewed and swallowed, she said, “That I do. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “All rested?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good because you have a long day ahead of you.”

  She grinned then, and Eamon wondered if she was teasing him. He felt the corners of his mouth starting to lift in response to her—in response to all of them around the table as he caught tidbits of several different conversations. He couldn’t seem to help himself. It was this place and these people. “I’m ready anytime you are.”