She didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands. They went from tucking loose tendrils behind her ears to wiping down the sides of her pants, ending with arms wrapped around her waist.
“Blueboy’s been groomed. Tater did that and he checked his hooves. He said Blueboy was polite as can be. Some horses fuss so and …”
“Laine.” His voice held a rueful chiding as he covered the few feet separating them. Using one finger he touched her lips to silence her. When her mouth parted he shook his head.
But that lush bottom lip invited a light caress before he caught himself.
“I needed to know you’re not angry with me. I wanted to say you’re right. I was wrong. I’ve no rights where you’re concerned. Except those you grant me.”
He questioned if she was listening to him or reacting to his touch. Her pupils darkened and expanded, color flagged her cheeks and her breath hesitated, then came out in a ragged sigh. He felt it from heel to head. With reluctance he dropped his hand.
The temptation to taste her soft rose mouth made him take a few deep breaths of his own.
“I understand you’ve been alone. You couldn’t know the regret I feel that I wasn’t here for you. But I’m here now.”
“And what?” she demanded, eyes flashing. “Drop my cares and burdens on your shoulders? They’re broad enough. Damn you, Matt! You left me without a word.” Before she thought, she slapped him.
He grabbed her wrist. “I’ll allow you feel justified, but don’t you ever raise a hand to me again. I’ve never hit a woman and you won’t provoke me into breaking that code.”
Laine was appalled at the anger she felt toward him. She bit her lip. She wasn’t about to apologize, but she had never struck another person.
“Your pa was a kindly man to me. For no other reason, I’d do what needs to be done.” He released her. “But we were friends, Laine. I hope we still can be. And in times of trouble, friends help each other.”
“Friends?” She looked up into Matt’s eyes and forgot to breathe. This close, his eyes framed with thick lashes were whiskey colored with tiny splinters of green and gold. And the way he stared at her mouth, like he was a hungry man who had not eaten. The heated intensity made her feel weak and chased her anger away.
“Girl, you keep looking at me like that an’ I’ll take it as an invite to do more than talk.”
Matt’s pulse kicked hard. His eyes narrowed as her sensual curiosity aroused him as much as a hungry kiss would have. Being alone with Laine was a bad mistake.
He took a step back, then another. She closed her eyes. He might want Laine more than his next breath, but she wasn’t for the likes of him.
Remember that, he reminded himself.
When Laine looked again, he was gone.
Laine woke before dawn. Her thoughts had chased each other round and round until the soft murmur of Matt’s voice talking to Tater lulled her to sleep.
As she lay in her bed in the corner room, she realized she reached no decision about what Matt had asked her.
Her independence had been hard won. Hers was the only responsibility of final decisions. She was proud of what she had accomplished.
But when alone, she admitted fear, too. She managed by getting through one day at a time. But it wasn’t weeks or months passing anymore, it was years. Was this daily fight to survive be all life held for Rachel and Tater?
And what of herself?
Damn Matt for awakening old dreams and desires.
He returned and asked what? Be friends? Let him support them? Run to him for every little thing like they were promised to each other? What exactly had he asked her for? And what did she want from him?
The same heated, shivery sensations she experienced last night came rushing back. When he touched her mouth, standing so close she could scent leather and horse, and some indefinable scent that was Matt, he had looked at her as if he would kiss her into tomorrow.
But he didn’t kiss her. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to. And even if she did, she didn’t know how to make him.
Matt was awake, too. He lay with his hands beneath his head on his bedroll, laying on the floor next to the too-short bunk bed Tater offered him. Not that the floor gave him much space. Bunk beds on one wall, a barred, shuttered window above him, and the battered dresser on the partition wall left little room.
His beltgun rested under his hip. The top of the dresser was covered with all manner of things Tater had collected: round pebbles, a sparrow’s nest, a turtle shell, an old, dried snakeskin, a pocket knife.
He reminded Matt so much of himself as a boy.
Matt stared at the dark drape covering the doorway. With a slight stretch his feet would poke through.
The boy’s soft, even breaths lulled him. He had to smile. It was far easier satisfying Tater’s curiosity about where he had been and what he had done than just thinking about Laine’s sensual curiosity and how much he wanted to satisfy her.
And himself.
He hadn’t given enough thought to what Law had told him. A smart man would have a plan in place. He was too distracted to figure what he’d do if the army, or carpetbaggers, Union Leaguers, or raiders came after him.
Talk about tight places and daunting odds.
But like a lodestone drawing him, his mind went to Laine.
He just wasn’t sure she had agreed with him. That woman, he decided, was beyond prickly. She was downright unpredictable.
And angry. He rubbed his cheek, still feeling her slap. He had no idea she harbored so much anger over his leaving without a word. At the time he thought it best. How could he explain the feelings she raised in him? He couldn’t do it then, and he sure wasn’t going to try now. She left him feeling torn. He wanted her, but he was in no position to offer … what? Marriage? Laine would never marry the likes of him.
The only move was to ride home and get his own affairs in order before he tried to cut a swath through hers.
