by MJ Fredrick
Indeed he did have one, and the young Mexican woman had the bath drawn for the women before long. Kit wasn’t sure how to react. She’d never had a servant before, but Agnes and Mary seemed right at home utilizing the young woman. The three women were sore after the extended time in the saddle, so they moved slowly, especially Agnes. Kit urged Mary to bathe first, followed by Agnes, while she inspected the cabin. It was both roomy and cozy, and still smelled of new wood. She sat on the large feather bed in the center of one bedroom, feeling idle as the girl, Graciela, stoked the fire, drew the water, and boiled corn on the stove in the next room. Kit’s mouth watered at the aroma. She hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch today, a fact she hadn’t realized until the scent of food filled the cabin.
Agnes and Mary had allowed the servant girl to help them undress and get into the water. Kit helped Graciela dump the dirty water while fresh water heated, and insisted on undressing herself.
“I’ll need help with my hair, though,” she admitted sheepishly as she unbuttoned her bodice.
The sight of her bloody chemise caught her by surprise. Her hands stiffened on her buttons before she remembered the deer, remembered reaching into its body, remembered everything she’d endured to get here, safe. She burst into tears, to the horror of Graciela, who darted out of the room and returned moments later with Trace. He crossed the room, head bent in concern.
“Kit, what’s wrong?”
She turned to him and ducked her head against his chest, her resistance gone, needing the reassurance of his arms as she wept out the anxieties of the last days, weeks, months. He smoothed his hand down her back and lifted it again to cup her head, holding her against his shoulder until her sobs weakened and her body went limp.
“Let’s get you into the water. Okay?” He pushed her skirts over her hips.
“Trace, you can’t.” She stepped back, pushing weakly against his shoulders. “Agnes and Mary—and what will Almanzo think?”
“Almanzo took them to the dry goods store. They should be there awhile. Let me do this for you, Kit.”
“You can’t. It’s not right. We’re in civilization now. It’s not proper.”
“This is hardly civilization,” he murmured as her skirts dropped to the ground. Then he reached for the hem of her bloody chemise and drew it up over her head, loosening her hair as he did.
She lifted her gaze to his and saw a heat there, but he banked it with tenderness as he held her hand to help her into the tub.
She sank into the warm water with a sigh, drawing her legs up, resting her cheek on her knees, her hair trailing in the water. Her eyes drifted closed. She heard the scrape of a chair over the floor, heard Trace lower his weight onto it. She heard the closing of a door next to the tub, and the swish of water as he dipped the washcloth into it.
“Trace,” she murmured as he stroked the cloth over her shoulders and down her spine in long, gentle strokes. The heat of the water and the caress of the cloth mesmerized her, sent her into drowsiness.
“You have beautiful skin. I love your skin.”
Awareness pulsed into desire as his words floated over her. She tamped it down with the last of her energy. “Mm.”
“You want me to wash your hair?”
“Mm.” She opened her eyes and looked into his as he leaned over her. “It’s a lot of work.”
“As much work as loading a cannon or cutting hay?”
She smiled at his teasing tone. “More.”
“Okay. I think I can handle it.”
“You need a pitcher or something.”
“I remember.”
Another scrape of the chair, and then a cascade of water. She stiffened as the warm water hit her scalp, and then his fingers followed, catching in her tangles as he eased the soap in her hair. So gentle. She hadn’t thought he could be so gentle.
No, not true. She knew just how gentle he could be.
“I’m sorry you have to sleep in the barn.”
“It’s a nice barn.” He scrubbed the base of her skull, fingers digging into the flesh. “Warmer than sleeping by the fire. Not as warm as sleeping with you.”
She tensed again.
“Sorry,” he murmured, his fingers caressing her temples.
“I just don’t know what to do next. I didn’t think that far ahead. I almost always figure things out until the end. I should have figured out where we would stay when we got here.”
“You didn’t know what you’d find,” he reminded her. “Don’t worry. We don’t have to figure it out today, all right?” He poured more warm water over her hair and worked the soap out, again and again. “Were you always like this?”
“Hm?” She lifted her head, opening her eyes again. “Like what?”
“Controlling. Have you always been, or has it just been since you were alone in the fort?”
“Always I’ve needed to know what was going to happen next. The control is new.”
“Not going to be able to let it go, are you?”
She smiled. “I gladly would if I could.”
He made a sound, as if he wanted to say something else, and dug his fingers into her hair again.
She was limp with fatigue by the time he was done. He stood to leave, to allow her to bathe in private. A few moments later, Graciela returned with a fine lawn chemise.
“Where did you get this?”
“Mr. Tarleton brought it for his bride.”
“His bride?” Kit met the girl’s gaze in surprise. “I didn’t know he was to marry.”
“He brought a trousseau from the States, for his bride.”
“He thinks he’s going to meet a woman out here?” The desire to have clean clothes beat out her curiosity about Almanzo’s intentions and she slipped the chemise over her head, flipping her wet hair loose.
“There are girls who come to San Felipe with their families. He thinks he’ll marry one of them.”
