Martha gave a start when she saw headlight beams sweep into the yard. Could they possibly be back already?
“Trick or treat, trick or treat! Give us something good to eat!”
Martha laughed and swung the door wide. “Come in, come in.” She gestured to the two little witches and the diminutive cowboy complete with toy six-guns and neckerchief.
“Howdy.” Behind them came a tall mustachioed man in a ball cap. The father, no doubt.
“Hello,” Martha said, offering her hand. “I’m Martha Thomas.”
“Brett Sommers.” The man gave her a friendly grin and shook her hand. “Rocking Bar J,” he said, as though the name of the ranch explained everything. He nodded. “We’re a coupla miles down the road from here.”
Martha quickly handed round treat bags and listened to the chorus of thank-yous from the children. Then, laughing, she shepherded them outdoors again.
She’d no sooner closed the door than another group drove up, two pickups full of children. After that came a station wagon, loaded with two families of children, several more pickups and a battered utility van, equally stuffed with kids.
So much for Fraser’s prediction. An hour and a half later, Martha frantically pawed through the dwindling supplies, making up new goodie bags and thinking she’d have a few things to say to Fraser when he got back. Tom, from down at the bunkhouse, had come up and apologetically asked if she had any spare candy, and she’d given him the bag of lollipops. It seemed many of the children were also stopping in at the bunkhouse for treats, getting in the way of the nightly card game and, jeez, he’d been winning, too, he told her. Martha didn’t think Tom really minded. At least, he’d complained with a smile.
She glanced at the clock. Nearly seven. Fraser would be back with the girls any minute. Was that his truck now? Martha went to the window as a pickup pulled into the yard.
Yet another group of little goblins trooped in, followed by a woman. A few mothers had come out this evening; Martha had met several.
“Oh!” The woman stopped as she entered the bright kitchen and put her hand to her mouth. “You gave me quite a turn there for a moment!”
“I did?” Martha was handing out bags to the children and only paying half attention to the woman.
“You surely did. Why, for a moment there, I thought I saw a ghost through the window. Charlotte, clear as day,” she said, still waving one hand weakly in the region of her heart.
“Oh?” Martha pushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead and faced the woman, brow furrowed. Charlotte?
“She’s been gone these past four years, and I don’t know for the life of me why I didn’t think of that right off, but seeing you there, looking out the kitchen window, it surprised me so I…“
Martha frowned, tuning out the clamonng children, knowing somehow that this was important, whatever it was this woman was saying. Charlotte? Gone these past four years?
She hesitated, then smiled and held out her hand. “I’m Martha. I’m new here, working for Mr. McKenna. Martha Thomas.”
“Oh, heavens yes, I know. We’ve heard, we surely have, most of us neighbors, and we’ve been dying to meet you, ma’am.”
She could have guessed that, Martha thought wryly, judging from the numbers of friendly but definitely curious neighbors who’d came into the kitchen that evening with their children.
“Oh, and I’m Elsie Higson. When I said that about Charlotte, I—”
“Charlotte?” Martha broke in gently. “I don’t believe I know who you mean.”
“Why, Charlotte McKenna,” the woman said, her bright eyes riveted on Martha’s face. “Fraser McKenna’s wife.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“HELP ME!”
His voice tangled in his throat and he couldn’t answer. Branches clawed. His hands were slick and bloodied from sliding on the rocks. Lungs on fire.
“Fraser…” Still she called to him, fainter, farther.
Then the water reared up with a million knowing eyes and he leapt in, lashed out against the deep current that grabbed at his feet, pulled at his hair. Kept him from her. He choked and gasped and spat, water now cold and green and thick with ice, now warm and sweet as blood.
Dream rocks teased on shore, fading, wavering, ever just beyond his strength, beyond his reach. One more stroke, then another…
“Fraser!”
Blinded by the wet, confused by her voice, which seemed to come from over his shoulder, he shook webs of blackness from his eyes. The iciness swept him away from her. Downstream. Powerless. To the sea he’d never seen….
Again he struggled to answer her, and this time his voice burst from his chest, a great choked and desperate cry that woke him up, sick with fear. Panting. He waited for the echo in the dark. There was no sound at all. Nothing.
A dream cry.
Thank God for that. Half in bed, half out, heart hammering, sheets twisted. Where was he?
Home. Moon charging the room with silver, on sweat, on skin.
Naked and alone.
With a great effort, he lay back. Breathed deeply. Felt oxygen strike his blood, slice through his veins. Felt old grief rise hot and heavy in his throat, fresh as a bee sting.
He hadn’t reached her. He would not reach her. Not ever.
