"Twenty-two," Lark answered crisply. "He might not be so troublesome of the children wouldn't call him 'Beaver.'"
"Twenty-two?" Rowdy echoed.
"He's in third grade," Lark said, with a strange combination of pride and defensive conviction.
Rowdy stared at her, at a loss for words.
"He's been working on his father's ranch since he was a little boy," Lark explained. "He didn't get a chance to attend school until this year."
Rowdy opened his mouth, then closed it.
Lark smiled, plainly enjoying his consternation. "Roland's best subject is reading, believe it or not. He's really quite intelligent."
"Twenty-two?" Rowdy repeated.
Lark folded her arms, tapped one foot on the frozen ground. Waited for Rowdy to take the hint and leave.
Pardner gave a sad moan as all the kids trooped back inside the schoolhouse, with Roland "Beaver" Franks bringing up the rear and casting sour looks back at Rowdy over one meaty shoulder.
"It doesn't bother you that he chases Lydia home and pulls her hair?" Rowdy asked, shoving his hat to the back of his head, peeved.
"I spoke to him about it," Lark said. "And he stopped immediately."
"Not according to Lydia, he didn't," Rowdy said. He took his grandfather Wyatt's watch out of his inside coat pocket, popped the lid with a practiced motion of one thumb and checked the hour. Ten forty-five. "What time does school let out?"
"Three o'clock," Lark answered, already turning to go. "Why?"
Rowdy didn't answer. He just looked down at Pardner and said, "Three o'clock."
Lark sighed and walked swiftly away.
When she got inside, she shut the door hard behind her.
Rowdy stayed where he was for a minute or so, pondering the presence of a twenty-two-year-old man in a schoolhouse.
Mentally he added one more item to the list of things he knew about Lark Morgan.
She was dangerously naive.
Promptly at three, Lark opened the schoolhouse door to dismiss her students, and was taken aback to see Rowdy's dog sitting patiently outside the gate.
Baffled, she descended the three narrow steps to the ground and looked down the road, first toward town, then, seeing no sign of the marshal, she scanned the countryside.
Apparently, Pardner had come alone.
Children streamed past Lark.
Terran O'Ballivan and Ben Blackstone mounted their horses, bareback, and made for the ranch. Roland lumbered by, muttering a goodbye to Lark as he went, a McGuffy 's Reader clasped in one big hand. The others left, too, the older girls, slates and tablets and school-books clutched to their chests, prattling and giggling about the dance to be held at the Cattleman's Meeting Hall on Saturday night.
Pardner watched the human parade go by, panting now.
Lydia, as usual, was the last to file out of the schoolhouse.
Pardner gave a welcoming yelp when he saw her, and rose to all four feet.
"He came to see me home, Miss Morgan!" Lydia marveled, in a whisper of high excitement, when she caught sight of the dog.
Troubled, Lark hastily banked the fire in the potbelly stove, gathered up her cloak, lunch pail and lesson books. By the time she'd locked the schoolhouse door, Pardner and Lydia were already well on their way.
In the brief time Lark had known Rowdy Rhodes, she'd seldom seen him parted from that dog, but he was nowhere around now.
Was he sick?
Injured perhaps?
Lark hurried to catch up with Lydia and her canine escort.
"Maybe Mabel will let me give him a bone," the little girl told Lark eagerly, as she joined the procession. "We had one in our soup last night, at supper."
Mabel, Lydia's very young stepmother, was "no better than she should be," by Mrs. Porter's assessment. Lydia's father, the only doctor in Stone Creek, was a lithe, delicately built man with almost womanly features and—also according to Mrs. Porter—did not wear the pants in his family. Lark had observed, upon making the doctor's acquaintance, that he seemed dreamy, and somehow detached from the world around him. She'd wondered if he took a tipple now and then, or had a habit of dosing himself with laudanum.
Still a little breathless from hurrying and at once worried about Rowdy and feeling eminently silly for doing so, Lark summoned up a smile.
They crossed the road, woman, child and dog, headed for the row of tiny clapboard houses lining Second Street. The homes were set at some distance from each other, and several had small barns. Milk cows watched their passage, from barren, postage-stamp pastures, with interest.
