The Horseman's Frontier Family

by Karen Kirst

  He pointed a chubby finger in the tent’s direction.

  “Is she making breakfast?”

  Walt shook his head, folded his hands and pressed them against his cheek.

  “She’s still asleep?”

  When he nodded and wandered over to the neat piles of tack—saddles, blankets, bridles and more—Gideon tamped down panic. “Uh, maybe you should go back to your tent. Your ma will worry if she wakes and finds you gone.”

  The little boy ignored his suggestion, touching a hesitant finger to this item and that, bending at the knees, peering closer. Inquisitive as well as intelligent.

  And without a father. Just as Gideon had been at that age.

  Drake Montgomery’s image resurfaced in his mind. Gideon could clearly recall the expression of hatred, of reckless resolve that drove him to push himself and his mount beyond their limits. He could still hear the frantic pleas for help as he lay writhing in pain. What kind of man had he been? What kind of husband? Father?

  Taking another swallow of the bitter coffee, Gideon dislodged the misplaced curiosity. Not his business, remember?

  Still standing in the same spot, he watched as Walt drifted over to the corner where the building tools were stacked. He picked up a hammer, tentatively testing its weight. When the boy lifted a beseeching gaze to him, Gideon was hurtled backward in time, to before the war that divided the nation and ripped his father from him, to a time when things were simple and good. His father had taught him how to pound nails into wood. How proud Gideon had been to be his helper.

  Spurred by poignant memories, he set the mug on the ground and, retrieving a discarded wood round, located the box of nails. He could spare a few minutes for a lonely little boy, even if it meant resurrecting pain that would devour him from the inside out if he let it.

  * * *

  Evelyn woke with the distinct feeling that something was off. But what? She lay motionless for a long moment, not breathing, trying to pinpoint the source of her unease. Breathing. Walt’s soft breathing wasn’t filling the tent’s cramped interior. The absence of it aroused all sorts of dire imaginings.

  Bolting upright, she called his name, lifting the blue-and-yellow-swirled quilt even though it was obvious he wasn’t here.

  She shoved her arms into the thin cotton housecoat, tugged on her boots without bothering to lace them. Stumbling outside, she searched both sides of the stream. The fields were empty. Tethered to the nearest tree, Petra turned her head and let out a welcoming bawl.

  “Walt?”

  Where could he be? Surely not with Gideon. To a shy kid like him, the man must seem like a giant. A big, brawny, intimidating giant. Clutching her housecoat lapels, she strode across the field, dewdrops wiping away yesterday’s dust from her boots.

  The steel-swathed-in-velvet voice slowed her steps. Patience marked Gideon’s words as he explained the safest way to wield a hammer. Amazing how soothing and, yes, even pleasant, he could sound when he wasn’t defensive or tense or angry as he was around her.

  Edging to the doorway, she caught sight of man and boy crouched close together. Walt had a tight grip on the handle, a look of intense concentration on his face, lower lip tucked in tight. The cowboy’s capable-looking hands gently covered his, mimicking the movements.

  Oh, Walt. Evelyn’s throat constricted. Anyone could see he was soaking up the attention.

  She must’ve made a sound, because Gideon’s head whipped up, the force of his gray gaze slamming into her. While his voice and expression were easy, his eyes told a different story. Misery was reflected there. Desolation. Whatever had happened to this man had come close to destroying him, had robbed him of hope and life and trust.

  Blinking, he severed eye contact, then dipped his head. “Look who’s here.”

  Walt’s blinding grin sidetracked her train of thought. How long had it been since he’d been this animated? Silently animated, she amended, drawn farther into the sunny space. This time when Gideon looked at her, his eyes were clear of turmoil as they did a slow inspection of her hair, her clothing and her unlaced boots.

  Heat traveled to her cheeks. They were practically strangers, and here she was in her nightclothes, her hair arranged in a haphazard, sleep-tousled braid.

  Tightly bunching the material at her neck, she held out her hand to her son. “Let’s leave Mr. Thornton to his work, sweetheart.”

