Larkspur

by Dorothy Garlock

  Buck watched her intently. She didn’t smile. Her face was set in a blank mask and her lashes veiled her eyes, allowing only a thin glittering line of blue to show between her gold-tipped lashes. She didn’t speak for a long while, and when she did, her voice was a breath above a whisper.

  “Who is the man in the grave at Big Timber?”

  “I don’t know. Gilly found him. There was nothing on him to say who he was. We got the idea to put something of Moss’s on him and let someone else find him. If they found Moss dead, they’d stop looking for him. I had no idea that Moss had a will. I thought it would take a while to find next of kin and it would give me time.”

  Kristin stood, turned her back to him and went to the workbench. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She had to believe in the man’s sincerity. He had done what he had thought best. The small lie he had told was certainly overshadowed by the care he had given to her uncle. How many men would have gone to so much trouble to keep one old man alive?

  “Kristin?”

  She turned back. Buck was standing beside the table, his black hair tousled as if he had just come in out of a windstorm. His dark face was lined with concern.

  “I was too quick to judge you. I think now you did what you had to do.”

  “Nothing is changed, Kristin.”

  “I know. For all practical purposes Uncle Yarby died a year and a half ago.”

  “You will stay?”

  She lifted her hands in a futile gesture and her eyes filled with tears.

  “I have nowhere to go.”

  Buck came around the table and gripped her shoulders with his hands. She was too proud to turn away and faced him with tears sliding down her cheeks.

  “You have a place. This is yours now. All yours.” His voice was smooth, but rough around the edges.

  “Not the . . . house.”

  “It’s all yours,” he repeated. “If you want it. You like it here, don’t you? You like the Larkspur?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Do you like it enough to fight for it?”

  Her legs trembled, and her voice wavered out of control.

  “If I stay, I’ll be another Anderson for you to take care of.”

  “No. We’ll be partners . . . just like Moss and I were before he . . . took sick.”

  Even as he said the words, an inner voice was protesting. No, not like that. I want you for my life’s mate. It’s unthinkable that I live my life without you by my side as my wife.

  Without conscious effort he was drawing her closer to him. Finally his hands slid behind her back and she was leaning against him, her head pressed against his shoulder. Buck turned his face into her hair.

  “Please, Kristin. Please, stay here with me.”

  His words echoed to the core of her being. What did he mean? She summoned all her determination to ask. Her voice came out thin and weak.

  “As housekeeper?”

  “That, and only that, if it’s what you want.”

  “It’s too soon for it to be anything . . . else.”

  She moved back to look at him. He didn’t answer for such a long while that her eyes wavered beneath the intensity of his. Her lower lip quivered and, as she stared up at him, tears filled her eyes. He lifted a finger and wiped a teardrop from her cheek. Her skin was as soft and smooth as the down on a bird’s breast.

  Lord help him to say the right words. Happiness such as he never dreamed of having was right here in this sweet woman. He had lived his life among rough men while she had known only kindness and plenty. He had scrounged, fought, even stolen in order to eat. And he had killed to stay alive. He was rough, and at times brutal. Life had made him that way. Somehow he had to make her see him as a man who needed love and who had love to give—one who would stand between her and a stampeding herd of buffalo if it came to that.

  “I’m trying to say the right words. It’s too soon for you, Kristin. If you never want me that way, I’ll understand. I’m not like the men you knew back in Wisconsin. I’ve never known a home with a woman in it. I’ve never even had a home until I built this one. I didn’t even know what to buy to put in it.”

  “You . . . did fine—”

  Buck felt a stirring of hope. His chest warmed with the quickening of his heart. He had to find a way to make her want him, not only his protection, but him. What would she think if she knew that each night since she came here he had lain in his bunk thinking of her? He had even dreamed that someday she would carry his name, have his children—

  “If you say the word, Gilly will take you to Helena, or anywhere else you want to go. I’ll stay here and fight for our land.” The words were like ashes in his mouth, but words that needed to be said. “I don’t want you to stay because you have nowhere to go. I want you to stay because you want to make the Larkspur your home, with me, or without me.”

