It didn’t help that she had been jumping at shadows all day, either. Nor that she’d seen Shep Turner twice since “the incident” while she and Emeline shopped, and both times he’d been glaring at her, fury smoldering in his eyes.
The shiny new locks on her doors offered some comfort, but not enough. She didn’t know who had installed them—they’d simply been on her doors when she came home from shopping, but she had her suspicions. There were only two people who would do such a thing. Either Terrence, Emeline’s husband, or Chase and she suspected the latter rather than the former.
A smile crossed her lips. Chase Hunter certainly didn’t fit the description of a cruel, heartless outlaw, at least not in her opinion. Kathryne flinched as another gust of wind screamed through the trees. Tomorrow, she’d talk to Mr. Jacobs, who sometimes did odd handyman jobs around town as well as run his blacksmith shop, and see if he had time to trim the branches, but for tonight, she’d have to do her best to put the creepy sound out of her mind.
She checked the lock on the front door one more time, then took a last sip of her coffee as she walked into the kitchen and rinsed out her cup. Thanks to Chase’s lessons, the beverage was no longer bitter and she actually enjoyed having a cup or two after dinner.
Kathryne crawled into bed, propped the pillows up behind her, and pulled the quilt over her, almost up to her chin. She picked up the book from the bedside table and tried to read, but the branches scraping against the window made concentrating impossible. She jumped each time, losing her place in the story.
Are you sure it’s just branches scraping against the house? What if it’s a bear? Or worse? What if it’s Canady? Or Shep? What if they’ve come back to finish what they started?
The questions popped into her mind. Once there, they took hold and refused to be pushed away.
With a groan born of frustration, and the unreasonable fear growing, she climbed out of bed, slipped into her robe and wandered the house, lighting lamps in each room to chase away the darkness. She checked the locks on the doors one more time. The scraping sound became more insistent. She checked the windows as well, making sure they were closed tight, making sure the simple locks were in place before she settled in her chair and pulled a crocheted afghan around her.
If the general could see her now, he’d admonish her. He had always preached reasonable thinking and problem solving and yet, none of his lessons had taken hold when it came to the wind.
Thunder had never bothered her. She’d never been afraid of the big crackling booms that sometimes shook the house on its foundation. Rain and snow? Loved them both, but wind…wind was another story. She hated the sound, the lonely howl as it buffeted everything in sight.
“Enough!” Kathryne spit the simple word and stood from her chair. She blew out the lamps, except for ones on the kitchen and bedside tables, and crawled into bed. She removed her glasses, placed them on the table beside the bed and tried, oh how she tried, to go to sleep.
Despite her resolve, she couldn’t. She lay beneath the blanket, eyes wide open, listening to the creaks and groans of the house and the persistent scratching, which seemed to grow louder…and moved from the side of the house to her kitchen door. There were no tree branches long enough to scrape against the wooden portal, no matter how powerful the wind.
Frustrated, Kathryne once more scrambled from her bed. With no pistol or rifle to protect herself, she picked up the next best thing—a cast-iron skillet. Armed, ready to face whatever foe waited on the other side, she flipped the lock and flung open the kitchen door.
“Oh!” Kathryne laughed as relief rushed through her, making her knees weak. Neither Canady nor his friends stood on the small landing of her back steps. No bear, either.
Just a dog.
He sat on his haunches, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, head tilted to the side, ears twitching. His tail thumped the wooden planks as fast as her heart pounded in her chest. A burlap sack rested beside him. The dog’s eyes went from her face to the skillet in her hand then back to her face.
Was it possible? Could dogs laugh? She’d never owned a dog—the general had never allowed pets in his house—but the expression on his furry face suggested as much.
His eyes shifted to the skillet once more. Kathryne, feeling a bit silly, lowered the cast-iron pan to her side. “Who are you? Where did you come from? Are you lost?” She stopped asking questions and chuckled. “Oh, good Lord, I’m talking to a dog.”
