Whitefeather's Woman

by Deborah Hale

  “Damnation, Abby!” John’s shoulders slumped. “Do you have to spout such good sense?”

  Brock gave a sympathetic chuckle. “Morning’ll come soon enough.”

  “You can spend the night here, if you like,” Abby offered, gracious in victory. “Save you that long ride out to Caleb’s place and back.”

  “Thanks, but I’d better not. Ruth’ll be worried if I don’t come home. Besides, I do my best thinking in the saddle and I reckon I need to think some more. If you’ll just let me water Hawkwing, here, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Oh, sure.” Brock took the lantern from Abby and walked toward the barn. “Trough’s right this way.”

  As if the horse understood, Hawkwing followed Brock’s bobbing light. John lingered behind.

  “Will you promise me one thing, Abby?”

  “That depends what.”

  Suddenly he was glad Jane had made a woman friend who had this kind of quiet strength.

  “Please don’t help Jane leave town until I’ve had a chance to talk to her.”

  “I don’t believe she plans to leave Whitehorn anytime soon.”

  In spite of the warm summer night, John shivered. “I wish I could be sure of that.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can get you, Jane?” asked Lizzie Kincaid. “A mug of warm milk to help you sleep, maybe?”

  Jane looked around the dainty little room with its rosebud paper and white enameled bed frame. In her heart she yearned for her rustic gabled room back at Ruth and Caleb’s ranch.

  “You and your husband have been too good to me already, Mrs. Kincaid. Trusting me with a job, even after I told you about taking that brooch from Mrs. Endicott. Giving me this lovely room and even one of your own nightdresses.”

  A girlish giggle reminded Jane that her new employer was actually several years her junior. “Do call me Lizzie, instead of Mrs. Kincaid. Between Kate, Abby, Haley and me, it’s so hard to keep us straight unless we go by first names. I hate it when folks call me Mrs. William, as if I didn’t have a name of my own. As for the other,” declared Lizzie, “don’t you dare feel one bit beholden. You’ll be doing me a great favor by staying to help when the baby comes.”

  She ran a hand over her bulging midsection with a sweet, brooding smile Jane envied with all her heart.

  “Ruth told me what a wonder you were with little Barton. You might not think it to look at me now, but I was down on my luck once and ready to do a desperate deed just to survive.”

  Lizzie was right, Jane did find it hard to believe that a girl of such obvious refinement had ever contemplated theft…or worse.

  “Somebody gave me a helping hand.” The fond, faraway look in Lizzie’s pretty blue eyes left Jane in no doubt that “somebody” was William Kincaid. “Now I’m happy I can pass along that kindness.”

  “I appreciate it and I’ll do everything in my power to justify your trust in me.” Jane knew better than to think she could be indispensable…to anyone. But she was still determined to work hard for the banker and his young wife.

  Lizzie beamed. “I’m sure you will. Now, how about that warm milk?”

  “Not tonight, thank you.” It would take a mug of warm milk the size of Boston harbor to insure her a restful sleep tonight. And then only if she drowned herself in it.

  “In that case, I’ll let you settle in and get to bed. Oh! I think I just felt the baby kick. I must go tell Will. Good night.” Lizzie pulled the door closed behind her and pattered off.

  Jane sank down onto the crocheted bedspread and hugged herself around the waist. The moment Abby Kincaid had ushered her into Lizzie’s presence, the fear that she might be carrying John Whitefeather’s baby settled in Jane’s heart like an early frost. Before last night she’d been pretty much ignorant of what went on between a man and a woman. She did know it had something to do with the creation of babies.

  Did folks only engage in such activity when they wanted to start a baby? Was a baby the inevitable result of every mating?

  In that case, she might have twins!

  Why hadn’t she given this some thought last night, before she’d thrown herself at John?

  Because she wouldn’t have cared then, Jane sternly informed herself as she undressed and put on Lizzie’s nightgown. Last night she’d believed John cared about her. This morning she’d been convinced of it. Now she understood that he’d only pretended to court her so she wouldn’t be nervous around genuine suitors.