He raised his head again. Slow, cautious, confused. Where was the silvery frame, square, gleaming? Where were her smiling paper eyes? Ah, yes. Where she’d stood for so long, to remind him of what a man could never forget.
He sat up, shivering, pulled on his jeans and shirt. Picked up his boots, then set them down gently. Why wake the girls? Why wake the woman sleeping down the hall? The stranger. The woman whose hair smelled of sunshine and rain and someone else’s memories. The woman from away, who’d brought these dreams with her. Brought them to haunt his nights again. Brought them with her as surely as she’d brought softness and sweetness and gentle womanly ways.
Outside, frost glimmered. November, cold as a witch’s kiss. Cold as his heart.
He walked to the barn, snow crunching beneath his boots. He had some work he could do. He thought of the girls asleep in their beds, under his roof. Safe. Warm. Innocent as new lambs in their pens.
The woman was right; they were his family now, those two girls, like it or not.
Guard them, McKenna. His heart beat warm and strong and heavy. Keep them safe.
He swore, then, to the gods of the Wind Rivers, to the glittering stars in the blackness above, that he would. That nothing would bring them harm while they were in his care.
He’d watch over them, yes. But they needed more than that. They needed what he couldn’t give them.
What he couldn’t give anyone.
AT FIRST Martha thought she’d just ask him. Just come out one day when the girls were occupied elsewhere and ask Fraser why he hadn’t told her about his wife.
But either he wasn’t alone, such as when he’d appear in the kitchen with one of the hands or one of the girls. Or he made a point of staying away, as Martha suspected over the next day or two, when he spent long hours out of the house, even missing meals with them. Or, the rare time he did happen to come into the kitchen alone, Martha simply found herself unable to broach the subject.
It’s none of your business, she told herself severely. If he wanted to tell you, he would. She was just curious. It wasn’t as though it mattered one way or the other.
But still, what was the big secret?
Then one day while she was helping Birdie, she noticed that the older woman had seen her sneaking a peek at the photograph in the silver frame. Martha decided to take the plunge.
“Who’s this, Birdie?” she asked offhandedly, gesturing toward the young woman’s picture.
“Ah.” Birdie took the framed photograph in one hand and ran her dusting cloth over it slowly, lovingly. Her face twisted with some strong emotion. Pain? Sorrow? Regret?
“That Fraser’s wife?” Martha ventured cautiously. She’d never been able to figure out Birdie’s
attitude to their employer. She seemed fiercely loyal, yet at the same time oddly defensive. As though Fraser was one of her own sons, in need of her protection.
Birdie set the frame down. “Who told you about Fraser’s wife?” she asked.
“One of the moms who came around Halloween night. Elsie, she said her name was. She said I’d given her a turn when she saw me in the window, said I’d reminded her of Fraser’s wife.” Martha paused, trying to judge Birdie’s reaction. The older woman said nothing.
“I didn’t even know he had a wife!” Martha went on with a small laugh that sounded contrived to her own ears. After all, she really shouldn’t be asking Birdie questions about Fraser behind his back. Nervously she swiped at a bookshelf with her cloth, then the beveled mirror that stood behind the door.
“Well, he did have a wife,” Birdie said with a sigh. “Charlotte Mae. A lovely girl. Such a sad story in the end, my dear.” She paused. “I’m surprised that Fraser keeps her picture here. He’s gotten rid of everything else.”
“Sad?”
“Fraser hasn’t told you anything?” Birdie asked sharply.
“No.”
“Well, I guess he wouldn’t.” Birdie shook her head. “Humph. He’s tried to put it out of his mind, I suppose. A man’s way. Can’t be done, that’s the trouble. I’ve told him that myself many a time.”
“Put what out of his mind?” Martha was more curious than ever. “Were they divorced?”
“Lord, no!” Birdie flipped out a clean sheet from the basket beside her and gestured for Martha to take one end. “Fraser McKenna lived for Charlotte Mae Racey, always had. So did Wes,” she said with a quick look at Martha. “Weston’s a year older than Fraser, and the twins, Cullen and Jack, are seven years younger. Maybe you knew that….”
Martha shook her head.
“Anyway, Charlotte Mae went off to San Francisco, and nobody ever thought she’d come back. But one day, back she came and Fraser married her. Just a few weeks later, as I recall. Wes was away at the time. Overseas,” Birdie mused, a far-off, remembering light in her eye. Then she shook her head briskly. “Fraser was more in love with that woman than a man ought to be.”
Birdie bit her lower lip and bent to the task at hand. Martha felt an excruciating pain just below her midriff. In love with her, in love with her...
But why shouldn’t he be in love with his wife? “What happened, Birdie?”