The beast simply stared at her, the same comical expression on his face, although he did give a small woof. He seemed friendly enough. No growl issued from his throat, no menace in either his stance or his eyes.
“Well, don’t just sit there. Come in.”
The dog needed no second invitation. He launched himself from his sitting position—straight at her—with enough force to knock her to her backside. Kathryne squealed in surprise as she sprawled on the floor, her nightgown twisted around her legs, the frying pan making a horrendous clanging noise as it fell alongside her. Standing over her, the dog’s tongue swiped her face, not once, not twice, but a dozen times at least.
She couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her. “Enough. Sit!”
The dog sank to his haunches, but the funny expression on his face remained. His tail thumped the floor. Kathryne sat up and smoothed her hands into the fur around his ears and lower. Her fingers met a yellow kerchief, folded into a triangle, which hung loosely around his neck, the color a perfect complement to the dog’s golden brown fur. Paper crinkled within the folds of the kerchief. Kathryne untied the bit of fabric and found a note. Without her glasses, she squinted to make the words clear. “My name is Sarge. I am a good dog. May I stay with you and be your friend?”
The thought appealed to her and a smile touched her lips. “Well, Sarge, you can stay, but I have rules.” She continued to run her fingers through his thick, silky coat. The simple act seemed to calm her fears and the howl of the wind no longer frightened her as much as it had before. “You will not be allowed on the furniture. You will not jump on people. You will not sniff people in inappropriate places. You will behave yourself at all times. Do we have an agreement?”
As if he understood every word, Sarge tilted his head, ears and brows twitching. He remained on his haunches, but one front paw lifted from the floor and extended toward her.
Kathryne laughed. “Oh, so you want to shake on our deal?” She took the paw offered and shook then rose from the floor and grabbed the burlap sack from the back steps. She stood for a moment in the doorway and looked around, wondering who had left such a marvelous animal in her safekeeping and why, but didn’t see anyone lurking in the shadows. After a moment, she shut the kitchen door, locking it once more.
“I suppose you’re hungry,” she said as she rummaged through the sack, not feeling the least bit foolish for talking to him now. She pulled out a large bowl, painted blue with white flowers, and a blanket, one that had seen many washings, the once bold colors faded. “I have nothing for you except this,” she handed him the bone from the sack, which he took in his mouth then promptly dropped on the floor, “but tomorrow, we’ll go to Graham’s and see if he has anything to feed you.”
She found another large bowl on the shelf above the stove, filled it with water from the pump over the sink and placed it on the floor near the back door, in a place she hoped would be safe from her occasional bouts of clumsiness.
He lapped at the water then shook his head, sending droplets flying in all directions and proceeded to investigate the little house. Nothing went uninspected as his wet nose touched and smelled everything.
Kathryne stood in the doorway and watched him, the blanket folded over her arm. He was a beautiful animal…and big, eighty pounds at least. Covered in thick silky golden hair, she couldn’t tell his breed though she thought he must be a mix of several.
He finished inspecting the parlor then trotted past her, picked up the bone, and jumped on the bed, where he sprawled on top of t
he quilt, his tail fanning the air, the bone lodged between his teeth.
“I thought we had a deal.”
His brows twitched, his eyes watching her as Kathryne entered the bedroom and stood with her hands on her hips. “My bed is considered furniture and you are not allowed on the furniture.” The beast made no attempt to move off the bed. Instead, he rolled to his back, exposing his belly, his tail thumping the quilt. A strange sound emanated from his throat—a cross between a growl and a groan.
Kathryne smiled as she unfolded his blanket and placed it on the floor. “Do you want your belly rubbed?”
Again, the growl-groan issued from his throat and his tail thumped harder. Kathryne moved closer to the bed and tentatively reached out her hand. The fur on his belly seemed softer than the fur around his neck. She rubbed his soft hair, causing his leg to flail in furious rhythm with her movements.
“Enough now. Get off the bed.”
He looked at her, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, despite the bone clasped between his teeth.
