The Hired Man

by Lynna Banning

  She hesitated. “Yes, I guess I could, but...”

  “Eleanor, listen to me. I don’t want you alone out here at night. Tom is dangerous. He threatens Molly and Danny, and it’s only a matter of time until he threatens you, too.”

  He waited, studying her face. She hated it when he did that. He saw all sorts of things she wanted to keep hidden, all her questions about Tom, about why he hadn’t come back after the War; why he seemed to have money for his fancy vest and shiny spurs; where did he get it? It made her feel...vulnerable.

  “What if Tom follows us?”

  “Why would he? He won’t know you’re with me, and he’s not fool enough to confront me.”

  She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. It was her final delivery of apples to Samson Northcutt in Gillette Springs. Yesterday they had picked the last of this year’s crop, and even though it was more than a forty-mile trip, Northcutt’s mercantile paid the highest price of the season. Not only that, in past years, the proprietor had put her up at the Royal Springs Hotel at his expense. Last year she’d hired Sammy Greywolf to make the trip with her, but this year Cord had taken over.

  “Eleanor, you’re dead tired and strung up tighter than new barbed wire. It will do you good to get away.”

  She bristled and glared at him across the table. “I am not ‘strung up,’ as you put it!”

  “Oh, yeah? That why you sent Danny off to school this morning?”

  “Of course. His education is important.”

  “It’s Saturday. There’s no school on Saturday.”

  “Oh.” She looked down at the half-eaten pancake on her plate.

  “Danny and Molly are upstairs, working on a jigsaw puzzle I found in the attic,” Cord said. “We can drop them at Rose Cottage on our way out of town. Sarah and Rooney will look after them, and Danny can play checkers with Mark.”

  Eleanor leveled a long look at the man facing her, watched him refill her coffee cup and then his own. She studied his long-fingered hands. Tom had not returned last night, and it was the first breakfast in the last month she had felt relaxed enough to be even halfway hungry. The thought of being able to breathe freely for an entire day, not worrying every hour about what mood Tom was in or what would anger him, punched a little hole in the cloud of despair that hovered over her.

  “What about it, Eleanor?”

  His softly spoken words jerked her attention back to the kitchen and the fact that another day of worry and tension was beginning.

  “Very well. I’ll wash up the dishes and pack a few overnight things for the children while you hitch up the wagon.”

  She had to laugh at how quickly he bolted for the back door. “Pack a lunch, too,” he called as he strode down the wooden steps.

  She made bacon sandwiches and fresh coffee, poured it into a mason jar and double-wrapped it in dish towels to keep it hot. When she’d filled her canvas travel bag with clean underclothes for Molly and Daniel, she suddenly noticed she was still wearing her apron over her denim work skirt and she had on her oldest shirtwaist, a frayed blue muslin with four cracked buttons.

  Oh, bother. This was a working trip, not a holiday. She should dress like the farm woman she was. She changed only her shoes, trading her plain black leather walking oxfords for the scuffed work boots she wore in the apple orchard.

  By eight o’clock she guessed she was ready, or as ready as she would ever be. She didn’t really like Gillette Springs, with its grain elevator and the county courthouse and the fancy women’s hat store. It was busy and noisy, and it lacked the quiet, small-town feeling of Smoke River, where everyone knew you and people were mostly friendly, even mercantile owner Carl Ness. Most days, anyway. Lately, Carl had been looking at her oddly and his words were more clipped than usual. She was sure Tom had something to do with it.

  “Hurry up, children!” she called. “Cord is waiting in the wagon.” She untied her apron, folded a clean shirtwaist and her hairbrush into a clean flour sack and grabbed her wide-brimmed straw sun hat. When she closed the front door she noted that the revolver was missing from the shelf. Cord must have taken it.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  By the time they rolled into the bustling community of Gillette Springs, Cord’s forearms ached and Eleanor’s nose was sunburned in spite of her broad-brimmed hat. It had been a long, hot ten hours since they left Smoke River, and the short respite among the stand of fir trees where they stopped to devour the sandwiches and coffee seemed like days ago. Eleanor’s shoulders slumped and her head drooped with fatigue. Cord’s own shoulders were feeling the sting of overworked muscles.

