The Horseman's Frontier Family

by Karen Kirst

The closer she got to her destination, the harder her heart worked to keep up with the blood tumbling through her veins. Calming and refreshing were not words she associated with their interactions. Gideon Thornton possessed the singular ability to irritate her with a mere look. Was it too much to hope this visit would proceed differently than their previous ones?

  When she entered the rectangular structure through the double-wide opening, he was in the midst of hoisting a log onto the eastern side wall. Biceps bulging, forearms stiff with tension, he tugged a thick rope toward the floor, thereby lifting the log up into the air. His walnut-colored hair stuck to his temples and nape. Sweat trickled down the side of his neck and disappeared beneath the navy blue shirt collar. Scuffed boots planted far apart in the dirt, his muscled thighs strained the worn-in denim.

  Evelyn stood mesmerized by this extraordinary display of strength. Breath locked in her lungs. She remained motionless, afraid to break his concentration lest the log come crashing down on him. It took about five minutes to complete the task. In between testing both ends to check the sturdiness, he flicked her a hooded glance, and she realized he’d been aware of her presence from the second she arrived.

  The pewter warm against her palms, she raised her hands to draw attention to her offering. “I brought lunch. Do you like rabbit stew?”

  Stepping down from the low stool on which he stood, he whipped off the deerskin gloves and stuffed them in his pocket. His gaze zeroed in on the bowl, then rose to her face. “I’m not a picky eater.”

  When he made no move toward her, she chose to go to him. Up close, his gray eyes contained a startling wariness. What had he to fear from her? “I assure you, it’s perfectly safe to eat. I don’t make it a habit of slipping poison in my food.”

  Those refined eyebrows lifted in surprise. “How about we test that theory?” Taking the bowl and spoon, he scooped up meat, onion and broth and brought it to her lips.

  Stunned, her lips parted automatically, which he no doubt took as a sign of compliance.

  Not a single part of him touched her, yet disturbing awareness danced along her nerve endings, resurrecting a longing for connection, for companionship and, yes, that dirty word, romance. One would’ve thought living with three brothers and, later, a husband who despised her would’ve put such naive notions to death. But there it was. Deep down where she guarded her most vulnerable secrets, she yearned to be wooed and courted, dreamed of being that one special person in a man’s life. She wanted to be loved. Truly loved for the person she was inside.

  Drake had admired her physical appearance, but the attraction had faded soon after the reality of married life set in.

  She swallowed with difficulty.

  Gideon’s gaze was locked on her mouth, uneasiness marring his brow. Taking the spoon and bowl with him, he executed a swift turn and crossed to the corner, where he lowered himself on the stool and concentrated on the stew.

  Sucking in a balancing breath, Evelyn moved in the opposite direction, knowing it was unwise to linger. The logical thing to do would be to return to her tent and leave the taciturn cowboy to his own company. But while he didn’t seem to mind solitude—indeed, seemed to prefer it—she missed teasing and debating with her brothers. Talking to herself wasn’t entertaining in the slightest.

  Surveying the neatly stacked walls, she touched a hand to the wood, careful not to get a splinter. A rather long structure, the stable would be big enough for six or seven stalls. Four horses currently occupied the corral.

  “You aren’t planning a typical homestead here, are you? Most settlers get seeds in the ground before starting on shelters, yet I’ve seen no sign of turned earth.” She pivoted toward him.

  Head bent, he said between bites, “My plans are for a horse ranch. Ranching is all I know.”

  “How do you plan to feed yourself? Don’t you like vegetables?”

  He raised his head at that, and his cool gray eyes were flat. “I don’t have a family to worry about. It’s just me. I could care less what I eat, as long as it’s filling.”

  Evelyn was suddenly curious why he didn’t have a wife. Why there weren’t smaller versions of Gideon Thornton running around. She knew better than to ask such a personal question. Even if she hadn’t glimpsed pain in him, she recognized his desire for privacy.

  “I will say,” he continued as his spoon scraped the bowl, “this is one fine stew. You’re a good cook.”