  “Like you said, nothing has changed. I never came here thinking I’d meet Uncle Yarby. I’ll try not to be trouble—”

  “You’ll be the sweetest trouble I’ve ever had!” he blurted and fear knifed through him that he had ruined everything.

  But she smiled.

  A great swell of joy washed over him. He felt a tremor run through him as if the floor they were standing on was shaking. Without thinking about it, he folded her in his arms gently, but securely.

  “You won’t be sorry.” His words came from a tight throat.

  “I know.” Her words were muffled against his neck.

  Kristin didn’t know when his hands slid from her shoulders down her back to cross and splay over her rib cage. It seemed so natural to be standing there close to him, enfolded in his arms, leaning on his strength. Her hands moved, her arms went around him and she hugged his great, hard body to her. She felt the gentle pull of his beard when he bent his head, and pressed his cheek to hers. She heard the thump of his heartbeat, smelled the familiar smell of his buckskin shirt.

  She wished that she could stop time and stay there with him forever. But deep in her heart she knew he was only being kind, consoling her in her grief.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bonnie set a pitcher of dark sorghum syrup on the table where a half dozen men were eating breakfast and a platter of flapjacks on the back table where two strangers were already on their second cups of coffee.

  “Too gol-durn bad to end up like that. The old man was one of the first to settle here.”

  “Yeah. I liked to listen to the old bugger spin his yarns ’bout the olden days.”

  On her way back to the kitchen to bring in a platter of fried meat, Bonnie stopped beside the table, not wanting to believe they were talking about the old man who came every morning for his breakfast and who had become so dear to her and her brother. She had to ask:

  “Who . . . are you talking about?” Bonnie glanced at the empty chair at the table. She knew before she heard the answer to her question and felt a sickness in the pit of her stomach.

  “Old Cletus.”

  “Did . . . is he . . . hurt bad?”

  “He was killed last night, ma’am. Thought you knowed that.”

  “Cletus Fuller?”

  “Don’t reckon I ever heard the Fuller part. ’Twas the old man who comes here to eat ever’ mornin’.”

  “Oh . . . no! They wouldn’t—” Bonnie’s lips began to quiver. Her hand flew to her mouth and her eyes filled with tears.

  “You . . . sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He was pistol-whupped last night or worked over with a club. Hardly a bone not broke, but he had grit. He managed to crawl out to the yard and died there.”

  “Lady ain’t needin’ to hear that.” A black-bearded railroad worker said crisply. “Can’t ya see she’s all tore up?”

  “ ’Tis what happened.” After Bonnie went to the far end of the kitchen to lean against the wash bench, the one talking added in a low voice, “I could’a said some dirty, sonofabitchin’ coward, too low-down to fight anybody but a old man, broke his leg, then beat his face to a pulp. Fe
ller that found him said it looked like they was scared he warn’t dead, went back, found him in the yard and caved in his skull.”

  “Why’d anyone do that?”

  “Old Fuller was a damn good wheelwright in his day.”

  “Can’t think he’d have any money to speak of, but could be somebody wanted what little he had.”

  “Town ain’t what it was. I seen the time when all ya had to look out for was Indians. Nowadays a man’s got to be mighty careful. Did they ever find out who busted up Bernie?”

  Someone gave a derisive snort. “Ain’t likely with the lawman we got.”

  “I ain’t heard a word, and it’s been over a week.”

  “That cold-eyed feller that usually sits at the back table ain’t here this mornin’.”

  “Some say he’s a hired gun.”

  “Might be. But I’m thinkin’ beatin’ a one-legged man and a old feller like Cletus ain’t his style. He’d not want to get hisself dirty. Wouldn’t doubt him walkin’ up and shootin’ ’em in the head.”

  Bonnie just faintly heard the murmur of conversation around the table. She cried quietly for a few minutes, then washed her face with a wet cloth and dried her eyes. Tandy, the old camp cook they had hired to help out until Bernie was able to work again, carried a platter of meat to the table and then went to the cookstove and ladled out flapjack batter onto the iron grill.

