Chase the Fire

by Barbara Ankrum

  The dwelling was flanked on the right by a wooden barn, from which the soft glow of lantern light spilled. Another adobe building, slightly larger than the first, he guessed was a bunkhouse. A corral lined the area between the two structures, and a remuda of horses stood nose-to-rump beneath the shelter of two cottonwood trees. Anger seeped through him again as he realized the kind of life she must have. Why the hell hadn't she sold out and moved in with family somewhere?

  Libby breathed a sigh of relief as she spotted Tad through the open barn doors, still inside hitching up the team. She called out to him, but the pounding rain swallowed up the sound of her voice. Behind her, she saw Whitlaw drawing near with the foal, and she dismounted, hitching Lady, for the moment, to the rail beside the house.

  "If you would, please take her inside," she told him, pointing toward the adobe house. "It's warmer in there, and she'll be too weak to try to nurse from old Ruby anyway." Grabbing hold of his reins, she tied them to the hitching post and waited for him to comply.

  "In the house?"

  She ran a hand down her wet face and nodded.

  He looked like he wanted to argue, but he bit it back. Instead, he simply slid the foal up off his thighs and scooted back, resting the bulk of her against the saddle tree, partially supporting her with one hand. He swung free of the saddle, but as his right foot hit the ground, he grimaced and stumbled slightly, muttering a breathy curse through gritted teeth.

  Libby heard the sound and ducked under the neck of his horse, coming up beside him. "Did you hurt yourself, Mr. Whitlaw?"

  He scowled down at her. "No," he returned with a growl. He gathered the foal back into his arms.

  She didn't believe him. Not for a minute. The pain she'd seen in his eyes was real. But she wasn't about to argue the point with a man who had given her a look that would back down a grizzly bear.

  With a critical eye, she followed behind him up the stream-rutted pathway to the low-beamed covered portico. His collarless blue cotton shirt and dark wool vest were plastered to his broad shoulders and arms. Her eyes were drawn downward to his tight-hipped torso and long, muscular legs. It was the right leg he favored, she decided, appraising him as she would one of her geldings. The limp might not even have been noticeable, except to one with an eye trained to spot such things. The fact that he worked so hard to conceal it told her something about the man.

  "Are you going to get the door or should I just kick it open?"

  His voice broke into her thoughts, and she realized, with a rush of heat, that she'd been staring unabashedly at his backside.

  "Land sakes, no!" she cried, lifting the flimsy wooden latch. "This door's only hanging by a thread anyway." She swung it open for him and stepped out of his way. She watched the finesse with which he fit both himself and the foal through the narrow opening. Not an easy task. Alone, the man seemed to dwarf everything else in the small room.

  "Over here," she told him, directing him to a corner. "By the fireplace." Libby shoved a fresh log and a handful of tinder onto the banked fire to build it up. The dry wood caught immediately sending a blast of warmth into the chill air.

  Libby watched the foal struggle in Whitlaw's arms. Her spindly legs flew out in all directions at once, causing him to grunt in pain. With a soothing voice and a gentle hand on her neck, he quieted the frightened creature again, then obligingly delivered his load onto the floor near the warmth of the mesquite-scented blaze in the fireplace. The hard-packed earthen floor was covered with a crisply woven wool jerga, whose black-and white-checkered pattern lent warmth to the plain, sparsely furnished room. Several chests and a cupboard lined the walls; a polished wood rocker sat near the fire beside a worn, burgundy horsehair sofa.

  Libby brushed her hands against her pants, shoved her hat down tighter on her head and headed for the door.

  "Where are you going?" he asked, straightening to his full height.

  She turned back to look at him. Lord, he was tall. He was six-three if he was an inch. She shivered again, but wasn't sure if it was from the chill or... him. "I'm going to put the horses up. They shouldn't be—"

  "No," he said, brushing past her. "I'll take care of them. You get yourself dry."

  Ignoring him, she tried to slip past him. "I'll do it—" With a grunt of surprise, she ran smack into the solid, wet wall of his chest as he stepped in front of her, blocking her path. "Oh!" she cried, splaying two hands across the sodden muscled expanse. She tried to push away from him, but his large hands bracketed her shoulders, holding her there. Beneath her fingertips she felt the steady thud of his heart against his ribs. The sensation triggered a hammering in her own chest.