  Despite the fact he’d already established his low standards where food was concerned, Evelyn couldn’t ignore the pleasure his simple praise evoked. Such compliments were rare. Sure, her brothers grunted their thanks as they dug into the meals she prepared, but actual words of affirmation were few and far between.

  Smoothing damp palms along her skirt front, she lowered her gaze to the reddish dirt at her feet. “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you for sharing with me.”

  He rose and walked toward her, every step a warning striking her brain. Danger. Keep away. Any kind word at this point in her life was a heady thing. Coming from this man, it had the power to generate traitorous thoughts. His rugged appeal, the restrained energy rippling along his muscles, the scent of leather and campfire clinging to his skin and hair drew her.

  Gideon Thornton is off-limits.

  As he transferred the empty bowl to her hands, his warm, calloused fingers skimmed her knuckles. Sizzling heat penetrated bone and flesh. When she imagined what those hands would feel like cradling her face, she knew she had to act fast.

  “You’ve done a remarkable job here. It’s good to know my animals will have a solid shelter once you’re gone.”

  Breath hissed between his teeth. His jaw hardened to stone.

  Bull’s-eye. She was safe.

  “I’m not the one who’ll be leaving,” he said, his eyes narrowing to slits. “This is my land. I’ll do whatever it takes to hold on to it.”

  “Whatever it takes? Even if that means circumventing the law?”

  His hands fisted at his sides, he closed his eyes. His lips moved silently, as if he were ordering himself to be calm. Then his eyes bored into her. “You and your brothers can spread all the poisonous lies you want about me, but I know I’m no liar. I’m not a thief. And I don’t have to prove myself to you or anyone else in this town. The judge’s opinion is the only one that matters.”

  Evelyn attempted to absorb his words. Passion rang in his voice. Sincerity blazed in his eyes. He was either an adept actor...or he was telling the truth. And if he wasn’t lying, then someone else was.

  Chapter Six

  Long after darkness had descended and Walt had drifted off to sleep, Evelyn reclined beside the fire, gazing up at a blue-black sky studded with brilliant stars, her thoughts unsettled. Conflicted. If Gideon was telling the truth, that meant someone in her family was lying.

  While she couldn’t discount his conviction, the man was a complete stranger. She knew next to nothing about him. What she did know came secondhand, and none of it was positive. She loved and trusted her brothers. And Drake... Well, he wasn’t around to tell his story, was he?

  Above the sound of the wood crackling and spitting came a soft thwack, thwack. Easing to a sitting position, she cast about for the source. What was that noise? It came again from the direction of Gideon’s tent. She stood and, tucking her blouse into her waistband, peeked in on Walt. He looked peaceful as he slept, his hands nestled underneath his cheek. She wavered in the doorway. Should she ignore the sound?

  Thwack.

  Now that her curiosity was roused, there would be no rest until she discovered whether the cause was man or beast. Preferably not beast.

  On her right moonlight glinted off the ribbon of trickling water. On the far side of the stream, impenetrable blackness cloaked the rolling fields. Up ahead the fire cast orange fingers on the elms and cottonwoods t
owering over his tent. There was no sign of him.

  “Gideon?” She spoke quietly, praying he wasn’t already asleep. Tiptoeing closer, she noticed the tent flaps were still up. His pallet was empty.

  When the sounds came again in rapid succession, she ventured past the copse a little ways. A kerosene lamp swinging from a low branch outlined Gideon’s unmistakable form. Slung across his back was a quiver of arrows, and in his hand he held a sleek bow. The ankle-high grass swallowed up her footfalls as she approached him. She watched wide-eyed as he brought the bow up and, anchoring it against his shoulder, fired off a shot at the paper target attached to the trunk twenty yards away. The tip sank into the wood like a knife sinking into butter. It joined five others in the black circle.

  Lowering the bow, he twisted his torso in her direction. “Has no one ever told you not to sneak up on an armed man?”

  Ignoring his forbidding expression, she shrugged. “I wasn’t worried.” Just as he’d known she was in the barn earlier, her presence here hadn’t gone unnoticed. His senses were honed to perfection.