  The screen door opened and Mike Bruza, followed by a tall, thin, unkempt looking man, came into the eatery. Mike stood just inside the door while his small, narrow-set eyes traveled over each person in the room. They finally landed on Bonnie and traveled up and down her body like a searching hand.

  “Mornin’, darlin’. I’m here.”

  Bonnie’s lips curled in a silent sneer before she turned her back. Sudden silence filled the room. Mike and the man with him sat down at the far end of the rear table occupied by the two strangers who were eating a stack of flapjacks from the platter Bonnie had set on the table.

  Mike was in a good mood. He laughed too loud and talked too loud to the hawk-nosed man who wore his two guns strapped to his thighs.

  “I like to eat my vittles served up by a purty gal. Ain’t she just as purty as a speckled pup? Fry me up a half dozen eggs, darlin’. I’m hungrier than a ruttin’ moose.”

  “You look like one, too.” Bonnie’s voice was loud and clear and filled with suppressed anger. She wrapped a rag around the handle of the coffeepot and refilled the cups on the front table.

  Mike guffawed. Not a sound came from the other men in the room. Bonnie went back in the kitchen.

  “Ya want that I wait on ’im, miss?” During the week Tandy had been working with Bonnie, he had become exceptionally fond of the troubled young woman. He scooped the flapjacks off the grill and filled the platter.

  “No. I’ll do it when I get around to it.”

  A red cloud of rage for what had been done to Cletus by Kyle Forsythe’s bullyboys had settled over Bonnie. It calmed her and blotted out her grief, her fear and her common sense.

  “Purty little split-tail,” Mike bellowed. “Brin’ my coffee. If I have to come get it, I’ll get me a kiss for my trouble.”

  Bonnie ignored him and went to the strangers sitting at the end of the table.

  “Can I get you something else? The sign says eat all you want.”

  “Nothin’ more for me, ma’am, ’cepts maybe more coffee.” The older man spoke with a distinctive Texas drawl.

  “You, sir?” Bonnie looked from one man to the other thinking they could be father and son. She judged the young man to be near her and Bernie’s age.

  “The flapjacks were mighty good, ma’am. I’d be obliged for a few more.”

  “Guess ya can tell my friend here’s just a growin’ boy, ma’am.” When the older man grinned, his leathery skin crinkled and the drooping gray mustache bracketed a wide, firm mouth.

  “I’ll tell Tandy to cook up another batch.”

  “Honey, I’m gettin’ tired you ignorin’ me.” There was an edge to Mike’s voice.

  “Good,” Bonnie retorted. “If I’m lucky, you’ll get tired enough to leave.”

  The room was quiet. Not even the thump of a cup or the clink of eating forks broke the silence. Bonnie once again wrapped the rag around the handle of the coffeepot. She refilled the strangers’ cups and turned to go back to the kitchen. Mike reached out and grabbed a handful of her skirt.

  “I guess ya didn’t hear me, sugartit. Pour my coffee.”

  “Turn loose my skirt, you sorry piece of horse-dung!”

  “That ain’t no way to talk to the man what’s going to take old Del’s place. I’m thinkin’ he ain’t comin’ back. But don’t ya worry none, I’ll see to it you ain’t bothered by nobody . . . but me.”

  “Del Gomer doesn’t have a place for you to take, you . . . pig-ugly dumbhead! You’re stinkin’ up my restaurant. Get out and take your two-bit friend with you.”

  “Whoa now, honey.” Anger turned Mike’s face red, but his voice was dangerously soft. “Yo’re bein’ a mite feisty. Old Del’s not here to ride shotgun for ya. He took the train for Bozeman this mornin’. Yo’re goin’ to be needin’ a man to look out for ya—”

  “You rotten coward! I’d sooner be looked after by a rabid dog!” Bonnie spat the words as her anger took control. “Someday the decent men in this town will hang the likes of you who beat a crippled-up old man to death. Hang that land-grabbin’ jackass, too.”

  “Watch yore mouth, gal. You better be knowin’ who’s boss in this town.”

  “It isn’t you. Not even a mule’s ass like Forsythe would put you in charge of anything. Now let go of my dress.”

