Theresa Michaels

by The Merry Widows Sarah

  Sarah gasped. A young child’s face appeared between the covering folds. Both her hands rose to her chest. The child’s eyes widened with fear, warning her that the child, as well as Rio, had seen the knife.

  “A child?” she whispered. “You made me think…” The knife fell to the floor with a clatter.

  Chapter Five

  Long moments stretched out before Sarah forced herself to look at Rio. His face was completely impassive, but not his eyes. She stared into them, reading too much, understanding too little. A promise of violence, a plea for compassion. A hundred questions clamored to be asked.

  Sarah couldn’t seem to summon the voice to ask even one. She couldn’t utter a sound. The very last thing she wanted was for the child to be caught in the middle. Yet he was just that. And it was a boy she saw as he pushed the blanket down to his shoulders.

  “I’m so sorry I frightened you. The storm made me nervous. Are you. afraid of storms, too? You must be cold and hungry.”

  “Cold, yes. Not hungry. I ate ham and cheese and corn bread and a big piece of apple pie. I even drank the warm milk from your cow. Lucas would not eat the ham. He does not like it. He had the biggest piece of pie. He did not want to come and get warm. Father said he could stay with the horses. Lucas likes the horses.”

  “Father?” Sarah’s question had a choked quality.

  Rio placed one large hand on his small son’s shoulder. “This is my youngest son, Gabriel. He is not shy with strangers.”

  “No, but he is cold.” Sarah couldn’t bite back the accusation in her tone. She was furious with Rio Santee. He broke into her house, threatened her, hunted her like prey, and made her aware of him as a man as no other had done since Judd died almost four years ago. Had he come seeking shelter for himself and his son, she didn’t believe she would have denied him entry. But there was this other one…this Lucas.

  “And Lucas? Who is he?”

  The questions were directed at Gabriel, but Rio answered her.

  “My oldest boy. He has little trust for me and less for white women.”

  “That alone would prove he is your son. Are there more?”

  “No more. Just the three of us.”

  “Well, you can’t leave him out in the barn. And you might as well return what is left from your raid on my pantry.” She noted that her remark surprised him. It gave her little satisfaction. She might appear calm, but the questions were multiplying until her head ached. There was no time for them now.

  “Come sit closer to the stove, Gabriel. You’ll get warm in no time.” As Sarah spoke she bent down to pick up the knife.

  “Are you gonna scalp us while we sleep?”

  “What!”

  “Scalp us with your knife,” the boy said.

  Sarah recoiled. She looked at the knife in her hand, then at the boy. She shook her head, disbelieving what she knew she had heard. Rio’s gaze offered her no comfort. She looked again at the boy.

  “No, I won’t scalp you or anyone. See, I’m putting the knife back into the drawer.”

  “The scalp hunters can get you if they find you alone. Sometimes there are lots of them, and they take many to kill. They sell the scalps for money. The…the Mexicans pay bounty. They don’t care if it’s a little boy. The mission lady said that’s why they cut our hair. Lucas said she lied. They do it so we will all forget what band the boys are from.” Gabriel looked at Sarah with large, dark, solemn eyes. “Are you like the mission women?”

  “I should hope not, Gabriel. I wouldn’t want to be like them. They don’t sound like women I even want to know.”

  “But you do know women like them,” Rio said.

  Sarah didn’t answer him.

  “Lucas said they cannot help themselves. He said they learn these things with their mother’s milk.”

  “Gabriel, enough.”

  Sarah was less bothered by the boy’s frank talk. After Catherine had married last summer, Sarah had kept little Ramon working around the place. The boy often spoke frankly to her of things he heard and saw around town.

  The child tilted his head back to look up at his scowling father. “But Father, I want to know how it can be. I asked Lucas. He said it is true. He did not know how it happens. Sometimes Lucas tells me things I do not understand. He said I will if I ever grew up.”

  “You will grow up to manhood, Gabriel. Your brother still has many years of his own to see himself fully grown. I will speak to him about these things he teaches you. For now we will speak no more of it.”