  She felt the pressure of his fingers against her upper arms, where his steadying hands lingered for a moment, thumbs roving back and forth against the cold, wet fabric. Then, as abruptly as they had collided, he set her away from him. "You're cold. Stay here," he ordered. "I'll go."

  "But—"

  "You said you had a brood mare out there?" he asked.

  "Yes, but—"

  "What does she look like?"

  "I can do it—"

  "I'm sure you can. Tell me."

  Libby sighed. "She's a sorrel, in the third stall from the front. Her name is Ruby."

  He turned toward the door. "I'll get some milk for the foal and be back soon."

  "Mr. Whitlaw—"

  He stopped again and angled a look over his considerable shoulder at her. "Yeah?"

  "My son's out there. In the barn, I mean."

  He turned around fully now, a frown playing at the corners of his mouth. He blinked at her, unsure of her meaning.

  She swallowed hard. "I should tell him I'm back."

  Slowly, deliberately, Whitlaw reached up and lifted his low-crowned hat from his head. He raked his fingers through his dark, wet hair, leaving four furrows behind, and then looked up at her.

  Libby's lips fell open as she got her first good look at his face. The eyes that regarded her from under a sweep of dark lashes were the clear, green color of newly sprouted pinon needles—and were too beautiful for a man's face, she thought absurdly. Yet, they were hard eyes, dangerous—filled with the kind of trouble one could only hope to avoid in a lifetime.

  Like the rest of him, his features were unsparingly lean and taut. His face could have been sculpted by an artist's hand, but for the imperfections that made his handsomeness rugged. His nose looked as if it had been broken once and veered slightly off center. The blue smudges under his eyes betrayed a fatigue that went beyond a single night's lost sleep, and fine lines curved around his full mouth and eyes. She somehow doubted they'd been born of laughter. A pity, she thought, for his mouth looked as if it was made for smiles.

  A thin, crescent-shaped scar traced a path from his cheekbone to his hairline. The sinister quality it added didn't detract from his face in any way, but rather added to its mystique. He reminded her at that moment of a sleek, green-eyed mountain lion that prowled the high country near her ranch.

  It had taken her all of ten seconds to peruse the visage he'd offered up for inspection—for she had no doubt that was exactly what he'd done—and to decide, grudgingly, he meant them no harm. It had only taken another two or three to realize the inherent danger in prolonging her stare.

  Libby looked away and flushed guiltily. "I... I'm..." she faltered.

  "I'll give your son a hand unharnessing the wagon, Mrs. Honeycutt," he interrupted, settling the hat back on his head like an old friend, "after I introduce myself." His smile softened the hard edges of his mouth.

  She could only nod curtly and watch him head back out into the rain-swept night. Libby closed the door and leaned up against the jamb. She closed her eyes and listened to the rhythmic thudding of her heart.

  Mercy, she thought, pressing her fingertips to her lips. Who is that man?

  * * *

  Chase gathered up the reins of the two horses standing with heads down against the steady drumming of the rain, and started for the barn. Shak
en, he took his time, allowing his throbbing leg the comfort of a limp and the heartbeat hammering in his ears a chance to slow.

  Hell, he thought. This was a bad idea, coming here like this. Seeing her. He'd had nearly two years to prepare himself for this. Two years to convince himself that both of them could get through this painlessly. Two years of careful planning out the window because of the goddamned weather.

  * * *

  "Don't go, Chase. Send the damn locket out by the mails," his stepbrother Elliot had warned him back in Baltimore as Chase had packed. "Write her a letter if you have to, but stay the hell away from her. She's the widow of a Reb, for God's sake, man. You go looking for forgiveness and you're likely to find a bullet for your trouble."

  "It's not forgiveness I'm looking for," he'd countered, turning away from the man he'd practically grown up with.

  Grabbing Chase's shoulders in frustration, El had shouted, "What then? What can you possibly hope to accomplish by—"

  "I don't know!" he'd cried, jerking away. "I... I just know I have to go. Finish it."