"You don't have to walk me home, Miss Morgan," Lydia said. "I've got this dog for company." She frowned. "Do you know his name?"
"Pardner," Lark said, feeling ridiculously proud to be the possessor of this information. "Like partner, only with a d. The way cowboys pronounce it."
"Oh," Lydia said. "I think Rover would suit him better."
"I don't think he's much of a rover," Lark answered, still glancing anxiously this way and that, expecting, even hoping, to see Rowdy somewhere close by. "Marshal Rhodes says he doesn't wander."
Pardner sticks pretty close to me, wherever we go. Wouldn 't even chase a rabbit, unless I gave him leave....
"Are you worried about something, Miss Morgan?" Lydia asked, looking up at her in concern.
"No," Lark lied. "I was just thinking about tomorrow's spelling bee."
"I guess you don't have to know which way letters are supposed to face to say what words they make," Lydia mused. She was such a serious child, desperate to do everything right.
Lark smiled and touched the little girl's shoulder gently. "You're making very good progress with your letters, Lydia," she said quietly. "You got most of them right today."
Lydia patted Pardner's back thoughtfully as they walked.
Soon they reached the Fairmont house, a modest place built close to the road. The yard was rocky dirt, and there were no trees close by. There was no barn, either—no fence and no milk cow.
It made, Lark thought, a bleak visage.
Pardner stopped when Lydia started up the foot-hardened path leading to her front door.
"I'm going to ask Mabel for that soup bone," the child called from the threshold.
Pardner and Lark waited.
"Where's Rowdy?" Lark whispered to Pardner.
Of course he didn't answer, he just looked up at her with warm, trusting brown eyes.
A moment later Lydia reappeared, her small face creased with disappointment. "Mabel won't give me the soup bone," she reported.
Lark smiled, anxious to reassure the child. "I don't think Pardner is disposed to eat right now," she said, before turning to go. "I'll see you at school tomorrow, Lydia."
She felt Lydia watching her and Pardner with a sort of clutching hunger as they walked away.
Lark fretted over Lydia, but her attention soon turned to Rowdy. It was silly to be concerned about him, she scolded herself silently, as she and the dog made their way toward the marshal's office. He was a grown man—a marshal, for heaven's sake.
He could take care of himself.
Nevertheless, Lark followed Pardner, who seemed to know precisely where he was going. Mrs. Porter would be waiting at home, with tea and gossip, and Lark knew she shouldn't be tardy.
Still, she stuck right with Pardner, instead of turning toward the boardinghouse. Her shoes pinched and she was cold and she wanted that tea with a powerful yen. What in the world was she doing, tramping through town behind a dog?
Pardner bypassed the jailhouse, trotting around back.
Lark trekked on.
They passed the little lean-to barn, and Rowdy's horse was inside.
The sound of a hammer cracked in the brittle air.
Pardner woofed once, happily, and broke into a run.
Lark hurried along behind, hoping no one had noticed her.
Rowdy appeared in the doorway of the tumbledown house on the property behind the jail, grinning. A stack
of lumber stood on the ground nearby, and Pardner streaked past it to hurl himself at Rowdy, who laughed and crouched to greet the dog with an ear-ruffling and a few words of welcome.
Lark stopped, dizzy with an incomprehensible degree of relief at the sight of him.
"Afternoon, Miss Morgan," Rowdy said, standing again. He'd set the hammer down on the threshold to pet Pardner, and now he braced one shoulder against the framework of the shack's doorway.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Rhodes," Lark replied, feeling all the more foolish for the blush that burned in her cheeks. She wanted to walk away, but something held her rooted to the spot, like some venerable old tree.
"Anything wrong?" Rowdy asked, still leaning against the doorjamb, though his arms were folded now.
"I was just—I was worried when—"
He waited, damn him, enjoying her misery.
Lark tried again. She must complete her errand here, such as it was, and leave. Just leave. "It's only that Pardner came to the schoolhouse alone, and—"
"You were worried about me?"
"I didn't say that."
"Yes, you did. And why else would you follow Pardner all the way back here?"
Lark sighed. "All right. I was worried. Are you satisfied now?"
"Yes," Rowdy said, with a sudden and dazzling grin. "Flattered, too."