  Gabriel’s smile and the softening of Rio’s lips that made his face vitally warm and alive as he shared this private moment with his son shut her out She envied him. She would never know such moments.

  But Sarah puzzled over the child’s remarks. All were about what Lucas told him. Where had Rio been that his sons were at a mission school?

  “The territory jail does not offer much comfort for the likes of me.”

  How could she have forgotten Rio’s words? Why didn’t she question why he’d been in jail?

  Because you lost every smidgen of sense and only reacted to the man.

  She closed her eyes and once more experienced the feel of his fingers sliding on her throat, his mocking taunt filling her ears. A shiver coursed through her, and she saw the parting of her robe as he had bent his head nearer. She could almost feel the brush of his wet hair against her cheek, almost taste the sweet rain, his breath intimately warming her skin, the alarm of the button opening beneath his touch.

  She hoped now, as she had not then, that he’d been unaware of her tightly drawn nipples pushing against the soft wool shirt.

  She excused the physical reaction because of the cold, and the very real, dangerous threat of the man. It had nothing to do with being alone, and lonely. She refused to admit to any hunger for the passion she had once tasted.

  She was a survivor. She only needed that to remind herself that she had lived through a marriage to Judd Westfall until his drinking, gambling and cruelty left her unable to feel There was no guilt over his death. Not for him. Never for him.

  She could live through this, too.

  Rio looked up at the broken breath she drew and saw the distant look in her eyes as she opened them.

  He knew with a primitive certainty that she was reliving those moments when he had imprisoned her in the upstairs hall.

  He wished to all the gods of his people that he could wipe away the memory.

  He never should have touched her.

  But he had. And he remembered. Too well. The unwanted heat that licked over his body when he touched the smooth, bare skin of her throat. The feel beneath his fingers of her racing blood and hardbeating pulse.

  His own pulse had quickened, and heat surged in his blood.

  The woman scent of her stayed with him. Sweet rain, and the faint spice of sage rising from her clothing.

  He thought of the Appaloosa stallion and the blooded mares filling the stalls in the barn. Once the Appaloosa was bred and traded only by the Nez Percé tribe, a horse worthy of a war chief. Yet this woman, facing him with a passionate defiance, had gentled the wildness of the horse without breaking his spirit.

  That wildness and strength of hers called to him on a primitive level he could not and would not deny.

  But he fought against its lure.

  He should have caught her mouth beneath his as he’d been tempted to do.

  Then he would not look at her mouth and wonder what she tasted like.

  Gabriel’s noisy yawn and shift in the chair drew Rio’s attention. He tightened his grip on his son’s shoulder.

  The move drew Sarah’s gaze to Rio’s skinned knuckles. The distraction helped turn her aside from probing her past. Unexpectedly her throat closed around a grief that she had never given way to. At first she could not bear it, then her grief became a habit.

  “You’ve hurt yourself,” she said.

  Rio looked down. “It is nothing.”

  Gabriel sat up and turned to l
ook, too. “That is when they sho—”

  “Gabriel.”

  Sarah met the child’s bewildered look. “Who are they?” Her hand tightened over the knot of her robe’s sash. “More surprises?”

  “None that need concern you.”

  “If I have to worry about being shot in my own home I’d say you’re very much mistaken. But I won’t argue with a man with such a stubborn chin. You’d better see to your other son. I’ll stoke the fire in the parlor.”

  She started for the door, not caring if he agreed or not. Without turning around, she asked Gabriel if he wanted to help.

  “No. My son will wait for me here.”

  “He is a child who needs a warm bed.”

  “What do you know of a child’s needs?”

  She swayed and grabbed hold of the door frame for support. Had he thrust a knife in her the wound would have been less painful. She stood there, unable to move and, for long minutes, unable to answer him. Where she found the strength to turn and face him, she didn’t know.

  “You’re right. I know absolutely nothing about the needs of a child.”