  “Make me.” He leered up at her.

  “If that’s the way you want it.”

  Bonnie swung the coffeepot around and tipped it. A stream of steaming hot coffee spilled onto Mike from his chestbone to his crotch.

  He let out a roar, sprang to his feet and drew back his fist.

  “You . . . bitch!”

  Eight men were on their feet, but Bonnie saw only Mike’s hateful face. She swung the pot at his head and let go. He ducked. The pot hit the wall behind him and splattered his back with the hot liquid.

  “Yeow!” His bellow filled the room and spilled out onto the street. He lunged for her.

  “Don’t . . . touch her.”

  Mike looked into the barrel of a Texas six-shooter held by the gray-haired stranger.

  “Draw and I’ll kill you.” The Texan’s young companion had moved swiftly and shoved the barrel of his gun into the ribs of the hawk-nosed man who crouched with his hands poised over his weapons.

  “Godamighty!” Mike was dancing in pain. “Ya goddamn whore!”

  The rest of the men in the room were on their feet. Those with guns had drawn them. Tandy stood at the end of the table with a long butcher’s knife.

  “Don’t you dare call me that, you belly-crawling . . . snake!”

  “Godamighty,” Mike said again. “Ya’ve scalded me!”

  “I’d like nothing more than to peel off your worthless hide!” Bonnie shouted. “You take pay from that thieving scalawag to push folks off their land, beat ’em up, and kill old men. You’re cowards, lower than a . . . than a dung-eatin’ worm and just as spineless!”

  “Ya’d best shut yore mouth!” Mike’s humiliation at being faced down by the girl and the strangers overrode the pain of the burns. He started for the door. When he neared Bonnie, he stiffened his arm and shoved her. Instantly the Texan’s gun barrel was under his chin, pushing his face toward the ceiling.

  “Where I come from we treat ladies with respect. Apologize.”

  “She . . . started . . . it—”

  “You started it. You grabbed her dress and told her to make you let go. ’Pears to me she did just that.”

  Mike rolled his eyes toward Bonnie. He almost choked on the word, but he managed to murmur: “Sorry.”

  The Texan’s young friend prodded the other man towa
rd the door with his gun barrel.

  “Put your guns on the counter. I never trust a man with two tied-down guns.”

  “Goddamn you—”

  “Seems to me I’ve seen your face before. One as ugly as yours would stick in a man’s mind.”

  The man carefully placed two well-cared-for Smith & Wesson pistols on the counter.

  “I’ll be back for these,” he growled menacingly.

  The Texan lowered his gun to allow Mike to go to the door. Before he went out, he looked first at the face of each man still standing at the front table.

  “I ain’t forgettin’ this.” He directed his next words to the Texan. “Ya made a mistake, mister. If ya got brains a’tall ya’ll fork your horses and get outta this town . . . fast.” His hate-filled eyes focused on Bonnie. “The cripple got off easy last time ’cause Del stuck his bill in. He ain’t here now. Don’t try to leave. I’ll find ya wherever ya go.”

  After Mike Bruza and the other man left, Bonnie sank down on a chair at the end of the table as if her legs refused to hold her.

  “I’ve got all of you in trouble. I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry—” She rested her face on her folded arms and silent sobs shook her shoulders.

  Thump, thump, thump. The door was flung open and Bernie staggered in, the straps holding his stump to the peg loose and only half-fastened. He steadied himself against the counter with his good hand.

  “What’s going on? Who was yellin’?”

  The voice coming from the swollen, cut lips was loud and strident. Both of Bernie’s eyes were surrounded with dark bruises, even though it had been ten days since the beating. His battered face was almost unrecognizable to the men who knew him. The fingers on his right hand were spread and bound to small, thin boards.

  Bonnie was on her feet instantly.

  “I told you to stay in bed. How did you get down those stairs?”

  “What did he do? I saw him come in and started putting on my peg.”

  Bernie spotted the two strangers and reached with his good hand for the pistol stuck in the waistband of his britches. Bonnie moved quickly between them and put her hand out to help her brother keep his balance.