  He’d coupled with her because she’d begged him to. And perhaps because his body hankered for hers in a way his heart never would. It had been a mistake; he’d admitted as much to his sister. No matter how dire the consequences, Jane could never look back on the one night of her life when she’d felt beautiful and powerful and cherished, and think it a mistake.

  Turning out the lamp, she lay down on yet another strange bed and pined for the delicious resting place where she’d slept so peacefully the night before. Now she discovered the meaning of the old saying, “No rest for the wicked.”

  Ever since she’d overheard John and Ruth, Jane had forced herself to keep moving, keep talking. First to Caleb, then to Abby, then to Lizzie. Troubling thoughts had prowled around the edges of her consciousness, ready to pounce whenever she stopped or fell silent. Now, in the quiet of William and Lizzie Kincaid’s spare room, they moved in for the kill.

  In the first agonies of hurt and betrayal, Jane had wanted to get as far away from the Kincaid ranch as Caleb’s money would take her. That wasn’t very practical, though. She certainly couldn’t return to Boston, and she didn’t have friends anywhere else. Though she’d been fortunate to fall among kind strangers when she’d arrived penniless in Whitehorn, Jane knew better than to suppose she might be so lucky in another town.

  Besides, she liked Whitehorn. The place was small enough for a person to get to know everyone. From what she’d heard or guessed, most folks here were refugees of some kind from farther east. Whether fleeing poverty, social disgrace or just plain boredom, they’d washed up in the lee of the Crazy Mountains, just like she had. They’d forged new lives for themselves, just like she wanted to. Damned if she would let John Whitefeather take that away from her, the way he’d taken her fragile trust and dreams!

  Staying in Whitehorn, with the brother of his brother-in-law, meant she’d have to face him sooner or later. Jane’s reasonable self hoped it would be later. She needed time for the caustic offense of his actions to corrode her lingering fascination with him.

  Some pathetic part of her longed to accept John on any terms, whether he loved her or not. However, her budding sense of confidence and self-worth refused to settle for less than his heavily defended heart.

  John’s head ached worse than his heart. So perhaps the sleepless night he’d spent had been worth something.

  “Here.” Ruth slammed a bowl of oatmeal onto the kitchen table between her brother and his lifesaving cup of coffee. “Make yourself useful by feeding Barton while I see to breakfast.”

  She’d made no secret of her opinion that he was to blame for Jane’s leaving. He couldn’t convince her that Jane had been a more-than-willing partner in their lovemaking. John found it hard to believe himself, come to that. So much so that he’d begun to question the trustworthiness of his memory.

  Had Jane invited him to do everything he’d done? Had his attentions pleased her? He’d been so certain at the time. Now he wondered if he’d only seen and heard what he’d wanted to be true. Absolving him from ultimate disgrace in his own eyes and the eyes of his people.

  “Here you go, little dogie.” John tried to distract himself from that impossibly disturbing thought by loading the spoon with oatmeal and aiming it at Barton’s mouth. “Chuck wagon’s coming.”

  Barton banged on the tray of his high chair. “Na-na-na-Na!”

  Did his nephew also blame him for Jane’s unexplained disappearance?

  “Sorry, you have to settle for Unka today, Thundercl
oud.”

  Barton pursed his lips and blew out a hail of soggy oats. “Na-Na!”

  “Stubborn little cuss,” John muttered, wiping his face. “You must take after the Kincaids.”

  Like a good herd dog responding to a cowboy’s whistle, Caleb pushed open the kitchen door and strode in to breakfast.

  Pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the back of the stove, he announced, “I don’t give a hang what the other stockmen are doing. I want to round up my cattle early, before they lose any more meat on account of this drought. We’ll get organized today and ride at first light tomorrow morning.”

  John had thought nothing could make his headache worse. Then along came Caleb to prove him wrong.

  “The drought could break soon,” he protested. “Got a few likely looking clouds up there today.”

  “The other stockmen are pinning their hopes on the drought breaking, but I say after this long a dry spell one storm’ll barely wet the ground.”

