Chase the Fire

by Barbara Ankrum

  "What kind of a contract?" Chase asked.

  "Sixty broke geldings by first of August," Early answered. "Army mounts. They ain't got much use for mares."

  Chase had a feeling he'd regret asking his next question. "How many have you got already?"

  "Twenty-five. Not all of 'em broke, an' not enough men to do the job."

  "I've still got you, Early," Libby argued. "Bodine, Miguel and his son; Straw, for what he's worth. And me. That's six."

  Early shook his head. "It ain't enough. Straw ain't good for much but shoein' and feedin' stock. Miguel'll do to cross the river with, but Esteban ain't yet a full grow'd man. An' Bodine... well, he's got more guts than you could hang on a fence, but he's a jingle-bob shy of bein' all there, if'n you know what I mean."

  Chase watched Elizabeth sink despondently into the chair behind her.

  "No one will hire on here at the wages I'm offering," she said. "Nate and Wilson only stayed on as long as they did out of respect for Malachi."

  "Who's Malachi?" Chase's question bought the attention of both Libby and Early.

  "Malachi Honeycutt," the foreman answered. "He was Miz Libby's father-in-law. Died here, oh, four months ago or so. Heart just plumb give out. Never did get over Lee dyin' in the war."

  Chase remembered the fresh grave he'd glimpsed when they'd been riding in. The pieces to the puzzle of Libby Honeycutt were starting to fall together in his mind. The hell of it was, the more he discovered about her, the more he felt responsible. She'd told him she wasn't any of his business. But, damn it, he'd seen enough to know she was sinking fast—and without a branch to hold on to.

  Chase fingered the locket, nestled against him as it had been these past two years. Hell and damnation! He should have given it to her hours ago.

  "What about you, Whitlaw?" Early asked, barging uncannily into Chase's troubled thoughts. Chase shifted his stance uneasily. Libby's cool gray eyes came up to warily meet his gaze, sending a knot to twisting in his gut.

  The foreman's gaze narrowed as he sized Chase up. "We could use a feller like you around here. If'n yer lookin' fer work, you just walked yerself smack into a job."

  Chapter 4

  The four walls of the small room seemed to close in on Chase. Good God, how had he gotten himself into such a mess? Work for Libby Honeycutt? It was impossible. Out of the question.

  Wasn't it?

  Hell yes.

  Yet, he realized it was exactly what he'd been considering for the past hour. Chase mentally throttled the rampant feelings that had dogged him since he'd gotten here. He had a job to do all right, but it had nothing to do with breaking horses and fixing leaky roofs.

  He let out a harsh breath and shook his head, pulling his gaze from Libby. "No." He pushed away from the chair and strode purposefully over to retrieve his hat near the fire.

  Early smoothed his thumb and forefinger down the brush of hair above his lip and studied the other man. "No, you ain't lookin' fer work? Or no, you ain't lookin' fer it here."

  Chase brushed at the still-wet leather brim of his hat, absentmindedly reshaping it with his long, tanned fingers. "You're barking up the wrong tree, Parker." He settled the low-crowned hat on his head and reached for his oilcloth coat. "I can't help you."

  "Wasn't me I was thinkin' of." Early's gaze followed the other man's movements. The storm outside clattered hard against the outer walls of the adobe, and a peal of thunder rumbled again close by.

  Chase glanced at Libby. "I can't help her either."

  Libby rose from her chair, throwing her shoulders straight back. "Well, you needn't talk about me as if I weren't here!" She glared first at Chase, then at her foreman. "Either one of you. I'm perfectly capable of speaking for myself, just as Mr. Whitlaw is. If he says he can't stay on, we'll have to accept that. There's no sense in trying to back the man into a corner, Early."

  Early chewed on the edge of his mustache and looked at the tips of his muddy boots. "Maybe backin' somebody else into the corner you've got yerself into, ain't the worst that could happen, Miz Libby. Anyways, I'm thinkin' Mr. Whitlaw here is the kind of man who makes decisions by his own self. Ain't me or nobody else gonna make 'em for him."

  Chase didn't reply. He merely shrugged on his leather-caped oilcloth coat.