  They unloaded seven bushel baskets of apples at the Gillette Springs mercantile, then drove on down the street and parked the wagon in front of the Royal Springs Hotel. Cord unhitched the horse, fed and watered it and then turned to Eleanor.

  “How about some supper?”

  “Later,” Eleanor countered. “For the last ten miles I’ve been thinking about a bath.”

  “Right out here on Main Street?” he joked.

  She said nothing. He guessed she was too tired to fight back. He guided her up the hotel steps to the registration desk and punched the bell, and the shiny-faced clerk looked up.

  “Ah, Miz Malloy! You’ve come to visit us again, I see. More of those good apples, I bet.”

  “You are correct, Mr. Barnaby. This is my last delivery of the season.”

  “Sign here, ma’am.” He slid over the hotel register. “Dining room’s open ’til nine.”

  “Could I have a bath brought up to my room?”

  “Sure thing, Miz Malloy.” He slapped a room key down on the polished counter and turned to Cord. “And for you, sir?”

  “I’m with her,” he said.

  The clerk’s eyebrows shot up. “In the same room, you mean?”

  “Yes,” Cord said.

  “Certainly not,” Eleanor retorted. “He will be sleeping elsewhere.” She bent her head close to Cord’s. “Sammy Greywolf always slept in the stable,” she intoned.

  “I’m not Sammy Greywolf.” He swiped the key off the counter and took Eleanor’s elbow.

  “Well!” Mr. Barnaby’s face looked almost purple.

  Cord pinned him with a look. “I’d appreciate it if you’d close your mouth and bring up the lady’s bath.”

  He piloted Eleanor up the stairs. “What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.

  “Getting you a bath and then some supper, and then I’m getting some sleep.”

  She shot him an exasperated look. “Certainly not with me!”

  “Not exactly ‘with you,’ no.”

  She stopped dead at the top of the landing. “Well, what exactly? I expected you to sleep in the stable, like Sammy Greywolf did. Or at least in a separate room.”

  “Separate rooms cost money.” And he couldn’t protect her from a separate room. He lifted the room key out of her hand and unlocked Number Six. “I’ll be down in the bar,” he said, gently pushing her inside. “Leave me some bathwater.”

  An hour later Cord settled himself across from a still weary-looking Eleanor Malloy in the hotel dining room. Both her hands were wrapped around a delicate-looking cup of tea.

  “Bathwater was still warm,” he said. “Thanks.”

  She just stared at him, so he signaled the waitress for some coffee. “I know you’ve been looking at this shirt all day, Eleanor, but I didn’t bring a clean one.”

  “You don’t have a clean one,” she said absently. “Wash day isn’t until Monday.”

  He nodded and gulped down a swallow of the coffee the waitress set at his elbow. “We need to talk.”

  “Oh?” Her eyebrows went up. “What about? Please make it quick, because I am starving.”

  “Okay, here’s ‘quick.’ We need to talk about toni
ght.”

  Eleanor unfolded the menu and bent forward. “All right, I’m listening. What about tonight? Cord, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  He leaned back in the plush upholstered chair and gave her a long look. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

  “Oh?” she said primly. “Explain it to me, then.”

  “I thought it’d be...safer.”

  “Safer? Whatever do you mean?” He hesitated so long a chill went up her spine.

  “Tom will know I took the wagon to Gillette Springs today. When he finds you gone, he’ll figure you came with me, and there’s no telling what he’ll think. Or do. He might be in town right now.”

  She stopped running her forefinger down the menu items and looked up. “What should we do?”

  “Nothing. Let’s eat supper.”