“I mean it, Sarge. You can’t sleep on the bed.” She pointed to the blanket on the floor. “This is your bed and that is mine.”
More brow twitching, more ears cocking one way then another but still no move from his prone position. A contest of wills ensued, with neither one eager to concede. Disinclined to be outwitted by a dog, Kathryne put her hands on her hips and stared at him. “Down!” she ordered, drawing from her memory of her father’s stern, authoritative tone whenever he issued a command. With a sigh, Sarge jumped from the bed, turned three times and settled on his blanket. He dropped the bone next to him. “Good boy. Now go to sleep.”
The dog rested his muzzle on his paws, gave one more sigh and closed his eyes. “That’s better. You and I will get along just fine…if you do as I say.” She crawled beneath the blankets one more time, the spot where Sarge had lain warm against her feet, and blew out the lamp.
Despite the wind howling through the trees, Kathryne closed her eyes as well and finally slept.
****
Chase grinned as he led Champion from the shelter of the trees, pleased his plan to keep Katie safe had worked so well. Sarge would be an excellent companion, but more than that, he would protect her with his life. Chase had his doubts though, especially when Sarge knocked her on her backside, but Kathryne hadn’t seemed upset. Indeed, the sound of her laughter had sent joy zinging to his heart.
He climbed into the saddle and rode through the sleepy town—sleepy except for Riley’s. Several men stood on the raised sidewalk outside the saloon and watched his passage. Not one of them nodded in greeting. He hadn’t expected them to, but still, it would have been a nice change from the glares of suspicion and disdain he usually received.
The batwing doors swung open. Shep Turner stepped onto the sidewalk, one hand holding a mug of beer, the other tugging at the waistband of his trousers. His gaze raised and locked on Chase. Pure, unadulterated hate flashed in Shep’s eyes. Chase didn’t blink as he returned the ranch hand’s unrelenting stare. His hands remained firm on the reins, but he sucked in his breath beneath the force of Shep’s loathing. Never had he experienced such hatred. He felt as if he’d been punched in the gut.
The inclination to jump from the saddle, grab Turner by his shirt collar and demand to know why the man hated him so much surged through Chase, and made his gut twist, but he tamped it down. Perhaps, it would be better not to know. Chase released his breath as Shep drained his mug of beer and went back inside the saloon. He continued on to the boarding house.
As he led Champion into the stable behind Mrs. Rawlins’s house, he took a moment to look around. Joe had been doing an excellent job of keeping the stable clean. No foul odor rose to greet him and fresh straw covered the dirt floor.
He removed Champion’s saddle and the blanket beneath it then brushed the horse before giving him an extra portion of oats.
Tomorrow, he’d ride to Prescott and visit Jonas Pierpont to learn what he could about the rifles someone sold him, but for now, he looked forward to a good night’s sleep on the new mattress he’d paid for himself.
The light of a lantern spread a cozy glow through the lacy curtain over the kitchen door’s window as Chase made his way around the vegetable garden, which he noticed had been cleared of weeds. He smiled. A little attention and some responsibility had done wonders for Joe Rawlins. The money Chase paid him for the chores hadn’t hurt, either.
As soon as he stepped through the kitchen door, he saw Joe, sitting at the table, a book in his hand, a glass of milk and a piece of apple pie close by.
“Stable looks good, Joe.”
The boy looked up from his book and grinned. Chase stole a peek at the title. Journey to the Center of the Earth.
“Garden too.” He pulled several coins from his pocket and laid them on the table. “Here’s what I owe you for the week and a little extra. As soon as it gets cold enough, I’d like you to go into school a little earlier and start a fire in the stove. I’d like it to be nice and warm when the younger children come to class.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy mumbled as he shoveled another piece of pie into his mouth.
“Good book?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer. Jules Verne wrote the most fabulous adventure stories.
