Home by Morning

by Kaki Warner

  It had been almost two weeks since Thomas had left: not much time in male terms, but for a female as prone to worry as Ed was, it was a week and a half too long. Pru was her half sister, after all, and Thomas was family. Southerners doted on their families, and Ed fussed over hers like a mother hen.

  Declan was worried, too. The town wouldn’t be the same without Thomas. The Cheyenne added a sense of stability to the landscape, like a boulder in the middle of a slope—too big to move, and forcing you to go around it, but so solidly grounded it kept the rest of the slope from sliding away. In a similar fashion, his friends all made allowances for the Dog Soldier—staying clear when he was in a mood, or altering plans to accommodate his Indian ways. But you always knew he was there, rock-solid and immovable, watching your back.

  Being his friend had made Declan’s life richer. In fact, without Thomas, he might not have gotten through that hard time after his first wife had run off with her gambler and gotten attacked by an Arapaho war party. He trusted the Cheyenne with his life, his wife, and his children. But he needed him to get his ass back home so Ed would calm down. As soon as Pru returned, Declan wanted to get back to the ranch. Calves would be dropping any day, and he should be there to see that all went well. But if Ed got herself worked up about her sister and Thomas, he might never get home.

  “Pa?”

  Declan looked over to see his ten-year-old son, Lucas, standing in the doorway. “What are you doing still up?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  Declan wasn’t surprised. Lucas had a mind that never stopped. He nodded toward the chair beside his. “Come on, then. But only until Ed catches you.”

  The boy let the door close and came forward, looking frail and thin in the faint light of the crescent moon. He wasn’t big like fourteen-year-old R.D., or as robust as eleven-year-old Joe Bill. But he made up for it by having such a strong mind it sometimes felt like he could see straight into a person’s head.

  “Something worrying you, son?”

  A shrug.

  Declan didn’t push him. The boy would talk when he was ready.

  Lucas was the easiest of his sons. Never caused trouble, never goaded Ed into a temper like Joe Bill did, and hardly ever raised his voice, especially after his ma left them five years ago. Ed’s coming had loosened him up somewhat, but Declan still worried that he was too withdrawn.

  “You cold?” he asked, seeing the boy shiver in his nightshirt—something Ed had insisted on right off—“I don’t need a passel of naked boys running around like plucked chickens!” She’d also insisted they take baths most nights before they put them on.

  “A little.”

  “Come here.” Declan patted his knee.

  Lucas probably considered himself too old to sit in his father’s lap, but Declan was glad he climbed up anyway. The time for holding his sons was passing fast, and he welcomed the chance to do it before it was too late. “Pretty evening,” he said, pulling the boy back against his chest.

  Lucas nodded. “The last of the Worm Moon.”

  “Worm Moon?”

  “That’s what Indians call the full moon in March.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s when the ground thaws.” Lucas swiveled to face him, his face showing the excitement it always did when he talked about his bugs and reptiles and anything else that crawled, slithered, hopped, or flew. “Worms come up from where they’ve been sleeping all winter and leave casings on the ground. Some people think casings are poop, but they’re mostly dirt.”

  “You don’t say.”

  A vigorous nod. “That’s when robins come, too. They see the casings on the ground and start looking for a worm to show up. I saw two of them today.”

  “I’ll have to watch for them.”

  “Look by the creek,” he advised, and settled back against Declan’s chest. “They like water. Most birds do.”

  Declan smiled, amazed by all the facts the boy carried around in his head. He might not be as sturdy as his brothers, but Lucas had the gift of a curious brain and a fascination with how things worked. He was happiest when he was buried in a book, or drawing up plans for some invention he’d thought up, or tracking the smallest bug across the grass. Declan was never quite sure what was going on in his head, but he loved this quiet, sensitive boy with a fierceness that went beyond what he felt for his other sons.

  “The frogs are noisy tonight,” he ventured, hoping to keep him talking.

  “They’re waking up, too. They freeze over the winter, then thaw out when the dirt does.”

  Declan looked at him in surprise. “Freeze? Solid?”

  Lucas nodded. “That’s what Thomas told me.” He fidgeted for a minute, then asked in a worried tone, “When is he coming back?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What if he never does?”

  And there it was—the worry that had kept the boy up so late. After losing his ma at an early age, he fretted when people left, fearing that they wouldn’t come back. Plus, Lucas near-worshiped the Cheyenne, mainly because the Indian took the time to teach the curious boy all manner of things that couldn’t be found in the pages of his books. Declan’s wouldn’t be the only life diminished by the Indian’s absence. “He’ll come back if I have to drag him home by his topknot.”

  “He doesn’t have a topknot anymore.”

  “Then by his temple braids.”

  A snicker told Declan the boy was feeling better. “They’d probably break off. Human hair isn’t as tough as horse hair. Although an Indian’s hair is—”

  “That’s it. No more lessons. Go to bed.”

  As if on cue, Edwina appeared at the door. “There you are, Lucas. I thought your collection of beetles had carried you off.”

  “I’m not dung. But if we had enough ants, they might be able to carry me off. Or eat me. Did you know there are ants in Africa that eat everything in their path?”