  She gave him a quick glance and tapped a fingernail on one supper item. “Steak,” she said to the frilly-aproned waitress who approached, order pad in hand.

  “I’ll have steak, too,” he said. Eleanor noted the admiring look the girl gave him.

  “Potatoes, sir?”

  “Yeah. Fried. Lots of ’em.”

  “Would you care for wine?”

  Cord sought her eyes. She didn’t dare. Wine befuddled her senses. She shook her head.

  “Sure,” he said to the girl. “Make it a big glass.”

  All through the meal Eleanor found herself watching his face. There were so many things she couldn’t begin to understand about this man. Now she had to admit she was beginning not to understand herself.

  She felt no loyalty toward Tom. Even if he was her husband, she had ceased to care about him years ago. Even so, she still felt bound by her wedding vows.

  She liked being close to Cord. She valued his help and she had to admit she enjoyed his company. She liked talking to him, and she even enjoyed his occasional teasing. She would miss him when he left her farm and rode on to California. Tom or no Tom, she knew Cord would be moving on, and her life would continue.

  Their meals came, along with another glass of wine for Cord. She ate slowly, savoring every bite of a supper eaten in peace with no sullen looks or sharp words from anyone. Neither she nor Cord said a word for some minutes, and then Cord laid his fork aside.

  “Why do you stay with him, Eleanor? He’s no good for you.”

  “I know,” she said slowly. “But Tom is the children’s father. If I left him, he could claim Molly and Danny.”

  “I don’t think he’d want them. He hasn’t shown much interest in being a father.”

  “I can’t risk it, Cord. Besides, I have to live in Smoke River. My farm is there. And Molly and Daniel have to live there, too. If I did the unthinkable and just left Tom, I would become known as a loose woman. It would hurt the children. It would be terrible for them if their mother became a pariah in town.”

  “It’s dangerous, both for you and for your kids. Leaving him might be better,” he said, holding her gaze.

  “No, it would not be better. Small towns can be narrow-minded.”

  He picked up his knife and slowly, deliberately, cut three perfect squares of steak, looked at them for a few seconds, and then laid the knife down again.

  Eleanor studied him. “Cord?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Then he looked straight into her eyes. “Oh, hell, everything’s wrong.”

  “Do you want to tell me what ‘everything’ is?”

  “Yeah. But not now. I want to tell you later.”

  Whatever was bothering him was tightening his jaw muscles in a way she had never seen, not even when he’d confronted Tom and tossed him down the front porch steps. But she wasn’t going to let whatever was bothering Cord spoil the delicious freedom-from-care feeling she felt tonight. She hadn’t felt this happy or this lighthearted since Molly was born.

  She folded her hands in her lap and watched Cord across the table. The haircut she’d given him some weeks ago had grown out, and the shock of dark hair falling across his forehead made her smile. When he brushed it back she noticed his hand was shaking.

  Something was wrong. In all the months she’d known Cord Winterman she had never seen his hand shake. She had never before seen him unnerved about anything.

  The waitress cleared their plates and brought coffee, but before she had finished stirring in some cream Cord reached across and captured her hand. “Eleanor, drink your coffee and let’s go upstairs.”

  “Don’t you want dessert?”

  He shook his head and started to rise, but she caught his arm. “Could I have some peach pie? I’m so sick of apple pie and apple turnovers and apple dumplings and applesauce...apple everything. I bet you are, too. Let’s mark the end of the harvest with something that’s not made of apples.”

  His expression softened and he signaled the waitress. “You have any peach pie?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Made fresh today.”

  “Bring us a couple of slices, could you? And put some ice cream on top.”

  The girl spun away toward the kitchen. “Ice cream!” Eleanor exulted. “Thank you for indulging me, Cord. I feel like celebrating, don’t you?”

  “Nope.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not really worried about Tom, are you? About his maybe being here, I mean?”