  "Nothing good will come of it, Chase."

  * * *

  Now Elliot's words echoed in his ears. He'd had no answer for them then, nor did he tonight. He had nothing to offer her, no words of comfort or solace. Those soft feelings—the ones a man shared with a woman—had died in him, had long ago been interred with the bloody memories of the war.

  So why was he here?

  His rain-slick fingers closed around the locket he kept in his pocket. His reasons had less to do with the war than with the picture he had carried with him all this time. He couldn't explain to El that her face, a tiny photograph in a locket, had seen him through the worst of the pain when he lay near death in that godforsaken Army hospital in Washington. It was her picture the woman nursing him had pressed into his hand, thinking it a picture of his wife. How could he ever explain that he owed Elizabeth Honeycutt a debt for that? How could he explain it without sounding as if he'd lost his mind?

  The boy was fumbling with the belly-strap of the lead horse when Chase walked through the double doors of the barn and led the two horses inside. Tad's head came up with a thwack of surprise against the belly of the mare he was working on, bringing an irritated snort from the animal. At the horse's feet stood a black and white mutt of a dog. Its ears pricked up sharply at Chase's approach, and a low growl rumbled in its throat.

  Rubbing the back of his head, Tad straightened and stared at Chase from under the gelding's neck.

  "Tad, isn't it?" Chase asked, stopping a few feet away. He was instantly struck by the boy's uncanny resemblance to the Reb who still haunted his dreams. A chill shot through him.

  "That's Ma's horse. Who are you and what are you doin' with it?" the boy demanded, his eyes wide and scared.

  "Name's Chase Whitlaw. Your ma's in the house. I ran into her out in the storm and helped her bring the foal back."

  "You did?"

  "Um-hmm." Chase casually rubbed his mount's muzzle. "We sent those coyotes scattering for greener pastures, too."

  Tad moved out from behind the horse and stood before Chase. The dog moved with him as if the pair were attached at the kneecap. Amused, Chase watched the boy's huge blue eyes scan him as if he were a climbing tree and Tad were looking for the best branch to get a footing on.

  Finally Tad stuck out his hand. "Pleased to meet ya."

  Chase grinned and took the small hand in his. "Likewise." It gave him an odd feeling to close his fingers over a hand so small, yet so strong.

  "This here is Patch, my dog," the boy said, indicating the mutt who'd taken a decidedly less defensive stand beside Tad since the boy had welcomed Chase.

  Chase reached down and let the dog sniff his fingers, then scratched him behind the ears. "Nice dog."

  Tad nodded, shoved his hands in his back pockets, and shrugged at the half-hitched team. "I almost got 'em hooked up. Guess we won't be needin' 'em now."

  Chase walked over and inspected the harnesses. "Appears you did a fine job of it, too." He slapped a palm across the roan's rump and glanced at the boy. Pride lit Tad's eyes at Chase's compliment. "I imagine you're a big help to your ma around here."

  "Yeah... well... she don't—doesn't—let me help unless there's nobody else," Tad said, attacking the buckle he'd just fastened. "She's always afraid I'll get hurt or something."

  "Mothers tend to be that way," Chase agreed solemnly.

  "Was your ma like that?"

  He frowned thoughtfully, sliding the long leather latigo free from his horse's cinch. "Yup. But it was generally just a matter of learning how far I could push it. My pa usually set her straight."

  Tad dropped his head. "My pa's dead."

  Chase could have kicked himself back to Santa Fe. He glanced up at the boy. "I'm sorry, Tad."

  "He died in the war. The dirty Yanks kilt him."

  Chase swallowed hard and looked down at his hands. "A lot of good men died in the war. On both sides."

  Tad's eyes widened. "You fight in the war, too?"

  Chase fixed his gaze back on the task at hand, wedging his hand under the latigo to loosen it. "I did."

  "Maybe you knew my pa," Tad said hopefully. "His name was Honeycutt, too."

  A sick feeling rose in Chase's throat. It hadn't occurred to Tad that Chase might have fought on the other side. A boy Tad's age couldn't know how complicated the world really was, and Chase couldn't bring himself to tell him. Not yet. "It was a big war, Tad."