  “Like R.D.?” Ed asked.

  “Worse. They could eat him down to bones in only a few minutes.”

  “No wonder you can’t sleep.” Declan lifted the boy off his numb thighs. “Go dream of pretty girls, instead of ants.”

  “Girls are stupid.”

  “And dung beetles aren’t?” Ed steered the boy into the kitchen, then glanced back with a grin. “I’ll be back for you later.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  A few minutes later, the house went dark. When she came back out, she wore a gown and robe, her hair falling around her shoulders in a tumble of light brown curls. She looked wild and mysterious in the glow of the moon, and so beautiful she didn’t seem real. Declan thought again about how lacking his life would have been if he hadn’t posted that ad in The Matrimonial News.

  He patted thighs that were just beginning to wake up. “Have a seat.”

  Smiling, she settled crosswise in his lap with the familiarity of many a night spent in his arms. With a sigh of contentment, she tipped her head back to kiss his chin, then squirmed until she got comfortable.

  Which made him less comfortable. Pulling her closer, he rested his cheek on hair that smelled like lemons and was so fine it caught in the stubble on his chin.

  After a while, his thighs went numb again, but he didn’t mind. He liked holding her. Liked knowing this emotional, courageous, and loving woman was his to hold whenever he wanted. Or whenever she would let him. “You cold?” he asked, sliding a hand along her hip.

  “Not really.”

  “You feel cold.”

  She snuggled closer, twisting to face him, which had the lucky benefit of making her more accessible to his roving hands. “Do I? Where?”

  “Here, for one.” He slipped his hand under her robe to stroke her belly through her gown. “And here.” He moved his hand higher. “But especially here.” His fingers grazed the tip of her breast.

>   “Oh,” she breathed, arching into his hand.

  He loved the way she responded to him, loved the sounds she made and how open she was to him. She never made him feel too big, or clumsy, or rough for gentle play. She had once even called him beautiful. But more often, she called him a big lump and punched his shoulder. He loved both.

  “You haven’t put on a peep show for me in months,” she complained, wiggling her bottom in a way that woke his thighs up fast.

  “It’s too cold.” He moved his hand to her other breast.

  “I’ll manage.”

  “I meant it’s too cold for me.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.” Lowering her hand between her hip and his belt buckle, she tested the ridge in his trousers. “You feel quite warm to me. But maybe I should check, just to be sure.” She began loosening the buttons on his Levi denims.

  His lungs stopped working. “Ed,” he warned when he could breathe again.

  “What?” Pushing the fabric aside, she reached into his drawers to give his John Thomas a squeeze that almost brought him out of the chair. And not only because her hand was cold.

  “The children are just inside,” he said through clenched teeth.

  She kissed his neck, then stretched to whisper in his ear, “I’d like for you to be inside, too.”

  The little hussy. His pulse hammered. His mind started to spiral. “You really want to do this . . . now . . . out here?”

  “Do what?”

  Before he could summon an answer, she gently raked her fingernails up his length, sending John Thomas into bobbing delight. “I’m about ten seconds,” he said hoarsely, “from tossing that gown over your head.”

  She gave a squeeze.

  Lights flashed behind Declan’s closed eyes.

  “I want my peep show first.” A gentle stroke. “And one teensy, weensy other little thing.”

  “You trying to manipulate me, wife?” Not that he minded her attempts. But he wanted her to know that he knew what she was up to, so that when he gave in, which he always did, she’d know it was because he wanted to, and not because she’d manipulated him into doing it. Mostly.

  “I might have been softening you up to ask a favor, but it seems to have had the opposite effect.”

  “As you knew it would.”

  She pulled her hand out of his trousers. Her saucy smile crumpled, and tears glistened in the moonlight. “I know you’re anxious to get back to the ranch.” She swiped a hand over her eyes and tilted her head back to see him better. “But could you do one thing before you go?”

  When she looked at him like that, he would do anything for her, whether her hand was in his trousers or not. This woman had brought such joy, and laughter, and love back into his and his children’s lives, he would give her the moon if he could reach it. Dipping his head down, he kissed her forehead. “Sure, Ed. What do you need me to do?”

  “Find Thomas and bring him home.”

  “Done.” Gathering her in his arms, he headed for the door, grateful he didn’t have to agree to anything he hadn’t already decided to do. Other than putting on a peep show. Which he didn’t mind at all.

  * * *

  Thomas was sitting on a scrap of elk hide in front of his tipi, carving a length of antler into a flute for Katse’e, when Declan Brodie finished the long climb up from the sacred pool.

  “What took you so long?” he asked, without looking up.

  “Jesus.” The big rancher plopped onto the ground beside him, his chest heaving. “You could have at least hidden out somewhere my horse could go.”

  “I do not hide.”

  “Like hell.” Muttering under his breath, Declan shrugged off his duster and tossed it aside. “I’m sweating like a butcher pig.”

  “Sweating is good for you. It draws bad spirits from the body.”

  “Bunkum. You got any water around here that doesn’t smell like rotten eggs?” Brodie had such an aversion to the smell of the water in the sacred pool, he had never even waded in.