  She took in his rumpled appearance—shirttails hanging out, buttons undone to reveal a white undershirt stretched across his chest and flat stomach—and decided sleep had evaded him, too. Shortly after their exchange at lunch, he’d hitched up his wagon and left without a goodbye. He must’ve visited the barber in town, for his hair was neatly trimmed and his cheeks smooth, the spicy scent of shaving cream teasing her nostrils. Faint lamplight cast his features in sharp relief, mysterious angles and shadows. His mouth looked like sculpted marble. Perfectly proportioned yet hard and cold and emotionless.

  Suppressing a shiver, she forced her feet to approach him. Nodding at the target, she said, “You’re good. You make it seem effortless, but I’m guessing it requires an inordinate amount of skill.”

  He stalked to the tree and removed the arrows. Replacing all but one in the quiver, he retraced his steps and stopped in front of her. “It’s a good tension reliever.” His wolflike gaze roamed her face, then her hair, which she’d released from its pins for the evening. The soft waves spilled over her shoulders. “You look tense. Why don’t you give it a try?”

  She instinctively retreated a step. “I don’t think so.”

  Trying new things meant the possibility of failure. She’d learned not to risk the condescension. The stinging criticism. Easier to stick with what she knew and those tasks she could perform well.

  With a terse nod, he said, “Suit yourself.”

  Then he pivoted and, without hesitation, fired off an arrow so fast her eyes could barely track it. Gideon moved with fluid grace and strength, toned muscles working together in a cohesive sequence born of hours of practice.

  “Who taught you to do that?” She couldn’t mask her awe.

  “Lars.”

  “But you haven’t known him very long. Your level of skill...”

  “I practice a lot,” he murmured without looking at her. Pacing away, he lifted a jar of water to his mouth. The light glanced off his golden throat as he swallowed.

  If shooting arrows helped ease his tension, and he was this good already, then he must be dealing with a lot of anxiety.

  Fathomless eyes met hers. “Is there something in particular you wanted, Evelyn?”

  She should forbid him to say her name. The way he said it—all hushed and reverent as though she were a queen or something—made her want to touch the top of her head to see if there really was a crown up there.

  How utterly ridiculous, she chastised herself.

  Still, she wouldn’t let him run her off just yet. She wasn’t ready to return to her lonely fire and even lonelier bed.

  “Don’t you think it’s strange that in all of Oklahoma territory, both of our families chose to settle in the same start-up town?”

  “You don’t want my opinion on that, and I know I don’t want yours.” Again he snatched an arrow and, after fitting it against the bow, let it fly. Thwack.

  “I’m curious. Why did the illustrious Thorntons choose to take part in the land rush? Wasn’t there enough land and wealth to go around in Kansas?” she baited him.

  The fact that they had financially benefited from the war while most of their neighbors had suffered great hardship was one of the chief reasons for her parents’ hostility.

  Grief gripped his features. “We were ready for a change,” he pushed out on a heavy sigh. “A fresh start.”

  Questions bubbled up to the surface. What had happened in Kansas to make him so bereft? So closed off? So tense?

  Don’t ask, Evelyn. No matter what misfortune he’s endured, you can’t afford to feel sorry for him. Sympathy will only land you in a heap of trouble.

  Feigning a yawn, she mumbled, “It’s late. I’ll leave you to your target practice.”

  Turning, she was a few paces away when he spoke.

  “Good night, Evelyn. Sweet dreams.”

  She faltered. With a wince and a mental shake, she forged on ahead. Sweet dreams? On the contrary, she feared her dreams that night would consist of a certain cowboy calling her name.

  * * *

  Gideon scrubbed the scrambled-egg remains from his cast iron skillet, unable to block the sounds of Evelyn’s voice and Walt’s soft giggles floating downstream. Like him, they were finishing up breakfast. But while their meal was a shared experience, he’d eaten alone. In silence. A silence that didn’t use to bother you, he reminded himself. Not until they came along and invaded your territory.

  Their presence only served to remind him of what he’d lost, what he could never recover.