Give her a day or two to settle down.
The distance of space and time might settle him, too.
Only he wasn’t putting any bets on it.
After a breakfast of cornbread, elderberry jam and passable coffee made from parched, roasted yams and rye seed, Matt lingered to answer more of Tater’s questions.
He told of the months he worked as a stagecoach guard, riding with the dust and grit of the road stinging his eyes, fighting off two outlaw attacks and one Indian fight. He made little of the days of rain, barely edible food and his decision to leave when winter came. He’d tended bar, worked at a livery and joined a trail herd. Two years later, he was ramrod of an outfit bringing cattle into Montana. He caught wild mustangs and saddle broke them for the army. He had even taken a turn at panning for gold.
“Did you find any?”
“I found enough, Tater. But standing in a freezing cold stream for twelve dollars is a hard way to make a living. And I wanted to come home. Truth is I was lonely for the places and people I knew.”
He looked to Laine, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze.
It was more than time for him to go. With a promise that he would be back, he rode for home.
Laine was left with a bewildering mix of regret, relief, and a hard core of anger. There she stood, watching him ride away, listening to the echo of his teasing, seeing his smile like Matt of old, while she fought with herself not to call him back. It made no sense. Either she wanted him with her, or she didn’t.
But she believed she made it clear he had no rights over her.
Now, she must remember the same went for herself.
Blueboy ate the miles to the dirt lane that led to the house. Drawing up before the post that once held a wood board sign COLTRANE, Matt absorbed the sight of home. It seemed a lifetime ago that he had left. All that time he desired nothing so muc
h as to come back.
The sense of sameness was false. Nothing was the same. Certainly, he was not.
The yard was filled with weeds. The house appeared forlorn, gray, weather-beaten, a lonely place. This home of his had been battered by storm and the blistering sun. The house still stood, the land endured. He would, too.
Swinging down from the saddle, he hesitated to go on, for the rush of memories he had kept back was like a dam breaking.
His mother dressed in faded calico with her flour sack apron, neat as could be, singing, then coming outside to call him and his father to wash up for supper.
Or, he’d come from the river bottom to see his father sitting on the wide stump that they couldn’t pull free, some bit of harness or wood in his hands. Always a smile of welcome. Asking where he had been, what had he seen.
But there wasn’t going to be anyone to greet him.
Leading Blueboy forward, he dropped the reins to ground hitch the horse and continued on. He couldn’t seem to swallow past the lump in his throat.
He thought he knew how hard this would be for him, but never expected this horrible choking feeling or the intense burning in his eyes and the sickness churning in his belly.
The door hung crookedly. He could see the strap hinges had rotted almost through. The wood of the two steps were cracked, with broken edges. Fallen leaves and twigs and dirt had piled in the corners. Gone too, was the circle of large river stones where cuttings from Miz Ellis’s rose bushes had been planted. Of the dogwoods they had transplanted only two survived, the others looked lightning struck.
Pushing open the door took a force of will. He shut his eyes after one quick look.
Everything that could be stripped and stolen was gone. The planked floor creaked beneath his weight as he took a few more steps inside. His hand lifted as if to protest what his eyes saw.
They were so proud of getting in a good crop and being able to put down planks for the floors. Now, there were gaps where they had been ripped up by someone hunting hidden money, or maybe for firewood.
Bad as the sight was, memory replaced it with sight of his mother sweeping the dirt floor, then, with a sharpened stick, she’d draw designs as fine as any fancy carpet. He’d asked why she bothered when, as soon as walked on, the pretty design smudged then disappeared. And her warm smile would light her eyes and lips when she answered it was no bother. She liked looking at something pretty.
There was nothing pretty to see now. Not a stick to burn in any of the three rooms. His room was the only one that didn’t have board walls. Money went to the doctor, instead, for medicine. Ma still died and Pa seemed to lose his will to finish. The logs showed holes where the clay had fallen out between them.
No matter where he looked, desolation met his eyes. His shoulders sagged and he stood shaking with the emotions overwhelming him. And Matt couldn’t have cared less. There was no one to see.
He hated seeing the dust and filth where people had camped. The kitchen fireplace was piled high with ashes. His mother preached that lye soap didn’t cost much, and hot water along with the will to use them was free.
The hurt was deep to see his home besmirched by such carelessness. But the hurt was increased by the blame he put on himself.
Suddenly, he had to get outside. With a swipe of his arm across his face as if to wipe it all away, he pulled open the kitchen door. He hurried to bring Blueboy around to the back where rich grass grew near the well. He lowered the bucket, thankful it was still there, and found the water as sweet as he remembered.
And a memory came of a summer day and his telling a younger Laine of the water elf that lived in the well. You had to give him a flower before making a wish and lowering the bucket down. If the elf, he’d told her all wide-eyed, tasted sweet nectar, he might be of a mind to grant that wish.
What a foolish, dreaming boy he’d been.
Everywhere he looked there was more work for him.