  "My offer to spend the night in the bunkhouse still stands, Mr. Whitlaw," Libby told him. "There can't be any place so important to get to, you'd ought risk being out in this storm again."

  Chase hesitated in the doorway. With the boy and Early Parker standing here, this was no time to tell her what he'd come to say. He decided it could wait until morning. "I'm not partial to bunkhouses, Mrs. Honeycutt," he said looking toward the sound of the rain. "But if it wouldn't put you out any, I'd be obliged for the use of the loft in the barn tonight."

  Her shoulders seemed to relax a little. "You're more than welcome to it."

  "Thanks." He glanced at the foal stretched out asleep near the fire. "You want me to take her with me to the barn? She'll be a lot of trouble tonight. I don't mind looking after her."

  "No, thank you. That won't be necessary. It's only for a few hours, and I can handle that. In the morning, I'll put her with Ruby."

  Chase nodded and touched the brim of his hat. "Well, I'll say good night then. Thank you for the supper, Mrs. Honeycutt. It was a fine meal."

  "And thank you for your help tonight, Mr. Whitlaw. I'm afraid I wasn't very gracious in accepting it," she admitted, "but I'm not sure we could have saved the foal without you."

  Chase felt a wave of regret sweep through him, wondering how it would have been if they'd met another time, another place. Stubborn and proud. She was both those things and more. So much more. "Good night then."

  "Hey, Chase!" Tad's voice stopped him as he was halfway out the door. "You gonna let me feed Blue in the morning?"

  Chase gave the boy a tight smile, hefted his saddlebags onto his shoulder and picked up his Henry rifle. "Sure. I'll be counting on it." He turned and, without looking back, headed out into the black cocoon of rain.

  Tad moved to his mother's side, staring with her out the door. "He's gonna leave tomorrow, ain't he, Ma?"

  Libby ran her fingers through the boy's white-blond hair. "It's for the best, I think. Men like Chase Whitlaw never stay in one place too long. We'll be just fine, you'll see," she said with more conviction than she felt. Libby glanced at Early, who looked decidedly unconvinced. "You'll see," she repeated, turning away from the door.

  * * *

  The first streaks of dawn that filtered into the barn found Chase staring vacantly—as he'd been doing for the better part of the night—at the rafters of the low-slung roof above him. It wasn't the lack of sleep that bothered him. He'd battled insomnia since the war, and what sleep he got was often punctuated by hellish nightmares and remembrances of things best forgotten. No, his restlessness was different this time. His troubled thoughts were focused on the golden-haired woman he'd walked away from last night.

  Absently, his fingers caressed the smooth, silver locket in his hand. Holding it didn't seem to make his decision any clearer, though he'd hoped it would. Instead, it made everything more complex. With a practiced flick of one finger, he popped the locket open. In the pale morning light, he stared at the picture within.

  Libby's flaxen hair was pulled back tight, concealing its beauty. Her delicate mouth held a shy, almost sad smile. Why hadn't he noticed that sadness before? He'd seen it last night too, although he was sure she hadn't intended for him to. The daguerreotype couldn't capture her vibrancy, her spirit. It was that inner fire that held him here now, when he should have been long on his way.

  Chase broke off a piece of hay and twirled the stem between his teeth with his tongue, pondering his dilemma.

  She needs help. Help I could give her.

  You didn't come here to get involved.

  Who said anything about being involved? All I want to do is help the woman out for awhile. I could use the job. She could use my experience. H
ell, she's just stubborn enough to dig herself an early grave by trying to make this place work. If her husband were still around, she wouldn't be in this damn situation.

  Yeah, and it was your bullet that helped to kill him, remember?

  It was war. He was aiming for my heart as well.

  So what? Do you think that will matter to her? Do you think she'll let you work here once she finds out that little detail?

  Chase slammed his eyes shut, running into the same brick wall he'd been hitting all night. She wouldn't.

  Damn right, she wouldn't.

  Disgusted, he gathered his gear and climbed down from the haymow. He brushed the flecks of hay off his clothes and straightened, contemplating a course of action. Meeting the flesh and blood Elizabeth Honeycutt last night had been akin to taking a swift, unexpected punch to the gut.