He nodded with enthusiasm. “Miss O’Rourke lent it to me and I like it.” He turned the page, took another bite of pie, and sighed. “I never liked reading before, but Miss O’Rourke has a way of making the words come to life. In school, she’s reading The Adventures of Oliver Twist to us, but she let’s everyone take a turn.” In the glow of lantern light, Chase saw the blush that colored his face. “Miss O’Rourke says if you can read and follow directions, you can do anything. And she was right.”
“She was?”
The blush deepened and his eyes glowed with wonder and satisfaction. “Do you want a piece of pie? I made it. Just followed the directions in Mama’s cookbook. It’s really good.”
“Of course, I’d like a piece, especially if you made it.” Chase pulled a small plate and a glass from the cabinet, a fork from the drawer, and settled himself at the table. Something akin to pride settled around his heart as he cut himself a slice of pie and poured himself a glass of milk. Between Kathryne’s influence and his, Joe was maturing into a polite, inquisitive, bright young man.
The boy watched him, anticipation making his face glow, as Chase sunk his fork into the pie and took a bite. The sweetness melted in his mouth and a long sigh escaped him. “It’s really good. As good as your mother’s.”
The boy’s smile stretched across his face and his dark eyes sparkled. “Tomorrow, I’m going to try something else. Mama has so many cookbooks, so many recipes.” His gaze took on a faraway quality and his voice lowered. “Mama liked the pie, too. She cried.”
For the next hour, despite his exhaustion and the desire to sleep, Chase listened to Joe as he talked about the recipes he would try, the book on the table, his dreams for the future…and Miss O’Rourke, whom he obviously adored.
Chapter Ten
Kathryne’s stomach growled as she looked at her meager provisions. The thought of eating alone depressed her almost as much as her limited knowledge of cooking. She didn’t want half-burned, half-undercooked scrambled eggs again, nor did she want bread and slices of summer sausage. She always told her students that if they could read and follow directions, they could do anything. In most cases, that was true. Unfortunately, the advice did not extend to her talents in the kitchen.
She sighed over her predicament and her stomach grumbled even more. She didn’t want to impose on Emeline and Terrence again—Emeline cooked better than she did, but not much. She didn’t want to impose on Laurel either, though the woman’s kindness had no equal.
“What shall we do, Sarge?” The dog ignored her as he made short work of the meat scraps she’d bought from the butcher filling his bowl.
A slow smile crossed her face as she remembered the coupons for th
e Wagon Wheel in her reticule. “Let’s see what Edna has cooking up.”
She grabbed her shawl from the peg beside the door, wrapped it around her shoulders against the chill, and grabbed her reticule as Sarge pushed his bowl around, his long tongue searching for every morsel. As a last thought, Kathryne picked up the book she’d begun reading last night. “Come on, boy.”
With Sarge trotting beside her, she had no fear walking through town in the dark. If anyone approached, she was certain the dog would protect her.
“You stay here,” she commanded. The dog turned and sank to his haunches on the raised sidewalk outside the restaurant as Kathryne let herself in.
“Kate, so nice to see ye again.” Edna greeted her at the door, a dishtowel tucked into the pocket of her apron. Perspiration and a warm glow covered her features. Curls of graying hair slipped from the bun at the back of her head and stuck to her face, but her smile was welcoming. “You missed the dinner crowd, but I have plenty of chicken and dumplings left.”
“Sounds heavenly, Edna.”
“Sit anywhere ye like.”
She chose a table where she could watch the comings and goings outside and in, then opened her book and began to read. Edna turned over the cup sitting on the table and filled it with coffee. “I’ll get your dinner.”
As she sat engrossed in the novel, a cold chill moved up her spine and an involuntary shiver shook her, though she wasn’t cold. The sensation someone watched her caused the discomfort. Not someone just casually noticing her, but glaring at her with evil intent. Another shiver rippled through her and she glanced up from the book to peer through the window. Nothing moved outside except for the trees rustled by a slight breeze.
I must be imagining things. She closed the book, realizing Hawthorne’s House of the Seven Gables probably wasn’t the best choice. She shouldn’t be reading about witches and death.
A Good Man for Katie Page 11