The house was built on top of the sloping bluff. A narrow path led down to the river. He walked with remembrances assaulting him until years receded and a wild little boy smelled the ripening fruit under a hot sun. But his steps didn’t carry him toward the peach orchard, but to the breaks between the cornfields where the blackberries grew.
Now the brambles were as wild as that long-ago boy. Canes shot high or curved in thick, wicked looking tangles. The biggest, blackest, juiciest berries were always hiding in the center. It was hard to wait for them to ripen, hoping the birds didn’t get them first. He would try to fill a bucket to bring to his ma, his mouth and fingers stained with purple juice, shirt and skin torn from the briars. And she would chide him all the while she tended his hurts, promising at the last to make him pie or jam.
He wanted the taste of ripe fruit bursting in his mouth, wanted that and happier memories, but there was not a berry to be seen.
He continued his walk, thinking of the white-tailed deer that came into the cornfields with the morning mist rising off the river and back again in the shadows of dusk.
Lots of good hunting. Deer or rabbits, ducks and wild turkeys. And never a time he dropped a line and couldn’t get a string of fish from the river.
He had planned to wait a few days to ride in to the settlement, but a restlessness came upon him to get moving. With a page torn from his old tally book, he made a list of supplies.
Matt could no longer deny the driving desire to get behind a mule to get that furrow cut with a plow. He had to chuckle to recall his first crooked attempt and the praise his father heaped on him.
With that memory, his mood shifted. He’d work his land, fix the house and keep his head down. He would give no man reason to come after him.
By the time Matt returned, he had staked out his new mule with Blueboy, fed them each a hatful of grain and made a quick supper outside. He had dickered long and hard to get the best mule of a sorry lot. It curtailed his plan to start plowing, for the mule needed a few days of good feeding before he could be put to the plow.
As he gathered enough deadfall branches for a fire within a ring of river stones, he thought of what he had learned from Larson over at the store. He didn’t like the sound of this new tax assayer raising taxes on all property. And according to the storekeeper there was no way to fight whatever price they set.
With sliced bacon from the smoked side he’d purchased and the cornbread and jam Laine had given to him, he was satisfied with his supper. Once he had eaten, he cleaned his cast-iron skillet, pulled the coffee pot back to the edge of the fire, and began setting small wrapped bundles of wet grass on the coals. It made a good enough smudge fire to keep the mosquitoes away.
He should be feeling content. He was home at long last, had his mule, plow and seed. He had the strength and will to work.
The familiar night noises had lulled him to sleep in the past. The frogs croaked their songs alongside the chirps from the crickets. Something splashed in the river. A swish of wings warned of owls hunting. He missed the far-off sound of a coyote howling.
Contented, yes, but he couldn’t ignore the edgy feeling that wrapped around him. He’d likely let Larson infect him with his talk of folks packing up and leaving their farms rather than risk losing their lives.
With his carbine fully loaded beside him, and his Colt at hand, he finished his coffee and turned in. If anyone came prowling, Blueboy would alert him.
Chapter Six
By morning’s light, Matt was down by the river examining what was left of the landing. The pilings were sturdy enough, but he would need to rebuild the flooring as well as get himself a dugout.
The sudden sound of horses in the lane made him do a fast turnaround. At a run, he headed back to the animals before they could whinny or bray.
Matt wanted nothing to alert any riders until he was ready to show himself. With his hands on the animals’ noses, he listen
ed to the sound of hammering.
It was warning enough that no welcoming party had come to see him.
He knew buying supplies at the settlement would trigger interest in his being home.
Not this soon.
A quaking rage overtook him. He fought it back. Calm was needed, that, and the patience to wait a few minutes to see what they would do.
Surprise came when he heard them ride off.
Slipping the thong from his gun, he went around to the front. He saw the backs of two riders stirring dust. As his gaze swept the yard he saw the piece of paper tacked to the post.
He read it once. Then read it twice more.
POSTED LAND by the Committee for Confiscation.
With gritted teeth he very carefully took it down. A fast walk brought him back to rummage in his saddlebags for a pencil stub.
POSTED LAND by COLTRANE, OWNER, he wrote on the back.
Then, just as carefully as he had removed it, he tacked the paper back in place. The sign was his declaration that he intended to fight them.
So be it.
He stood there in the overgrown front yard, his eyes glittering near gold, his mouth a flat, tight line. He had been a fool to think he ever had a chance.
Two hours of using his bowie knife to cut a swath of weeds and grass gave release to some of his anger. He took the pile to the backyard. A broomsage came first, one from the wild dried grass, wrapped and fastened with piggin’ strings that every man who worked cattle carried with him. The other brush broom came from a gathering of pliable branches of dogwood sprouts for the outside. He yet had to search the cornfields to find any dried shucks from the cobs to make a shuck broom to scrub the wood floors.
Sitting quietly, the sun drying the sweat he’d worked up, sipping his coffee and working with his hands kept him calm. He better understood what Law and Laine had tried to tell him.
That only reminded him that Laine never did explain why the man at the store frightened them. His hand clenched around the handle of his bowie knife used to smooth sticks for his brooms.
The Homecoming Page 4