  Why was he having such a hard time giving her the damn little trinket? For two years now—during the last, violent year of the war as he lay in a hospital bed recuperating, and in the year that followed—the locket had burned a hole in his pocket and his conscience. It was time he was shed of it. Long past time. He shoved the locket back into his pocket.

  He'd told her he couldn't stay. So why couldn't he just give it to her and get the hell out?

  Heedless of that cautioning inner voice, he veered toward the narrow tool room, picked up a heavy ax, and headed to the fallen cottonwood he'd caught sight of last night. It had splintered several rails of the corral during the storm.

  As the sharp edge of the blade bit into the wood, Chase savored the feel of the jolt that traveled up his arm and reverberated through his body. He swung again and again, working his way up the slender trunk, venting his frustration on that fallen tree. Featherlike white seeds shook loose of the spring blossoms and drifted like snow on the morning air currents. For Chase, the chore blotted out all arguments, pro and con. All that remained was the wood, fragmenting beneath the honed blade.

  * * *

  Libby awoke to the dull thunking sound of an ax biting into wood. The steady rhythm invaded her sleepy mind as if it had been a part of the fitful dream she'd been having only moments ago. She blinked and rubbed her eyes, sitting up straighter in the old cherrywood rocker that sat near the banked fire. She stretched out her denim-clad legs, then reached up to massage the back of her neck. She hadn't bothered to change into nightclothes last night, knowing she'd spend little time sleeping. Her achy stiffness reminded her that she would have been better off curled up on the floor beside the demanding foal than sitting up all night in the rocker.

  The animal had awakened her on and off, and Libby had fed it the mare's milk as Chase Whitlaw had instructed.

  Whitlaw.

  Unbidden, he invaded her thoughts, just as he had all night while she had lain awake: his green eyes, impossibly broad shoulders, and—worst of all—the memory of his long slender fingers touching hers, sending unwanted tingles up her arm. The very air around him seemed charged with blatant masculinity. Libby squeezed her eyes shut, shaking off the thought. What's wrong with you, Libby, thinking of that stranger in such a... a carnal way?

  Heaven knew, it had been a long, long time since she'd even thought of a man in those terms. Why, not even with her husband, Lee, had she—

  Libby cut off the thought before it could come to full fruition. There was no sense dredging up what might or might not have been between her and Lee. She had loved him always. Their marriage had been the natural culmination of years of friendship. And while the transition from friend to lover had been awkward for them both, the birth of their son, Tad, had cemented the bond between them as nothing else could have. Yes, she thought, Lee had loved her as well, though he had seldom said so. She had to believe that.

  Libby rubbed the bridge of her nose with the tips of her fingers. She'd gotten used to being without Lee. In fact, it was hard for her to picture him before he'd gone off to war—he'd been strong then, health and, she'd thought, invincible.

  Very much like the man who'd slept in her barn. The thought came like a gust of cool wind.

  She glanced toward the window. Whitlaw was no doubt gone already and it was for the best. What she didn't need in her life right now was a man who flustered her by simply being in the same room.

  Libby stretched out her stiff legs. As she stirred, so did the foal. Blinking large, brown eyes, she stared at Libby and nickered softly. Then, without warning the animal gathered her legs under her and lurched to a wobbly standing position.

  "Ah, feeling better, huh, girl?" Libby crooned with a smile. "I'd better get you out of here before you hurt yourself or my house." Wrapping her left arm around the front of the foal's chest, Libby grabbed her tail with her other hand and steered her awkwardly toward the door. She lifted the latch with her elbow and swung the door open, guiding the animal outside. "It's time you got acquainted with Ruby. I think you're going to like each other."

  As Libby passed the corner of the house with the foal, she saw him and stopped dead.

  "Oh," she murmured under her breath. She straightened and released her hold on the foal. The pale morning light washed over Chase Whitlaw's naked back as he bent to the task of cutting up the cottonwood which had, only yesterday, shaded part of her corral.

  "Oh, my," she repeated in a barely audible whisper, gaping at both the man and the destruction. Why was Whitlaw still here, and what was he doing chopping up her tree? Libby swallowed back the questions. She was suddenly inexplicably glad he hadn't left without saying goodbye.

  She watched him, transfixed and unnoticed. The powerful muscles in his back and arms bunched as he reared back for another blow. A fined sheen of sweat coated his tanned skin despite the morning chill that still clung to the air.