  Disappointed, Tad shrugged and slid the harness off the mare's back. "I know. I just thought..."

  "You know," Chase said, sliding the saddle off his horse, "Blue, here, sure has a hankering for a good meal. You think we could scratch up a flake or two of hay for him?"

  Tad brightened. "Sure. We got oats, too. He like oats?"

  A smile eased the edges off Chase's expression. "Oats are pretty near his favorite thing. Next to carrots."

  "Blue. That his name?" Tad headed for the oat barrel. "I used to have a lizard named that... pertiest lizard you ever did see...."

  Chase felt a ripple of pleasure as he listened to Tad go on about the lizard. It had been a good long time since he'd experienced a child firsthand. Tad had put the memories of his father aside as easily as he had the harnessed team. If only life could remain that uncompromisingly simple.

  * * *

  Plink. Plink.

  Plink.

  Libby captured the annoying drip of muddy rainwater in the last of her wooden bowls and stared disconsolately about the room. Rapidly filling containers were scattered everywhere. Chilled, despite her change of clothes, she rubbed her hands briskly up and down the sleeves of her red flannel shirt. The roof leaked like an old, worn-out shoe. Every time it rained it was the same story. She supposed she should be grateful that rainstorms were few and far between here on the high desert.

  Lee's father, Malachi, hadn't been one to make repairs even when his health had been good. In the four years since Lee had left for the war, the ranch had gotten more and more run-down. Starting with the roof and ending with its profits, Libby mused glumly.

  Her disappointing visit that very day with the banker in Santa Fe, Sam Darnell, had dampened but not squelched her hopes of making a go of the Double Bar H. She still had three months to round up enough horses to fill the Army's order. If she succeeded, she wouldn't need the extension Darnell was so dead set against giving her.

  She wasn't a stranger to hard work, she reasoned, giving herself a mental shake. She'd had to work her whole life. Nothing had come easily to her. Not her growing-up years back in Georgia, not her marriage, not even her son, whom she loved more than life itself. But none of that mattered. Lee used to tell her that once she had her mind set on something, she went after it with the grit of a bulldog. And thinking of that now, she guessed it was true. The ones in town who'd started calling her Crazy Libby Honeycutt for trying to hang on to this patch of land all by herself since Malachi's death four months ago didn't know
that about her.

  Libby leaned against the three-foot-wide strip of green calico that circled the walls of the outer room, protecting her clothes from the white-washed adobe. She peeked through the lace curtain toward the barn. Lantern light spilled from the half-open doors, but there was no sign yet of Tad or the stranger.

  Her fingers tightened around the sill for a moment, her watchful stare dissolving into a frown. She'd never seen Chase Whitlaw before he'd come blazing up to her in the rain, but she had the nagging feeling she should know who he was. Still, his wasn't a forgettable face. If she'd seen him before she would remember, Libby told herself reasonably, pushing away from the window.

  Still, there was something familiar—no, intimate—about the way he'd looked at her. As if he knew something about her she hadn't revealed.

  She almost laughed out loud at that crazy notion. Oh Libby, she scolded silently. You've been out in the rain too long. Reading such things into a simple straightforward look. He's a drifter. Nothing more. Nothing less. He'll be gone after a hot meal and a dry night in the barn.

  She went to the black iron stove and stirred the stew she'd thrown together earlier that day, then checked on the pan of leftover cornbread warming in the oven. The scent of it filled the small common room and made her stomach growl impatiently with hunger. Though Tad had relished his noon meal at The Exchange hotel, a real luxury she and her son rarely afforded themselves, Libby's meeting with Darnell had effectively stolen her appetite. Frankly, she hadn't even thought about food until now.

  She picked up a fresh towel and knelt beside the little foal. Warmed by the gentle blaze, the foal stared up at her with enormous brown eyes.

  "Now listen, you"—Libby took the no-nonsense approach, rubbing briskly at the shaggy brown coat—"I darned near got myself eaten trying to keep those coyotes away from you, and I did get soaked to the skin for my trouble. Not to mention having to put up with that... that know-it-all Yankee. So if you have any ideas about going the way your mother did, you'd better get them right out of your head. Dying is simply out of the question."