He thought of a few things he could answer that would snap whatever control she had on herself. He was right to go. It annoyed him that he had to keep reminding himself. So, speaking with patience he was far from feeling, he answered her.
“I’m going home, Laine. I can’t stay here. You know that’s true. I left my mule loose. I’ve got a corn crop in that needs to be checked after that rain. There are repairs for the house.”
“Well, if you’re feeling so spunky and quarrelsome …”
“I’m not quarrelsome.”
“No?” she asked sweetly. “What would you call it when you ignore sound advice meant to help you heal and want to ride off? Who’s going to change your bandage? What if the fever comes back? You,” she said, poking her finger in his chest, “could help a friend if you’re feeling better. You could go with Tater and explain how to enlarge the brush shelter so we can all fit inside. Oh, excuse me, so there’s room for the three of us. You won’t be here. You could also be a friend and warn that boy that this is no time to be exploring strange waterways.”
Toe-to-toe they stood, Laine with lightning shooting from her grey eyes, Matt’s coolly assessing. Neither one about to give an inch.
Foolish, irritating woman. Before she moved, he caught hold of her hand and raised it to his lips. He debated a moment or two if he should nip the offending finger or kiss it. Laine’s mouth rounded with surprise. She had no inkling how she tempted him.
He intended to keep it that way.
Matt released her hand, stepped back, and rubbed his chest.
“For someone so concerned about my health, you sure do put enough wounds on a man. If you’d be so kind as to retrieve my clothing, I’ll take care of the shelter and Tater. Just remember I’ll go as I am. Think about what I’ll say.”
“You haven’t the sense of a bullfrog. You’re so hell bent on getting yourself killed, go do it. I swear, I won’t cry over you.”
“Laine, wait.”
But she shoved him and rushed from the room. Tears sparkled on her lashes. Since the moment she had seen him again, emotions ruled her. She knew it. Couldn’t stop it. Anger was all she could grab to hold.
Blackmail her, would he?
She’d see about that.
“Tater, come outside. I have a job for you.”
He listened wide-eyed as she explained what she wanted him to do.
“But, Laine, he’ll think I’m dumb.”
“We know you’re not. You have to promise me, Tater. This is important. I’m counting on you.”
“Sure. I’ll do it, but Matt’s no fool.”
“Never mind what he is. Now send Rachel out here.”
“What’s she gonna do?”
“Nothing that concerns you. Just do your part.”
She paced until her sister came out. “Rachel, here’s what I want you to do.”
Unlike Tater, Rachel did not fall in with Laine’s plan. She argued. Point by point, Laine wore her down until she ran out of patience.
“Either you will or you won’t. I have no time to waste.”
“I’ll help. But …”
“No buts. Just do it.”
Rachel threw up her hands. “You win. You be careful.”
Laine walked to the corner of the cabin. A few minutes later, Tater ran outside.
“Here.” He shoved her gunbelt and boots at her. “Matt’s in Rachel’s room getting dressed. She told him she had to strip your bedsheets to wash.”
“Good. Now make sure he eats.”
“Right. Be careful, Laine.”
She ran down the path to the landing. Throwing her boots into the dugout, she strapped on her gun and grabbed the pole.
If luck was with her, she would be back before Matt knew she was gone.
Laine poled the dugout through the lake water, higher than usual due to the heavy rains. By the time she reached the bayou, normally calm with a sluggish current, she knew she had her work cut out for her. The higher water level, the faster current, made her hug close to shore. In many places the pole wasn’t touching bottom. She constantly searched for purchase, all the while she kept a sharp lookout for anyone moving on shore.
Her arms began to ache, but she refused to turn back.
Laine knew her reasons for going were sound. If she eased Matt’s worry about conditions at home, he would allow his body the rest it needed to heal his wound.
He would come around to see she was right.
Not likely, a little voice pointed out.
So, he’d be angry, then calm down.
Try raging.
“No thanks,” she whispered.
As she turned for the river opening, the breeze freshened, cooling the sweat on her body. She promised herself a hot bath and hair wash when this trip was over.
Laine had to pole against the current. Every motion became painful. Overhanging branches from pines scented the air and brought cooling shadows. But there was a stillness to the wood lining the bank that gave her an uneasy feeling. Redbud trees, looking more like shrubs from their crowding, were bunched in pockets along the shore.
“The whole army could be hiding there, and I wouldn’t know,” she muttered.
She knew she wasn’t being watched. It wasn’t that feeling of something crawling over her. Laine had faced enough of that the first year after her father died, until she started to wear his clothes. And carry his gun.
The soft rustling of pine branches rubbing together almost sounded like a hundred voices whispering for her to turn back.
Laine ignored it. She began looking for a low spot to pull up the dugout. She could walk the rest of the way. She suddenly felt vulnerable. When she took a few deep breaths to calm herself, she understood why.
Once smelled. Never forgotten.
She had to know, but didn’t want to see, for in her mind her own nightmare was coming to life.