  This suggestion did not sit well with Walt, who jutted his chin at a stubborn angle.

  “I don’t mind if he stays a little longer,” Gideon said, surprising her. “We’re not quite finished with our lesson.”

  Finished or not, Evelyn had to stamp out the adoration taking root in Walt’s eyes. He could not be allowed to become attached to her family’s sworn enemy.

  “You’ll have to finish it later.”

  Pushing to his feet, Gideon approached, a defensive slope to his broad shoulders. “What’s the problem, Evelyn?” He spoke quietly. “Surely you don’t believe a few minutes in my company will sully your son?”

  She fought the urge to take a step back. He was too close, his manly scent—a combination of campfire and leather—luring her closer. The wide, solid planes of his chest looked like the perfect place of refuge, a place to rest her head and, for a brief moment, give up control. Lean on someone else’s strength. The sweetness of that prospect had her swaying toward him.

  His sleek brows furrowed in response.

  “I—” She scrambled for something sensible to say, stunned at herself. Gideon Thornton was the last person on earth she should be seeking support from.

  Liar. Thief. Adversary.

  Gentle. Patient. Kind.

  Before she could unravel her thoughts, he clamped his jaw. “No need to say anything else. Your opinion of me is quite clear.” He motioned for Walt. “Breakfast time, kiddo. Go help your ma.”

  The joy leached from Walt’s face. Small shoulders drooping, he trudged across the dirt floor. Indecision knotted her insides. Was she wrong to interrupt? Of course she didn’t actually think Gideon posed a threat to her son, but a lifetime of warnings could not easily be brushed aside.

  Hunkering down to Walt’s level, she took his hand and caressed a thumb over his soft skin. “How would you like to help me make flapjacks?”

  He kicked up a shoulder. Dug the rounded toe of his boot in the reddish dirt.

  “I found our crock of maple syrup. That would taste good on top, don’t you think?”

  He nodded, but no smile appeared. He didn’t want to leave Gideon. Swallowing a sigh, she shot the cowboy a parting look, which he missed because he’d already turned away to tidy up the space. Judging from his ruler-straight spine and careful movements, he wasn’t any happier than Walt was.

  On the walk back to the campsite, one disconcerting question drummed through her mind. How could someone so distasteful, so despicable—according to her brothers—treat her son better than his own father had?

  Even if her husband were around to defend himself, he wouldn’t see the need to answer to her or anyone else. Drake had been the center of his own universe. His goals and his comforts were all that had mattered. Whenever she’d asked him to pay more attention to their son, he’d shrugged her off. A toddler isn’t worth my time. When he’s old enough to understand grown-up stuff, then I’ll take him under my wing. Infuriating, foolish man. He died not knowing the treasure he’d rejected.

  Sitting on a low stool at Petra’s side, she situated Walt between her knees and showed him how to direct the milk into the pail at their feet. His initial hesitation gradually faded, and when the cow’s tail swished against his ear, he giggled. The carefree laughter, like a bubbling spring, made her yearn for more. To hear him say “Mama” and “I love you.” To hear him sing again in his pure, lighter-than-air voice.

  Theo had warned her not to push him
, and she’d taken his advice. It hadn’t been easy. Living with this unnatural silence, wondering if he’d ever speak again, had filled her with troubling anger. This was Drake’s fault. She wanted to rant and rave and vent her frustration at a dead man. What did that say about her as a person?

  “All done,” she said, masking the unpleasantness boiling inside. “Good job, sweetie. Now let’s go make flapjacks. I’m hungry as a bear, aren’t you?”

  By the time the fluffy cakes were stacked in trenchers with a hefty slathering of syrup, Walt’s earlier unhappiness was forgotten. He dug into the meal with gusto. With logs for seats and no table to speak of, they ate with the trenchers in their laps, the great outdoors their dining room. Couldn’t ask for a nicer view. The birds whistling overhead and the rush of water were nice touches. However, she could do without the pesky flies.