  The emptiness in her voice brought an unexpected ache to Rio. He stifled the urge to call out to her, to whisper some meaningless word of comfort, because he was sure she would reject it.

  He would have. He had.

  She disappeared down the hall.

  He spun around and went out in the rain.

  It didn’t matter what the widow thought. Or what she felt. She could not matter to him.

  But she did.

  Sarah awoke to an encompassing grayness. For a few moments she didn’t realize that she was in her own room. There was no way to tell the time. All she remembered was stoking the fire in the parlor before exhaustion had swept over her.

  Sleep brought merciful relief from her thoughts.

  She snuggled deeper beneath the blankets, unwilling to think about last night.

  But at some point Rio had carried her upstairs.

  How could she have slept through it?

  She watched the raindrops race down the windowpane. The steady drumming of the rain on the roof held less of the storm’s fury. The howling winds of last night were reduced to an occasional gust that rattled the windowpane. It seemed to signal her to leave her warm bed, for chores awaited.

  Sarah dressed hurriedly, drawers and camisole, a pair of black cotton hose, brown duck pants and a blue wool flannel overshirt. The shirt was new, a treat for herself at fifty cents since the Hudspeths started carrying more ready-made clothing.

  She remembered leaving her boots down in the kitchen. Despite the scent of wood smoke drifting up from the parlor, the house was still damp and chill. She listened near the door but heard no noise. Likely they were still sleeping.

  In the minutes she took to brush out the tangles in her hair and rebraid its thick, straight blackness into a single plait, Sarah made a decision. With her hair as tightly contained as her emotions, she resolved to treat the presence of Rio Santee and his sons as stranded travelers. Unwanted houseguests, but guests nevertheless.

  The mirror reflected the old haunting in her shadowed eyes. She had not cried over Rio’s cruel words. Nor would she. She rarely cried anymore. All that mattered was that her secret remain safe.

  “Strong Sarah,” she whispered. “You’ve been there for Mary, Catherine and countless others since Judd died. Now be strong for yourself.”

  And she would be, in spite of Rio’s threats. The taunting Apache half-breed had to know that the presence of his sons cost him a measure of her fear.

  But only a measure, Sarah. There is still the threat of the man himself.

  Chapter Six

  The invading dampness made the wood stairs creak. Even the air Sarah breathed held a faint odor of mildew. The whole frame of the house was swollen from the continuous rains like an ancient crone with creaking joints.

  She stepped into the parlor. The quilts and blankets that Rio and his sons used for their bedding had been folded and neatly piled on the settee. The fire blazed with warmth and cut wood had been stacked around the fireplace to dry off before it would be needed.

  “A neat and thoughtful houseguest,” she murmured.

  Out in the hallway she felt the welcoming warmth from the stove along with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

  “A guest who certainly made himself at home.”

  She paused in the doorway, half-expecting to confront Rio, but to her surprise she faced the man in the guise of a boy. Older than Gabriel, but the strong facial resemblance to the father was undeniable.

  “You’re Lucas,” she said. “I’m Sarah Westfall.”

  He was seated at the table, facing her while he idly toyed with a spoon. An empty coffee cup was set to one side. The coal-oil fixture was lit against the pervading gloom of the overcast sky. The boy nodded at her but did not speak.

  Sarah helped herself to the coffee. She took a few sips, leaning back against the dry sink.

  “Where is your father?”

  “Outside.”

  “But it’s still raining.” She took another look at him. His short hair, darker than Rio’s, was wet.

  “What is he doing out there?”

  “Digging a trench around the house to help the water drain off.”

  “A kind and thoughtful thing to do.” She took a swallow of the rapidly cooling coffee, warning herself to have patience. Talkative he wasn’t.

  “And your brother? Where is he?”

  “Hunting eggs in your barn.”

  Sarah eyed the boy’s muddy shoes near the door. Her slicker, the one she had offered last night to Rio, hung on its hook. Water still dripped to the rag rug below. She judged from the tired slump of Lucas’s shoulders that he’d been out there digging with his father.