Kit smoothed the fine fabric over her stomach. She hadn’t worn anything this nice in so long. The fabric made her feel feminine and lovely. “I’ll pay him for it.”
“Mr. Watson already did.”
He did. Of course he did. Now, if only he could see her in it.
No, she had to stop thinking like that. They weren’t in the wilderness now, and they had to accept society’s mores. She shouldn’t have allowed him to wash her hair. Graciela could have helped her. Kit had to remember to act like a proper lady again.
And then what?
She’d told Trace the truth about needing to know what came next. Now she didn’t even have a place to call her own.
Graciela helped her brush out her hair and wind it into a respectable style. Kit put one of her cleaner dresses over the damp chemise before stepping out of the warm bedroom.
Trace, Almanzo, Agnes and Mary sat in the adjoining parlor. Trace and Almanzo rose to greet her as she apologized for taking so long, but her words were drowned out as Mary launched into an excited inventory of the dry goods store, around a mouthful of hard candy. Kit smiled. The girl wouldn’t have been so impressed ten months ago, after leaving New Orleans, but after months of doing without, the small store had to seem like paradise.
“Do you want to go see it, Kit? You’ll love it. They don’t have any fabric, I’m afraid, but they have cotton thread. Maybe we could remake one of my dresses.”
How hard must their situation have seemed to a girl who’d once had so much? Kit had never allowed herself to see how her sister-in-law had worked to adjust. One more sin to lie at John’s feet. She smiled at Mary now. “Perhaps after dinner, we’ll walk down there.”
“It’s so lovely to be around people again,” Agnes said with a happy smile. “Tomorrow we can go to Mass. Mr. Tarleton told me the service at the church is very nice. And he said Graciela will do our laundry so we can have something clean to wear.”
Kit stiffened, torn between wanting to hand over the responsibility and feeling guilt for taking the girl from her other duties. Before she could say anything, Graciel
a announced dinner was ready.
More embarrassment flooded Kit as the three women tore into the meal, as if they’d been starving. In her hunger, she could barely remember her manners. The pork flavoring the beans was tasty, the corn sweet, and the bread fluffy with a delicious crust. And there was butter. Kit wanted to cry at the feast. She looked up to see Trace watching her, a mixture of amusement and tenderness on his face. Her own face heating, she set her corncob down and sat back.
“This is very good, very generous,” she told Mr. Tarleton. “I don’t know how we can repay you.”
The men exchanged a glance. Trace’s eyebrows went up in an I-told-you-so motion.
“You’re not to worry about it, Mrs. Barclay. Please. I want you to make yourself at home.”
She smiled at the permission he’d just given her. “I’ll be happy to.”
After the meal, she chased Graciela away from the dishes and helped the young woman start the laundry in the yard.
“This isn’t what he meant by making yourself at home,” Trace drawled.
Kit jolted and turned to find him too close. She hadn’t heard him cross the yard; his steps were muffled by the grass. She chided herself for letting her guard down. This was still the frontier and she needed to be more alert.
Trace grinned, relieving her of the heated pot in her hands and hauling it to the cauldron in the center of the yard.
She swept her hair from her face with the back of her hand. “I won’t have this girl working herself to the bone because her master was kind enough to take us in.”
Trace dumped the water over the clothes as Graciela stirred. He turned to Kit. “You don’t have to do this. You’ve had a hell of a trip. Can’t you take one day to rest?”
Though she was as tired as she’d ever been, she shook her head and planted her aching hands on her hips. “I wouldn’t be able to rest knowing she’s doing my work. And it’s not my home—what else am I going to do?”
“Let’s walk into town. You can see what Mary was chattering about.”
“That’s not going to help me know what to do next.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “And laundry is?”
She turned back to the kettle, though she couldn’t do anything as Graciela stirred the clothes around in the pot, dissolving the soap flakes. “At least I feel like I’m doing something.”
He shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “Show me what to do.”
“Trace.” But she allowed him to chase Graciela off and to take over stirring as she removed each dress and scrubbed it on the washboard before dunking it in a clean pot of water and wringing out the fabric. Her arms ached as her mind was preoccupied with wondering what next. She didn’t want to stay even one night at this stranger’s house. She was accustomed to being on her own.
She hadn’t realized how much her independence meant to her. Would she be able to retain it in this place, in any place?
“Perhaps tomorrow we can walk down to the land grant office,” she said.
Trace heaved the next dress out of the water. “Almanzo said Mr. Austin is back in the States for a few weeks.”
“No one else can tell us anything?”
“Not according to Almanzo.”
She gave the fabric a vicious shake before draping it on the line. “I hate depending on him, Trace.”
“I see that. You need to rethink your need to be in control.”
“Who will take my place?” She turned to him, leaning on the stick she’d used to stir the cooling fabric.
Something like panic flickered across his face. What did she expect—that he’d embrace the idea of taking on three women who he’d known a few weeks, all because he was having relations with her? She didn’t want him to assume the duty, not that way. “I can’t afford to let go. I have responsibilities.”