Lark finally worked up the will to turn away, only to turn back again. "What are you doing with all this lumber?" she asked.
"Replacing the floor in this old house," Rowdy said. "I'd invite you in, but you'd probably fall through and break a leg."
Lark instantly bristled. "If you didn't fall through, I probably won't, either," she argued, even though she had no desire whatsoever to set foot inside that tilting hovel. There were probably rats and insects in there. Cobwebs, too.
Rowdy's grin flashed again. He straightened, made a be-my-guest gesture with one hand. His blue eyes twinkled with challenge.
"I don't have time to dally," Lark replied, tacitly refusing. Why wasn't she moving? Heading home to Mrs. Porter's, for tea and news and a seat near the fire?
"Let me see if I understand this correctly," Rowdy said. "You were insulted when I said you oughtn't to come in. Then I invited you, and you balked." He paused for a long, strangely charged moment. "And when we 'dally,' Miss Morgan," he went on at last, "it won't be in a cold, dirty shack with the wind blowing through cracks in the walls."
Lark took three furious steps toward him. "We are not going to dally!" she replied, in a bursting whisper.
He threw back his head and laughed. When he looked at her again, though, the twinkle was gone from his eyes. They smoldered like the banked embers of a blue fire.
She waited for him to speak, which was her second mistake. Coming here at all had been her first, and she had only herself to blame for the consequences.
He was standing in front of her before she actually saw him move.
He rested his hands on her shoulders, searched her wind-chapped face and kissed her.
Lark made a startled "mmmm" sound, when their mouths collided, and then he was really kissing her. His tongue moved against hers, and his lips—well, his lips—
Drunken heat flashed through Lark. She trembled, and stood on tiptoe, and kissed Rowdy Rhodes right back.
When they finally broke apart, Rowdy looked stunned.
"Oh, shit," he muttered. Hatless, he shoved a hand through his hair.
"Well, that was a gallant thing to say," Lark retorted.
He laughed again, quietly this time, but the baffled expression lingered in his eyes. "Go home, Lark," he said. "Go back to Mrs. Porter's place, right now. If you don't, I can't promise I won't take you inside my nice, warm marshal's house, kiss you until your clothes melt, and have you like you've never been had before."
Lark started to speak, then stopped herself, because she had no idea what she'd say. Her cheeks ached, and so did every inch of flesh beneath her somber black woolen frock, her camisole and petticoats, and her bloomers.
Mortification gave her the impetus to turn on one heel and start to walk away. Fury made her turn back again, though, with a hand shooting up to slap Mr. Rowdy Rhodes for his outrageous impudence.
Kiss-you-until-your-clothes-melt, indeed.
He caught her by the wrist, easily stayed the blow she'd fully intended to deliver, and with all her might, too.
"Go home," he said.
"Let go of my hand," Lark replied tartly, breathless.
Slowly, staring into her eyes, Rowdy opened his fingers and released her.
Lark's hand fell to her side.
There was nothing to do but go home.
Feet as heavy as if they'd suddenly turned to bedrock, Lark straightened her cloak, patted her hair, pivoted smartly on one heel and walked away with all the dignity she could muster.
She'd only covered a few yards when he halted her with a single hoarse word.
"Lark?"
She stiffened her spine. Did not turn around.
He chuckled, and she actually felt the sound, ruffling the fine hairs at her nape. "I'll see you at supper," he said.
She made a strangled sound of pure fury and left.
Pardner followed her as far as the street, gazing up at her in piteous concern.
She paused, sighed and patted the dog's head. "Thank you for walking Lydia home," she told him. "Unlike your master, you are a gentleman."
Once Lark was out of sight, Rowdy let out his breath and muttered a curse. He shouldn't have kissed her like that. Shouldn't have said the things he'd said.
Oh, he'd meant them, all right.
Meant the kiss, too.
But now, because he'd said what he had, it was all going to happen. He would make love to Lark Morgan. And then his pa would rob a train, or a Wanted poster would come in the mail, with a sketch of his own face on it, and he'd have to hit the trail.
It had happened before.
It would happen again.