  “I’d bet you could do with a hot meal.”

  The spoon he had been playing with hit the table.

  “Don’t want no charity from you.”

  “I’m not offering charity, Lucas. You’ve worked hard. And I could do with a hot meal myself.”

  Sarah glanced out the window. Lord, give me lots of patience. This boy has a barrelful of chips on his thin shoulders. She saw how the water ran in the shal low gullies in the yard. Mud was churned from the house to the barn. She couldn’t see the wood slabs she had laid down as a path. A light rain still fell.

  “Maybe the rain will slack off or stop altogether,” she said.

  “Not likely. Over to the north there’s thunderheads piled high. ‘Less a wind blows them off, it will rain for days.”

  Sarah finished her coffee and set the cup in the sink. “I’ll see to my stock then I’ll make you the biggest breakfast you ever had.”

  “Stock’s fed.”

  “Well then, thank you, Lucas. Gabriel mentioned that you like horses. I do, too.”

  “Wasn’t me. He took care of them.”

  “Busy man, your father.” The remark was made more to herself, but Lucas heard her.

  “He had a ranchero. Real fine place, too. Saddlebroke wild stock. He knows what he’s about. Don’t worry.”

  Sarah heard the words of reassurance, but she was forced to listen to the underlying resentment in his voice. This time she sensed the resentment was directed at his father.

  “I wasn’t worried. But you said he had a place—what happened to it?”

  He looked up at her then as she moved closer to the table. He stared at her with intense, dark brown eyes.

  “What do you think happens when an Apache half-breed claims to own land that whites want?”

  “I don’t know, Lucas. That’s why I asked you.”

  Sarah sensed he wasn’t going to answer her. He shrugged his shoulders, his mouth, so like the shape of his father’s, tightened into a flat line. He looked away from her.

  “They wanted the water and the land. They took it. They take everything.”

  “You’re awfully young to condemn all whites by the despicable acts of a few, Lucas.”
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  “I don’t know what that word means. Sounds like something ugly. As ugly as the men that took me and my brother away to the mission school and those dogooder mission ladies.”

  “I can’t apologize for something I haven’t done. But I have learned that you can’t judge—”

  “Don’t preach to me. I had enough of that.”

  “And I won’t. But this is my house, and you will not raise your voice to me while you’re a guest here.”

  “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be with him.”

  “By him I assume you mean your father?”

  “Yes.”

  Sarah decided to back off. She was learning more than she wanted to about Rio’s problems with his son. She wasn’t about to get emotionally involved with them.

  She moved quickly from pantry to table assembling bowls and ingredients for making biscuits, flapjacks and corn bread. With a smooth economy of motion, she filled the kettle with water, added dried beans, then set the kettle on the back burner. An onion and a few dried chili peppers went into the same pot.

  Sarah measured out flour into two bowls. She smiled at Lucas. “I know you like corn bread. I’ll make that next”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Gabriel. From the amount he claimed to eat, I guess you traveled a far piece before the storm drove you to seek shelter here.”

  “You asking or telling?”

  Sarah took a deep breath and once more prayed for additional patience. “I’m asking, Lucas.”

  “We came a piece.”

  “I hope you gave your horses some grain. It had to be hard riding through the storm.”

  “Didn’t have any.”

  “Oh?” Sarah added buttermilk to the biscuit mix. “What happened? Did they steal them or shoot them?”

  “They?” Lucas asked with all the wariness of a cornered wolf.

  “Gabriel mentioned that they—whoever they are—shot at your father.”

  “My little brother talks too much.”

  “A trait you don’t share. If you’re in trouble I could help.”

  Sarah! The warning came too late. What had happened to her resolve not to get involved?

  Sarah gave up using the spoon on the thickened biscuit mix. She plunged her hands into the bowl to work the dough. Not once did she look at Lucas while he appeared to mull over her offer.