“Of two grown women.”
“Who don’t know the first thing about taking care of anything.”
“And who never will if you don’t give them a chance.” A corner of his mouth twitched as he drew a petticoat from the hot water and twisted it.
She took it from him. “I’m sure Agnes doesn’t want you touching her undergarments.”
He dropped the garment back in the water and lifted his hands away. She laughed at his exaggerated horror.
He crowded close for the next armful of fabric.
“You’re making it very hard for me to think,” she murmured, turning to the laundry.
“That was the idea.”
Despite her better judgment, a smile quirked the corner of her mouth. She liked him, too much. Staying away from him would be difficult, especially since she didn’t want to. But for propriety’s sake, she needed to.
Her arms were weak when she finished hanging the last dress on the line. Her hair began to fall free of its bun as she turned to Trace. He scooped her hair from her face and held it there so she could repin it. She looked up wearily.
“All right. I’m tired now.”
He rolled down his sleeves and picked up his jacket. He draped it over her shoulders and guided her back into the house, where Mary was eating candy and Agnes was knitting in front of the fire.
“Give me a moment and we’ll walk into town,” she said to Trace, so tired now she could barely form the words.
“I want to go!” Mary said.
“In a while.” Trace urged Kit toward a door. “Why don’t you rest a bit first?”
She nodded and stepped into the room. A bed never looked so good, and within minutes, she was asleep.
***
“You watching that door isn’t going to make her come out,” Almanzo whispered to Trace after supper, leaning in close.
Mary had tried a dozen times to go wake Kit, but Trace had stopped her, convincing her the town would still be there in a few days and that she owed Kit the luxury of a nap. At least she’d been able to shut down her worries long enough to sleep. But when she slept through supper, he started feeling fidgety himself.
“No, it’s good she sleeps,” Almanzo said. “She’ll just be hungry, but Graciela can keep supper warm.” He eased back to look at his friend. “What is she to you?”
Trace didn’t know how to answer, though he should have been prepared for the question. Almanzo wasn’t an idiot. But he hadn’t attempted to define their relationship himself. To do so felt too much like a plan. What did he want her to be, other than the woman in his bed? He wanted her in his life and this moment couldn’t imagine a day without her, but he couldn’t say so. It would reveal too much, and would betray his wife’s memory. He avoided his friend’s gaze.
“I’m still in mourning for Angelina.”
Almanzo sat back and tapped the rim of his coffee mug. “I think you’re only fooling yourself.”
No, the truth was, he wasn’t fooling himself at all.
***
Kit woke in the dark and heard her mother-in-law’s snoring in the next bed. What time was it? She rose quietly and made her way out of the unfamiliar room, into the sitting room, where the fire burned under the urging of Graciela, who looked up at Kit’s entrance.
“Did I sleep all night?” she asked the girl.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m just getting breakfast before church.”
“Let me help you.”
“No, ma’am!” The girl dusted her hands on her apron. “Bad enough I let you do the laundry for me yesterday.”
“Graciela, it was my laundry.”
“Mr. Tarleton didn’t see it that way.”
Kit stiffened. “Did he say something to you?”
“No, ma’am.” But the girl didn’t meet her eyes.
That was enough of a clue for Kit. She squared her shoulders. “Are the gentlemen up yet?”
“I don’t know, ma’am, they’re in the barn.”
“All right.” She crossed the room to the stove, wrapping her own apron over her skirt. “What did you plan to make for breakfast? I’ll get it started.”
***
People streamed to the small whitewashed clapboard building, greeting each other noisily and observing little solemnity. They turned to watch Mr. Tarleton’s carriage in open curiosity when the women alighted. Agnes took Mr. Tarleton’s arm as he led the way into the pew, leaving Kit to share Trace with Mary.
The church was simple and smelled of new wood, with oiled paper windows lighting the interior in a sort of gloom, but Kit agreed with Agnes—hearing the words and participating in the ceremony of the Mass again was comforting.
Listening to Trace stumble through the hymns amused her more than it should have. As lovely as his speaking voice was, deep and soothing, he couldn’t sing. Kit hid her amusement behind her hand, but caught his sideways glance. He knew she was laughing at him.
Trace hadn’t thought he’d return to church ever, not after the funeral of Angelina and his son. But this little church wasn’t the same as the church in New Orleans. The priest was a Mexican with a heavy accent, not as pompous as the French priest back home. He didn’t declare great rewards in heaven, but preached about serving your fellow man. Trace could live with that message. He went unthinkingly through the motions of the Mass until he heard an unladylike snort beside him during one of the sung responses and saw laughter in Kit’s eyes.
So he didn’t sing so well. But the idea that his lack of talent made Kit laugh—something he’d not seen her do often—delighted him. So he sang louder, more off-key, until other churchgoers turned with chiding looks. He backed down as the song ended, but beside him, Kit quivered with suppressed giggles. On her other side, Agnes elbowed her, and Kit struggled for a straight face, her attention on her prayer book.