Rowdy thrust a hand through his hair. He was fed up with running, and in that moment, if Sam O'Ballivan had been standing in front of him, he probably would have turned himself in, just to be done with it.
But what would happen to Pardner if he did that?
What would happen to Lark?
He was asking himself those things when an old white horse trotted around the side of the jailhouse with Gideon on its back.
Seeing Rowdy, Gideon visibly gathered his resolve, reined in the horse and swung down out of the saddle. There was some gear tied on behind, wrapped in an ungainly bundle, and the boy wore an old wool coat and a brown hat pulled low over his face.
Pardner approached to sniff at his hand, and Gideon grinned at the dog and mussed Pardner's ears, but when he turned to Rowdy again, his expression was serious as an undertaker's.
"This where you live?" he asked.
"This is where I live," Rowdy confirmed. "I guess somebody at Mrs. Porter's must have told you where to find me."
Gideon nodded. Swallowed once. "You said to come if I had trouble."
Rowdy approached his younger brother, laid a hand on his shoulder. "What happened, Gideon?" he asked.
Gideon flushed. Chewed a while on what he wanted to say, maybe figuring how to put it. Finally, he said, "Pa took off last night, in a big hurry. Wouldn't say where he was going, and wouldn't let me go with him."
Rowdy closed his eyes. No, he thought fiercely.
I'm not ready to run again.
I'm not ready to leave Lark.
Damn you, Pappy.
Damn you.
"Did I do right to come?" Gideon asked warily.
Rowdy nodded. Smiled. "Come on along with me," he said. "I reckon you could do with some supper."
Scanned by Coral
-6-
Mai Lee was alone in the kitchen when Lark arrived at Mrs. Porter's and divested herself of the lunch pail and lesson books, which she'd nearly dropped when Rowdy'd kissed her—in front of God and everybody. Hanging up her cloak, she f
rowned, immediately sensing something out of the ordinary, an uncomfortable shift in the atmosphere.
The Chinese woman stood at the sink, peeling potatoes, her back to Lark. Her child-size shoulders were stooped, and she didn't say a word, or turn to offer her usual smile of welcome.
Lark put aside disturbing thoughts of Rowdy Rhodes and her concern for Lydia Fairmont, renewed when she'd walked the little girl home from school, a nameless fretting that came and went.
"Mai Lee?" Lark ventured, looking toward the stairs and the inside doorways, expecting Mrs. Porter to appear. "Is something the matter?"
Mai Lee did not respond. Usually she chattered, in her oddly cobbled English, full of news.
Still frowning, Lark took the teakettle, which would already have been singing on the stove on any other afternoon, and stood beside Mai Lee to pump cold water into it. Once again she repeated the woman's name.
A tear slipped down Mai Lee's cheek. "He buy house," she lamented. "He buy garden."
"What house?" Lark asked, setting the kettle back on the stove to heat, her voice gentle. "What garden? And who is 'he'?"
Mai Lee sniffled, but she still wouldn't look at Lark. "I save for house," she said. "Save for garden." A shiver went through her. "Now, is gone."
Tentatively Lark touched her friend's shoulder. Mai Lee and her husband had undergone staggering hardship and privation before leaving China, by Mrs. Porter's account. Even now, they slept under a staircase, in a bed hardly big enough for one person, let alone two. They both worked long hours, never shirking, and while they seemed to consider themselves fortunate, given their cheerful spirits and quick smiles, glad of having ample food to eat and shelter, they nevertheless lived with a bare-bones simplicity that would have been difficult for other people—Lark included—to endure.
Lark was singularly alarmed by Mai Lee's obvious upset, and still confused by her attempt at an explanation.
"Mai Lee," she said quietly, "please, help me to understand. What house? What garden?"
"House behind jail," Mai Lee said, her face a mask of wretched sorrow, even in profile. "Me save to buy. Have almost enough. Now gone."
Suddenly it was all clear to Lark. Her heart sank.
Mai Lee and her husband had hoped to purchase the tiny place where she had seen Rowdy last, replacing floorboards. The homestead, one of the first in the area, had been abandoned years ago, and stood empty since then. The town of Stone Creek had held title to it, offering it for sale to anyone who would pay the back taxes.
A Wanted Man Page 8