  Her gaze drifted to the stable, where Gideon had his head bent to an unknown task. He hadn’t worked on the walls so far this morning, despite the fact there was a pile of logs behind the structure ready for use. Unusual that he’d chosen to erect the animals’ shelter before his own. If his cabin had already been built, would he have given up his living quarters for them? Not for her, but for Walt? The question was an unnecessary one but interesting. If not for his purchase of Petra, she would’ve said outright that Gideon Thornton giving up his home for the likes of her was about as likely as a wolf giving up his prey. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  Chapter Five

  Gideon was in the middle of assembling the pulley system when an unexpected sound mingled with the birdsong, swelling above the horses’ nickers and the breeze rippling through the high grass. Evelyn. Singing. Her smoky voice belted out a lively tune, one he didn’t recognize, in a language he didn’t understand. Her playful tone told him this was a happy song, maybe even a silly one.

  Unable to resist a peek, he set aside the rope coil and wheel and, standing, went to lean against the half wall. At the stream cleaning their breakfast dishes, she serenaded the boy in an attempt to draw him out. And although Walt smiled and bobbed his head, he didn’t join in.

  Yearning for what he could never have captured him in its torturous grip, and he wished them far from there. Resentment curdled his stomach. Why did they have to intrude upon his much-needed solitude?

  “I see you have company,” an accented voice said from the doorway.

  Gideon half turned, not surprised his friend had managed to approach without his realizing it. Lars Brinkerhoff might have been Danish by birth, but his years with the Cheyenne had molded him into an adept hunter and trapper, able to blend in with his surroundings.

  “You spoke to Elijah and Clint, I take it.”

  “Ja, that I did.” The big Dane nodded, cornflower-blue eyes bright with concern in his tanned face. “I am sorry to hear about this complication.”

  Lars joined him at the wall, his arms poised along the roughened edge. He tipped his head in Evelyn’s direction. “Beautiful song.”

  Gideon didn’t comment.

  “Is the widow Russian?”

  “Her ancestors are.” He dragged his gaze from her animated form to the man at his side. “Do you understand what she’s saying?”

  “She is singing about a cat and mouse who, though natural enemies, have become the best of friends.”

  Enemies who became friends. He’d been right. It was a ridiculous song.

  “Any news on the cause of the Ramsey fire?” He sought to get his mind off the intriguing widow and onto more neutral matters.

  Lars frowned deeply. “Clint and I sifted through the debris and found a kerosene container. Someone set that fire, no doubt about that.”

  It was beginning to look as if the recent string of accidents weren’t accidents at all. They must be connected somehow. “Who would do this and why?”

  His friend’s beefy hand settled heavily on his shoulder. “We are going to get to the bottom of this mystery. In the meantime, be on your guard. We have not been able to establish a pattern, which means any one of us is a potential target.”

  Gideon ground his back teeth together. His future was already being threatened by Mrs. Evelyn Montgomery. Now he had an unknown menace to worry about?

  “There is nothing to be done in this moment, but there is plenty we can do about your animals’ shelter. Winona is not expecting me for her language lesson until midafternoon. I will help you, but first, why not introduce me to your land mate?”

  Land mate? While Lars’s English was very good, he had a funny way of phrasing things.

  “Let’s get this over with,” he muttered, leading the way to her tent site.

  The dishes already cleaned and put away, she was now reciting the alphabet. As they drew closer, he saw that Walt was tracing letters in the dirt with a stick.

  Evelyn lifted her head, her eyes going wide at the sight of his companion. He recalled his first impression of Lars, who, with his shoulder-length blond hair, fringed buckskin clothing and moccasin-style boots, looked like no one he’d ever seen.

  Swiftly rising, she stepped in front of her son, blocking him from view. The protective lioness guarding her cub.

  “Evelyn, this is Lars Brinkerhoff, a good friend of mine.” His only friend in Brave Rock, as Gideon wasn’t one to seek out relationships. From their first meeting shortly after their arrival in this unsettled slice of Oklahoma territory, Lars had gone out of his way to strike up a friendship. “Lars, meet Mrs. Evelyn Chaucer Montgomery.”