  After a moment, he stopped to toss a log aside, then turned, as if he suddenly sensed she was there. He swiped his forearm across his mouth. His expression told her nothing, though the dark circles beneath his eyes said he hadn't slept much better than she had.

  Reaching automatically for his shirt, he shrugged it on. "Morning."

  She cleared the frog that had leaped into her throat. "Good morning." His limp, though still there, was less noticeable this morning, Libby decided, watching him saunter toward her. "I'm surprised to see you still here. I... I thought you'd be long gone by now."

  So did I, Chase thought. The foal, like some wild thing she'd gentled, stood still at her side, watching him, too. Chase's gaze roamed over the wisps of burnished golden hair that haloed her face where it had come loose from her night braid. Her stunning eyes met his. Even after an undoubtedly sleepless night, Libby Honeycutt was prettier than a field full of wild lupines. The sight of her sent heat spiraling through him.

  "I noticed this tree came down in the storm last night, and thought you could use a hand with it."

  "My men would have gotten to it eventually, after they'd nursed their hangovers from last night," she added with a smile. "Thanks. It looks like I owe you another meal."

  Chase dismissed the debt with a dip of his dark brows. "You don't owe me a thing," he told her, buttoning his shirt. Glancing up at the thin curl of smoke coming from her chimney, he knew she hadn't even started a proper fire yet. "But I wouldn't turn down a cup of coffee later if you get some brewing."

  "That seems like the least I can do," she answered. "There'll be a cup waiting for you."

  Chase flashed her a smile. He liked the sound of that. Too much.

  Without warning the foal gave its head a shake and made a little hopping buck in Libby's direction.

  "Hey!" She laughed as the foal collided with her hip. "Settle down, you!" The foal, spooky as a gawky fawn, looked up at Libby.

  Chase stepped forward to corral the foal in his arms. "She's feeling her oats this morning I see. You gonna put her with the mare?

  Libby nodded, a pleased smile on her face. "That's the idea, but she seems to have a mind of her own now that she's gotten a little food in her."

  Chase bent down and easily lifted
the foal in his arms. "Let's go."

  As he sauntered off, carrying the foal, Libby briefly contemplated arguing with him about helping her with it, but decided against it.

  The air inside the barn was sharp with the scent of damp earth, hay, and horses. From her stall, Ruby dropped her neck across the stall door and snorted, picking up the scent of the young horse. The foal responded in kind as Chase set her down.

  Chase led the mare out and tied her up by her halter, so she'd be less apt to kick the smaller horse if she were so inclined. Libby guided the foal up toward the mare's head so she could get a good whiff of her.

  "You ready to be a mama again, girl?" Chase asked, stroking the mare's muzzle soothingly. "Here's your chance."

  Libby's gaze took in Chase's strong, gentle hands calming the mare. She held her breath as the mare bent to sniff the baby, then threw her head up with a snort, causing the wobbly foal to take a surprised step back. Ruby shook her mane and pulled against the ropes that held her.

  "Easy, girl," Libby soothed, patting the mare's neck.

  "Don't get in the way of her hooves," Chase warned. "If she should take it into her head, she could get pretty ugly about all this."

  Libby looked across the mare's back at Chase. "You don't have to worry about Ruby. She'd never hurt me, and I seriously doubt she'd hurt the foal either. Some horses are born mothers, and Ruby is one of them. Why, since her foal died a few days ago, she's been trying to steal one from every mare on the place."

  "I hope you're right," Chase answered, eying the pair of horses. For Libby's sake, he did. He'd hate to see her have to put a perfectly healthy foal down for lack of a mother. But he noticed the determined look in Libby's eyes. She is one who doesn't accept defeat easily, he decided. From personal experience, he knew that could be both a blessing and a curse.

  Libby watched with growing concern. The baby became more aggressive in her approach, cruising along the mare's flank, making little smacking noises with her mouth, instinctively searching for the nourishment she knew was nearby. Repeatedly, the mare moved just out of the foal's reach, snorting impatiently. Libby may not have known about gloves making nipples, but she knew what to do now. She'd seen Lee and Malachi put orphaned foals with dams before.