  Thomas nodded toward a swollen elk bladder hanging on a peg. “That holds water.”

  Brodie eyed it in disgust. “Never mind. But I wouldn’t mind a bite of that elk jerky.” Without waiting for Thomas to offer it, he pulled a strip of dried meat from the drying rack and bit off a chunk. “What have you been doing up here all this time?” he mumbled while he chewed.

  “Building this fine tipi.”

  “That took you two weeks?”

  Thomas held up the piece of antler. “I am also carving this flute for my daughter.”

  “You ought not leave her so long. She could get herself into trouble.”

  Thomas shrugged. He knew Declan would come get him if Katse’e needed him. Setting aside his knife and the flute, he rested his hands on his folded knees and looked at his friend. “Why are you here, Declan Brodie?”

  “Ed is worried.”

  “Ho. So it is your wife who sends you up here. Not your concern for my daughter.”

  “Your daughter can take care of herself. She proved that last week.”

  Thomas felt tension rise in his chest. “What did she do?”

  “You mean after she and Joe Bill threatened a man for hitting Tombo Welks? Or after she went at Mrs. Throckmorton with her blind stick?”

  Thomas waited.

  “Nothing real bad so far,” Declan finally admitted. “But she’s due. You need to come home.”

  Home. Was there such a thing for him? Was Heartbreak Creek truly where he belonged? Sometimes it felt like it. But still, there was something missing. And he knew what it was.

  “So when are you coming down off your mountain here?”

  “Soon.” Thomas let the tension bleed away. He picked up the knife and flute again. “I am glad you came, nesene.”

  While Brodie worked on his strip of jerky, Thomas scraped the rough edges off the knife cuts on the antler. The sun dipped toward the western peaks, casting an orange wash over the high, snow-covered slopes and turning the wispy clouds above them into bands of red and gold and purple.

  Declan Brodie was right. It was time for Thomas to go back into town, where the sunsets would be hidden from him by the walls of his wooden house. He would put on his white clothes, and pin his sheriff’s badge on his shirt, and return to his duties as a father. He could do that. What he did not think he could do was open his heart again to Prudence Lincoln.

  A cool wind rushed up the slope as it did in the evenings, making the elk hides on the tipi shiver and the flap over the entrance snap against the leather tie.

  Brodie reached for his duster. “Why didn’t you put your tipi behind those boulders so you’d have a wind break?”

  Thomas said nothing.

  As Brodie pulled on his duster, he studied the boulders, his frown giving way to a look of astonishment. “There’s nothing behind those boulders, is there? That’s a sheer drop-off.” With each word his face had grown paler.

  Thomas had forgotten the big man feared high places.

  Brodie slowly stood, arms out for balance, panic showing in his eyes. “You put your tipi on this tiny little strip of bare rock?”

  “There are trees over there.” Thomas nodded toward a line of stunted spruce on a ridge to the north. Granted, below that ridge was a bluff that would have been impossible to climb without lengths of stout rope. But Thomas doubted Brodie could see it from where he stood.

  “Holy hell.”

  Seeing the fear on his friend’s face, Thomas tossed the knife and flute into a leather pouch, then rose. “I will help you down.”

  “I don’t need any help.”

  “I will go with you anyway.”

  They started down the slope, sliding where snow had turned to slush and sinking into mud where it had melted. It took a long time, because Brodie moved with great care, but they finally made it down
to the brush corral Thomas had built for his pony. Brodie’s big sorrel stood tied nearby.

  “I’m never going up there again,” Brodie announced, color returning to his face. “And you’re a damn fool to build camp in such a dangerous place.”

  “It is easy to defend.”

  “Against what? Eagles?”

  Knowing his friend was only reacting to his fear, Thomas did not argue. “How did you find me?”

  “Followed elk bones and coyote scat. Lucky you didn’t draw a griz up there instead of me.”

  “I feel lucky.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “I think I will go home instead.” As he saddled his pinto, Thomas heard the distant shriek of a locomotive whistle. The westbound. The one that would bring Prudence Lincoln back to Heartbreak Creek.

  He looked at Brodie.

  The rancher shook his head. “Pru’s not on that one. Ed got a wire this morning saying she’ll be on the Friday westbound. That’s the day after tomorrow, in case you’ve lost all sense of time, hiding out up here like a damn hermit.”

  Friday.

  Stay or leave?

  He had two days to decide.

  * * *

  When Declan walked into the kitchen of his Sunday house, his older children were off doing their after-dinner chores, Whit was down for the night, and Ed was sitting at the table making a list.

  His wife loved making her lists. She had shopping lists for the necessities to keep the house going and the children clothed and fed, lists of things she wanted to get done if she ever found the time, and lists she called her worry lists. By her expression, he guessed she was working on one of the latter.

  “I brought him back,” he said, hooking his Stetson on a peg inside the door.

  She looked up, a sad smile on her face. “I almost wish you hadn’t.” She thumped a piece of paper beside her list. “This came while you were gone.”

  He recognized it as a telegram. “She back in jail?”

  “Delayed. Apparently, whatever she had to clear up in Indianapolis has taken longer than she anticipated. She’s not sure when she’ll arrive.”