  He wasn’t sure why he’d inserted her maiden name. His brothers would’ve told Lars about her connection to the Chaucer men, who’d made it their mission to poison the townsfolk’s minds against them.

  The Dane extended his hand. Evelyn reluctantly allowed hers to be swallowed by his oversize grip, apprehension snaking across her features. Of course she would be uncertain. She was a woman alone with her enemy and his friend.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Montgomery.”

  Her dark eyes shot to Gideon. The flash of vulnerability made him want to reassure her that she had nothing to fear. A pointless exercise, since she insisted on suspecting him of nefarious motives.

  “Lars and his sister, Katrine, came over from Denmark ten years ago. They attend Elijah’s church.”

  “’Tis true.” The blond smiled broadly and, still clasping her hand, patted it reassuringly. “We would be honored if you and your little one would join us for services.”

  “I—I appreciate the invitation.” Evelyn tugged her hand free. “I’ll give it some thought.”

  Lars addressed him. “Gideon, you must promise to accompany Mrs. Montgomery if she wishes to attend.”

  He scowled. The Dane knew perfectly well Gideon hadn’t once stepped foot in Lije’s tent chapel. How could he, when doing so would only prod to life the latent rage inside him? God could’ve spared his daughter. That He hadn’t still hurt so deeply Gideon couldn’t even begin to process it. Instead, he boxed up his feelings and locked them up tight, hidden from the daylight, left to fester and spoil in the black caverns of his soul.

  A suspicion wormed its way into his thoughts. Evelyn Montgomery was a beautiful woman, an exotic orchid among commonplace daisies. And she was available. Could Lars be interested in her?

  So what if he is? A marriage between the two would solve your problem. She wouldn’t be after his land anymore.

  But what about Winona Eaglefeather? When the Cheyenne woman came to Brave Rock in search of her runaway nephew, Dakota, Lars was able to communicate with her and help her locate the boy. And now that she and Dakota had decided to stay, he was teaching her English. To anyone watching the two adults interact, it was clear they’d grown close. Gideon got the impression his friend possessed deep feelings for the Native American beauty, but their differences held him back.

  “Gideon?” Lars prompted, expr
ession expectant.

  Do the right thing.

  “I suppose I could. If she makes up her mind to attend.”

  While Lars smiled with satisfaction and Evelyn stared as if he’d suggested something scandalous, Gideon wanted to call the words back. What in the world had possessed him to agree? He absolutely could not go. If Evelyn surprised him by agreeing to Lars’s invitation, he’d deliver her to the church and wait outside to escort her home.

  He knew his continued absence bothered Elijah, and he hated to cause him grief. But he couldn’t go for his brother. And he certainly wouldn’t go for her.

  * * *

  Evelyn handed the frog back to Walt with a distracted smile. She’d joined him in the stream while the rabbit stew she’d prepared for lunch simmered over hot coals. The cool water washing over her feet and ankles felt delicious in this sweltering heat. Modesty wasn’t an issue since Gideon and his unusual friend were engrossed in their work half a field away. Besides, she didn’t care what they thought about her.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she caught sight of Mr. Brinkerhoff mounting his horse and lifting a hand in wordless goodbye. They’d accomplished a lot in a short amount of time. The stable walls now reached Gideon’s shoulders.

  Leaving the water, she quickly pulled on her stockings and boots, worked the large knot in her skirt free, and waited until the cotton cascaded to the ground to go and check the stew. When she lifted the lid, the thick broth’s succulent aroma teased her nose. Again her gaze drifted to the stable where Gideon was still hard at work. The man had no time to prepare a decent meal. And she hadn’t properly thanked him for Petra....

  Acting before she could talk herself out of it, she procured a pewter bowl from her kitchenware trunk and ladled a large portion of the stew into it. “Walt.” She waited for him to look over at her. “I’m going to speak with Mr. Thornton. Don’t wander off, okay?”

  Nodding, he returned his attention to the frog cradled in his palm.