  “Some,” he admitted. “Not a whole lot, though. Not enough to spoil peach pie and ice cream.”

  “But there is something on your mind,” she pursued. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  He took his time downing a swallow of his coffee. “Yeah, there’s something on my mind.”

  “Is it a big something?”

  “Big enough.” Their desserts arrived, scoops of vanilla ice cream melting on top. Cord watched her take big bites of the pie and little bites of the ice cream while his plate sat untouched in front of him and the à la mode turned to soup.

  “Oh, this is delicious!” she cried. “Maybe I should plant some peach trees for next summer. What do you think?”

  “You figure you could manage a bigger orchard?”

  Her smile faded. “I suppose not. Not alone, anyway. Somehow I keep thinking that Tom—”

  “No. Eleanor, Tom’s not in this with you.”

  “How do you mean? Oh, never mind, I know what you mean. I know exactly what you mean. I just don’t want to think about it.”

  “Ever?” he asked carefully.

  “Well, at least not tonight. Tonight I feel lighter than air, away from everything.”

  Away from Tom she meant. Suddenly he noticed the ice cream puddle on his plate threatened to spill over onto the tablecloth and he grabbed his spoon. Yeah, the pie was good, even with the melting mess on top. He polished off half of it before he became aware of her laughter.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You. Eating peach pie with a spoon, like a little boy.”

  He grinned in spite of himself and downed another bite. “Sometimes little boys have the right idea—grab it before it gets away.”

  “Or melts,” she said.

  “Or melts,” he echoed. He considered that idea in ways he could never share with Eleanor, and they finished their coffee in silence.

  Upstairs in Number Six, Eleanor flew to the window and raised the sash while Cord lit the kerosene lamp on the night table separating the two narrow beds. Music drifted in from the saloon down the street, tinkly notes from a badly played piano, but it seemed to make no difference to Eleanor, who was humming along. “Oh, my darling Clementine,” she sang, peering out the window. “You are lost and gone for—”

  She turned toward him and broke off. “Cord? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he managed. Everything was wrong. It was eating him up
. He had to say something. And he had to say it now.

  Chapter Thirty

  “Eleanor...” he began.

  “Oh, Cord, let’s not talk now. Not after such a nice supper.”

  “We’ve got to talk sometime. I’ve got some things to say to you.”

  “Later. Please, Cord.”

  He snapped his jaw shut.

  In the heavy quiet Eleanor moved to open her overnight bag and lifted out the hairbrush and the clean shirtwaist she had brought. Cord, she noticed, had brought no luggage at all, no clean shirt, no shaving kit, nothing. She guessed he planned to sleep fully clothed.

  And so would she. She hung the shirtwaist in the small armoire in the corner and began to loosen the hairpins in the bun at her neck.

  Cord turned away. He couldn’t watch her do things with her hair; made his groin ache. To distract himself he slipped the Colt from his belt and laid it on the nightstand, poured some water into the ceramic basin on the bureau and splashed some on his face. Then he made a mistake.

  He turned around and saw her standing at the window, her arms raised, brushing her hair.

  “Dammit, don’t do that!”

  She pivoted toward him, wide-eyed. “Don’t do what?”

  He reached her in three long strides and lifted the brush out of her hand. “Don’t brush your hair.”

  She stared at him so long he thought maybe he had ice cream on his chin. “Why?” she asked in surprise. “I brush my hair every night.”

  He stood facing her, taking slow, deliberate breaths until the roaring in his head stopped. “I sure hope you’re gonna understand this, because I’m not sure I have a good grip on it.”

  “Understand what? I don’t—”

  He closed his hands around her upper arms. “Eleanor, for once in your life just hush up and listen.”

  Her gray eyes widened even further. “Very well, Cord, I’m listening.”

  “I—” He stopped himself. He couldn’t say that to her, not in a million years. He swallowed and began again.

  “Eleanor, you know I like you. And you know I like Molly and Danny.”