  Caleb tucked into a plate of steak and eggs, almost before Ruth got it properly set down in front of him. “More likely a lightning strike will start a range fire and then what’ll we have? One great big barbecue.”

  “You know we don’t have enough hands for a roundup,” John warned his brother-in-law. And boss.

  Ordinarily, in the fall, the ranches in an area would send their cowboys out to round up all the cattle and drive them to a central point. Once there, they’d sort them out by brand and cull the stock to be shipped East for slaughter. If the other ranchers hereabouts were content to leave their cattle out on the range, it’d mean the Kincaid cowboys would have to check the brand on every blessed cow they came across and only collect their own.

  Caleb shrugged. “Then it’ll just take us a little longer, is all.”

  “What’s the harm in waiting a week to see what happens?” John offered Barton another bite of porridge. This time the little fellow grabbed the spoon away from him and sent oatmeal flying in all directions.

  “I’m tired of playing wait and see.” Caleb’s tone brooked no opposition. With his fork, he pushed aside a gob of Barton’s porridge that had landed beside his eggs. “Every day the cattle are losing flesh, or at least not gaining. More get sick and die. I want to bring them in where we can water them and feed them up and have good stock to send East when everybody else’s are barely fit food for the buzzards. It’s thinking ahead like this and being willing to risk what the rest are too timid to try that’s made my ranch what it is today.”

  John glanced at Ruth. They both knew it was useless trying to dissuade Caleb Kincaid from a course of action he’d decided on.

  “If you’re set on doing this, I’ll go into town and see if I can hire us some extra hands for the roundup.”

  “Tarnation!” Caleb slammed down his coffee mug. “That’s what this is all about. You want to hang around Whitehorn on account of Jane Harris.”

  “Abby wouldn’t tell me where she was staying. I have to talk to her.” Did he sound as anxious as he felt? John wondered.

  “If you’ve got a lick of sense, you’ll leave her be and put her clean out of your mind. That gal’s been nothing but trouble since the day she landed here.”

  Stroking a rogue lock of hair off her husband’s brow, Ruth asked softly, “Like you put me out of your mind all those years ago?”

  Caleb tried to scowl, but couldn’t quite manage it. “Oh, all right! Go see if you can hire any extra hands in Whitehorn. I’ve got a half-dollar says you can’t scare up a single one. Check with Cookie and see if there’s anything he needs from the mercantile for his chuck wagon. And if you’ve got any other business in town, get it seen to and make sure you’re here and ready to ride come sunup.”

  John was on his feet and out the kitchen door almost before Caleb finished speaking. He drove into Whitehorn, hired one warm body that could sit a horse, and went to fill Cookie’s order at Dillard’s Mercantile. He was just loading his purchases onto the wagon when he caught sight of Abby riding up Main Street.

  When he hailed her, she pulled up beside him.

  “I haven’t got time for a lot of foolishness, Abby. Caleb’s going to have us hit the range tomorrow to round up his stock. Don’t know how long I might be gone. I have to talk to Jane before I leave. Now will you please tell me where I can find her?”

  “I just spoke to her and she told me the same as you did, last night.” Abby still didn’t seem anxious to betray Jane’s whereabouts. “Said she couldn’t hide from you in Whitehorn for more than five minutes if you had a mind to track her down. She’s over at Will and Lizzie’s place. She’s going to look after Lizzie and help her with the baby when it comes.”

  When John vaulted onto the seat of the wagon and grabbed the reins, Abby warned him, “You go easy on her, you hear? I know there’s more to this than just Jane needing a new job. Somebody’s hurt her, and the way you’ve been carrying on, well…”

  He wanted to assure Abby that he hadn’t done anything to hurt Jane and he never would, but his own doubts wouldn’t let him. “I just want to talk to her, and I don’t have much time.”

  Abby didn’t hold him up with any more chatter, but her green eyes glittered a warning, hard as emeralds.

  Fortunately, Abby’s sister-in-law proved a good deal more sympathetic when John showed up on her doorstep.