  Unbidden, images of his and Susannah’s modest one-room cabin assaulted him, memories of past mornings spent at the breakfast table with his wife and daughter. While Susannah hadn’t been at her best at that early hour, Maggie had awoken with a smile and bright sparkle in her blue eyes, eager for the day’s adventures. His little girl had been generous with her hugs and kisses and declarations of love.

  Shutting his eyes tight, Gideon shook his head to dislodge the memories. Where was his ironclad control? Remembering only brought him pain and a piercing longing that refused to be assuaged. His daughter was gone. She was never coming back.

  With a growl, he flung the skillet to the ground and strode for the stable. He needed a distraction. He needed action, tasks to occupy his mind and hands. Hard work and the blessed exhaustion it brought was the only relief from this incurable grief. A shame the relief was temporary.

  He had almost reached the corral when a blur of brown and white barreled into his path, skidding to a stop before him and kicking up bits of dirt and grass. Walt. His small chest heaving, his hair mussed, he gazed up at Gideon with shy appeal. He pointed to the horses making their way to the fence.

  No, God, I can’t— He halted the mental plea, convinced asking God for help was an exercise in futility.

  Where was Evelyn? Surely she would swoop in and rescue her son from his objectionable company?

  Craning his head, he caught her staring in their direction. Good. He waited for her to put down the stack of dishes and storm over to rescue Walt. Only she didn’t. Instead, she waved and turned back to her task.

  His jaw dropped. Now she was extending him her approval? Now, when his insides felt as if they were being ripped apart each time he peered into Walt’s innocent eyes, and he wished with everything in him it were Maggie standing before him?

  The boy’s tiny fingers pressed into his palm and tugged. Careful to blank his expression, Gideon reluctantly looked down. Walt was pointing to the horses again, his curious brown gaze fixed on Star.

  The boy is hurting and can clearly use some extra attention, a voice inside him prodded. Not only had his father been ripped from his life, but this dispute had separated him from his uncles. No matter Gideon’s opinion of the Chaucer men, he couldn’
t deny they appeared to genuinely care for the boy. He’d witnessed the affection that had passed between the gruff men and Walt that first day.

  He cleared his throat. “Would you like to help me water the horses?”

  A shy grin curved his mouth, and his head bobbed up and down.

  “Let’s go get some pails and fill the trough.”

  Walt followed him to the stable and accepted his pail with a bounce of excitement. How that emotion didn’t spill over into speech he hadn’t a clue. A five-year-old boy who didn’t talk was downright unnatural. Pitiful, too.

  Gideon determined then to question Evelyn—his no-questions rule be hanged.

  They made several trips to the stream. Walt carried his half-filled pail with pride, and if most of the water landed in the dirt beneath the trough, Gideon pretended not to notice. Evelyn at last made her way over as he was introducing Walt to Peanut, a gentle mare he’d acquired from another settler the day before the land rush.

  Turning, he was arrested by the unguarded contentment on her striking features. Her molasses eyes were bright with pleasure, her generous mouth curved in a loving smile. Her focus was all on her son, of course. He knew the second her attention switched to him, the veil of distrust would descend, eclipsing her radiance. It deflated a man’s ego to admit this was his effect on women. Evelyn isn’t just any woman, remember? Since childhood her head has been filled with lies about you.

  “Good morning,” he tossed out, just to test his theory. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

  Immediately, her chin went up. Her shoulders squared as if for battle. When her expressive eyes swiveled to meet his gaze, the light of happiness in the brown depths had been extinguished. Her pink lips firmed as she obliged him by taking note of the puffy clouds floating in a cerulean sky.

  “I believe it will be much like yesterday. And the day before that.”

  “You prefer rain, then?”

  “I wasn’t complaining.” She met his gaze squarely. “Just making an observation.”

  The blousy sleeves of her mint-green shirt rippled in the breeze. Her luxurious mane had been tamed into an intricate braid, rogue tendrils shiny against the pastel-hued collar. The color agreed with her. She looked cool and refreshing, like a field of wildflowers after a spring rain. He’d noticed she only wore the required black when she went into town. Was it due to practical reasons? After all, she couldn’t very well do chores in that fancy dress day after day. Or did it go deeper?