The wild, piercing yells and whoops that drove them from their beds. The shots, the screams, the sheets of flame from the burning barn and sheds. Carrying Tater, dragging little Rachel by the hand, following their father blindly into the night. Hushing, hushing, so they would not be heard. Biting lips until they bled. Swallowing screams as torches flew and landed on the roof. The horrid smell of the shakes catching fire, the terrified cries of the animals—the children.
Shaking with terror and cold, hiding all night. Rocking, rocking, trying to give comfort when none could be found.
Laine was sick over the side of the dugout. Her knuckles whitened as her grip on the pole tightened.
She fought to bury memories too painful to remember.
The current pushed the dugout. For a fleeting moment she wanted to let the river take her where it would.
But she had to know.
It could be a mistake. Some rider camping? A result of the storm?
Laine dug the pole deep into the river bottom, pulling the dugout forward. The slight bend of shore kept Matt’s landing hidden from sight.
She was looking for the bushy evergreen myrtles with their shiny lancelike leaves. She sniffed, hoping for the fragrance of the white or rosy flowers.
Nothing.
Sure she was close, she ignored the pain across her shoulders and pushed harder.
Laine refused to acknowledge what she smelled. She rounded the bend. There was no landing. Her gaze targeted the hill where the roof and chimney should be visible.
Nothing.
She pushed on. Tater told her there was a gravel bank near where Matt had camped. It came into view quickly, and she hurried to beach the dugout, then pull on her boots.
The utter stillness chilled and warned her. When she found the first scorched trees, she wondered if lightning had struck here. That would start a fire.
“Oh, God.”
Where thick blackberry brambles, brush, and tall grasses had divided the fields, now blackened sticks marked the boundaries.
Of the furrows Matt
had plowed and planted there was no sign.
Laine hadn’t realized she was running until she tripped and fell. She gripped the dirt, then forced herself up. The blackened trunks were all that remained of the beautiful peach orchard.
The house was charred wood scattered like the stone of the chimney. The stench of rotting flesh brought dry heaves. She thought it was the mule Matt left behind.
“Why? Dear Lord, why? How can I tell Matt?”
Against her will she was drawn forward. She thought she had seen enough.
She was wrong.
There was a piece of wood standing. The letters were burned deep. The words a blur until she swiped the tears from her eyes.
The fate of all traitors.
Traitor! Not Matt.
But he would kill over this.
And no scheming would stop him. No loving reasons.
Looking at the wanton, vicious destruction, hate welled up.
She struggled to make sense out of what was senseless.
Those men brave enough to band together to rescue family, friends, and neighbors had unleashed this plague upon them.
She couldn’t condemn them.
If they didn’t stand firm, all of them were prey to be picked off one by one.
How could they fight? How would they survive?
“Survive?” She hated that word. “For what?” she cried out. “To end up hiding like animals?”
With slumped shoulders, Laine made her way back to the dugout. She didn’t know what to do beyond going home. What she wouldn’t give for a few hours of quiet. She had the future of her family to consider. She had the tangle of her feelings for Matt to sort.
These savage beasts that had ravaged his land would destroy him.
As a girl she believed she loved him. She never wanted anyone else. She’d had to pack those dreams away when he left. Hope was a spark that never ceased burning.
There was kindness, gentleness, and deep caring in Matt. And he had come back. But was there love? He had taught passion, showed her what could be between them.
Did passion lead to love?
How could a woman love a man, then stand aside to watch him trod a destructive path that could lead to his death?
Was she strong enough to turn her back on him and wonder for the rest of her life … if only …
She simply didn’t have the answers.
Matt knew he wasn’t near his full strength. That wasn’t his trouble. Laine was. She had to bewitch him the way thoughts of her kept intruding, distracting him at every turn.
But there was distracted. There was dense. And there was ignorant.
He had hit beyond ignorant, if there was such a thing. It had taken him too long to figure out what Tater was up to.
For every step forward, the boy took two or three steps back. Matt’s reach and pulling ability was hampered by his wound. Tater was perfectly capable of following his instructions.
The boy was fidgety, like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.
Matt showed him the simplest method he had often used to build a shelter. The work of two hours at most. But Tater got lost hunting brush. Then he complained that his knife was too dull to cut anything. Matt had lent him his own bowie with the caution of being very careful. Then the boy was thirsty. His dog distracted him, wanting to play. Then it was Blueboy who brought forth a host of questions. He was hungry. Then getting tired. He was hot.
Tater had no idea how hot Matt was getting.
“That does it! Sit. Right where you are.”
When Tater plunked down on the grass, Matt, hands on hips, loomed over him. He hated using his size to intimidate the boy, but he was determined to get to the bottom of this.
“You’re going to tell me what’s going on.”
Tater shaded his eyes with one hand, for Matt stood with the sun behind him.
“You look awfully mad.”
Matt took a deep breath and blew it out. “I am angry, but not with you. I don’t ever want you to be afraid of me.”
“Honest, Matt, I’m not. Who are you angry at?”
“Myself for getting shot. I’m not used to depending on others when there is work to be done.”
“Bet you’ve done a sight of work in your time.”
“I’ve …” Matt caught himself. The boy was too clever by half. “No, you don’t. I’m still waiting for you to explain.”
Tater wiped his hands on his knees and shook his head. “I told her. I warned this wasn’t gonna work.”