  “Jane’s out back watering my garden.” Lizzie ushered him inside. “This dry summer has been so hard on the flowers. I could fetch her in so the two of you could talk in the parlor, but the garden’s so much more romant—I mean, more private.”

  In spite of all the conflicting emotions raging inside him, John could hardly resist smiling. This little porcelain princess was the last woman he’d have expected a cool-headed banker like Will Kincaid to take for a wife. Come to that, a plain, no-nonsense schoolmarm like Kate Elliott had been a surprising choice for a black sheep gambler like Will’s cousin, James. It had been the making of him, though, just as Will’s marriage had turned him more friendly and approachable.

  Was it possible, John wondered, that the sharp contrasts between him and Jane didn’t spell disaster for a future together?

  “Thank you, ma’am. The garden’ll do fine.”

  Toying with the brim of his hat as he walked, John followed Lizzie Kincaid through the house. He couldn’t help noticing what a fine job she’d done fixing up the old Tanner place. Wood, brass and glass gleamed. Each piece of furniture looked at home with the others. Rugs, mirrors, pictures and cushions provided just enough decoration to brighten the place and make it welcoming.

  Like a heavy hoof in the belly, John realized this was the kind of home that suited Jane. The kind of home she deserved. The kind of home he could never hope to give her.

  “Right that way.” Lizzie pointed to a screen door, through which John could see the garden. “I’d love to keep Jane here with me, but I don’t believe her heart’s in it. I have no idea what’s between the two of you, but take my advice and tell her exactly how you feel.”

  How did he feel? Confused. Forsaken. Angry. Anxious. The list ran on and on. If he ever got it all sorted out, maybe he could explain it to Jane. John fanned his face with his hat. Now that he’d finally found her, he wasn’t sure what he’d say.

  Jane’s tongue turned to stone.

  Hearing the screen door open and close, she’d glanced up, expecting Lizzie to join her in the garden. Instead, John Whitefeather’s towering frame cast a long shadow across the grass. She’d known she couldn’t avoid him forever, but Abby had left only a few moments ago. Jane wasn’t prepared to confront him so soon.

  A knot of fear tightened in her stomach for a moment as his stormy gaze ran over her. Jane ignored her body’s instinctive reaction. She knew John was nothing like Emery. He would never raise a hand to her, no matter how hot his anger burned. All the same, she set her watering can down in case her hand might shake.

  “Why’d you run off on me, Jane?” Montana men didn’t believe in beating aro
und the bush, apparently. “When you promised you’d marry me, were you lying to buy yourself time to get away? What did you think I’d do if you said no?”

  His voice sounded hoarse. And hurt. What right did he have to be grieved, when all she’d done was absolve him of responsibility for her?

  For the first time in her life, Jane allowed herself the dangerous luxury of venting her outrage at someone who’d done her wrong. “I guess I was as sincere in accepting your proposal as you were in asking. Probably a whole lot more.”

  It was hard to stand there and say what needed to be said. Part of her longed to throw herself into his arms and savor the illusion of safety she’d found in his embrace. Another part just wanted to run away and hide.

  “Don’t go talking riddles, Jane.” He took a few steps toward her—reluctantly, as though his legs were dragging him in a direction he didn’t want to go. “I wouldn’t have asked you if I hadn’t meant it.”

  How tempting it was to believe him. The way his long, brown fingers moved over the brim of his hat seduced Jane with the memory of his tender touch. The lost, bewildered look in those heavenly eyes made her yearn to hold him close. She steeled herself against the terrifying power he wielded over her heart.

  “I’m sure you would have made yourself go through with it. Cheyenne honor and all.” Every fragrant flower in Lizzie Kincaid’s garden couldn’t have sweetened the bitterness of Jane’s tone. “Please don’t insult my intelligence by pretending you’re sorry I’ve let you off the hook.”

  “Cheyenne honor?” His deep-set eyes widened. “You heard Ruth and me talking?”

  Jane hesitated a moment, until the pointless urge to weep passed. “You weren’t exactly whispering.”