“Who?” But he knew. The bane and joy of his life. The little witch had cooked up something. But why hide it from him?
“What is Laine doing?”
“Well, she said she had laundry to catch up with. And house cleaning. She had to weed the garden, and cook, of course. Oh, and maybe if there was time she wanted a bath. I hate taking baths. She makes me wash my ears.”
“Yeah. Your sister is a real terror.”
“Most times she ain’t so bad.”
Matt watched him pull blades of grass into a pile. Everything he said were chores that Laine would do. But what did any of it have to do with his leaving?
“I know you’re loyal to her, Tater. It’s a good thing.”
“We’re family.”
“We’ve been fighting. Guess you couldn’t help but hear us. But I care about her. She’s a special woman. I would never hurt her. I might think she’s like a beautiful wild mustang running free for too long, but I also understand why. She’s a strong woman, even if she’s mule stubborn.”
“You gonna marry her?”
Matt felt sucker punched. The boy looked so serious his denial died aborning.
“I’m not good enough for Laine. I haven’t much to offer now. It’ll be years before I can get the place earning decent money.” Matt rubbed the back of his neck. He had to wonder why he was telling Tater what he didn’t want to think about. “Truth is, I don’t know if she’ll have me.” And if things shape up the way I figure, I might be dead before I ever get around to ask.
“I don’t think money means a whole lot to Laine. There was a man who used to come around. Dressed real fancy. Had a coal-black horse. Talked fancy, too. Laine didn’t like him much. He tried giving her presents. She wouldn’t take them. Wouldn’t shoot him. I asked. She said she couldn’t.” He frowned, thinking. “Yeah. Said it would upset a beehive of killer bees.”
“Who was he?” Matt’s voice was soft, revealing nothing of what he was feeling.
“Royce Claiborne. Fancy name for a fancy man.”
“Tater, you ever see him near Laine or Rachel, you tell me, hear. No one else but me.”
“I can do that, Matt.”
“I don’t need to remind you this is between us, Tater.”
“Right.” Tater stood up, brushing off the seat of his pants.
Matt looked away, shaking his head. He’d thought the boy too clever, and once more he’d diverted him from what he wanted to know.
“Rachel’s here! Did you bring food?” he shouted, running across the clearing to meet her. The dog joined him, barking, tail wagging, trying to dance between them.
Matt pretended he didn’t notice their whispered conversation. He should saddle Blueboy and ride out. He knew they meant well, but he was tired of being treated like a boy who needed a keeper.
But first he’d find Laine. Tater was investigating the baskets, Rachel busy keeping his hands out. Matt got to the head of the path before Tater spotted him.
“Wait, Matt. Let’s eat first.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Matt took the path at a fast walk, the best he could manage. He didn’t expect to see Laine in the clearing, so wasn’t disappointed. Laundry hung on lines strung from cabin to trees. He noticed the crudely made clothespins, reminding him of the ones he’d made his mother, and wondered if Tater had carved these. The horses and mule were picketed at the far end of the stream.
>
She wasn’t in the garden. He quickly judged no one had done any weeding.
He checked the cabin. Every room was empty. She wasn’t here. She wasn’t out riding.
Hiding? From him?
Especially from him.
He stood outside the doorway, hands on hips, and thought about that. He shook his head. Laine wouldn’t hide. She could be down at the lake. He took a few steps, then stopped. If anyone deserved a little peace and quiet it was Laine.
Matt headed back. Maybe it was better this way. No fighting. He’d just go.
When he reached the little clearing, both Rachel and Tater stared at his. Blueboy nickered a greeting. Matt worked quickly, changing headstall for bridle, grabbing hold of the saddle horn after he smoothed out the saddle blanket. He hefted it with one hand as he often did, biting back a cry at the wrenching pain in his side.
“Need help, Matt?” Tater munched his biscuit and bacon.
“No.”
“Wanna eat? It’s good.”
“No.”
Matt got the saddle in place. Sweat broke on his brow. Thankfully, Blueboy gave him no trouble. But he couldn’t stifle a groan when he secured the cinch. Bedroll, saddlebags, and carbine in place. Matt bowed his head over the saddle. He be damned if he would give in to this sudden weakness. But the thought of putting his foot in the stirrup, grabbing the horn, and pulling himself up warned him he was in for a world of pain.
That decided him. He took hold of the reins to lead Blueboy to the cabin. He could mount without anyone watching. Maybe use the big stump where Tater chopped wood. Like some eastern greenhorn.
“You two be good to Laine. I’ll be back in a day or two.”
“Sure, Matt. Be careful.”
“Yes, do be careful.”
Tater looked at Rachel. “Laine’s gonna have a hissy fit.”
“Laine never had one in her life.”
“Well, I wish she would. It’d be easier on us.”
Matt was almost to the end of the path when he heard riders in the clearing. Blueboy, like the good cutting horse he was, backed all the way to the clearing.
“Matt, what …”
He ran his finger across his throat, silencing Tater. Dropping the reins, he grabbed his carbine and ran back. There were no thoughts about pain. He couldn’t indulge his body’s weakness.
The Homecoming Page 12