Birdie looked grim. “She died. A terrible tragedy.” She shook her head again. “Shouldn’t have happened, but it did. Over three years ago now, nearly four. Fraser’s never gotten over it.”
She sighed deeply. “I’ve probably gone and said more than I should’ve. Fraser’d be wild if he knew. But I’ve told him many a time there’s no point in pretending nothing happened. He can wipe out every trace that she ever lived here, I guess, try to forget—just like he’s done. But he can’t cut her out of his heart. Truth is, men can be so aggravatin’ sometimes.”
Martha felt stunned. She wanted to ask Birdie for more details, but knew she shouldn’t. Birdie had already said that Fraser wouldn’t be happy if he knew. How had Charlotte died? What kind of tragedy? Why was Fraser so determined to erase every trace of her presence from this home they’d once shared, every reminder that she’d lived here? Every reminder except one—the photograph in his room.
More in love with that woman than a man ought to be. Again Martha felt pain beneath her ribs as she drew in a shaky breath and realized her heart was pounding. But that was crazy! What did she care, except that it was a romantic story, with what sounded like a tragic ending? Shakespearean. And of course she’d feel sorry for any man who’d suffered as Fraser had—and still was, apparently. Who wouldn’t?
Birdie’s information explained a lot. Perhaps it explained why Fraser seemed so reluctant to come near her—except for that one crazy time in the kitchen, which Martha was doing her level best to forget. Maybe he preferred to avoid all women, not just her. She felt vaguely comforted, and not sure why it mattered.
Then she immediately discarded that theory. A man like Fraser McKenna drew women like bees to honey, no doubt always had, and if Vi Jamieson’s comment back at the hotel meant anything, he carried a sizable reputation in that department. It must be based on something.
But the fact that he’d had a beautiful young wife who’d died tragically might explain why he’d been so angry that night in the kitchen. The night she’d told him the girls were his family now, or as good as, whether he wanted to admit it or not.
Martha was sorry she’d opened her mouth. It must have rubbed salt in open wounds, even after all this time—
“Going to the Barker wedding?”
Birdie’s question brought her back to the present.
“Oh…” Martha hesitated. She had no desire to go to any kind of social gathering, certainly not a wedding. “I don’t think so.”
“The girls want to go, I’m sure. They’re second cousins once removed to Mary Jane Hastings, the bride.” Birdie made a face. “’Course Fraser might prefer to leave ‘em at home. No sense askin’ for trouble,” she said darkly. “There’ll be enough of that when Brenda gets back.”
Martha knew what she meant. The fewer people who knew he had the girls in his care, the better. By this time, well over three months since Brenda had taken off, even the locals Fraser trusted must be asking questions. A wedding. It was the last thing she wanted to go to, even though she was dying to know what this Katie Barker was like, sister to the groom. The one who apparently had her eye on Fraser. Pure, natural curiosity, she told herself.
Martha had a sudden image of a dark and handsome Fraser McKenna with a beautiful woman in his arms, dancing, smiling, holding her close. The woman wore blue, but in her mind’s eye, Martha couldn’t quite see her face, and she felt that annoying pain again just under her ribs. She must be hungry. She glanced at her watch and saw it was nearly noon.
“Did you say something?” Martha realized the housekeeper was muttering as she turned off the vacuum.
“That Elsie Higson oughtta get some new glasses,” she snorted. “Charlotte Mae was way shorter than you, couple inches, I’d guess. And the loveliest hair she had, black as coal. Great big brown eyes that’d melt your heart.
“Why, she didn’t look a bit like you, Martha. Not a bit!”
FRASER WAS THINKING of china blue eyes and hair the color of honey. Buckwheat honey. His feeling that it was best to leave Martha and the girls at the ranch, away from prying eyes and nosy questions, was all mixed up with wishing he’d brought them. He missed them. He missed the girls. And, irritating as it was to admit, he missed the Lady Companion. Damned if he could figure out why.
“Come on, Fraser, darlin’. Cheer up. You’re supposed to be happy at weddings, don’t you know that?”
He looked down at the woman in his arms and smiled, a smile he knew rarely reached his eyes these days. He just plain didn’t feel like socializing, even if Ted Barker was one of his oldest friends and even if, as best man, he’d had no choice but to come to Rock Springs for the wedding. Ted and Mary Jane. He glanced over at the bride and groom, dancing on the other side of the hall. Ted was grinning at something Mary Jane had said. They had eyes for no one but each other.
Fraser felt a pang in his chest. But it wasn’t the ache of love he felt, not what Ted and his bride must be feeling. What he felt was the ache of loss—and he’d felt it more in the three weeks since the Lady Companion had arrived than he had in a long time. Somehow she brought back everything he thought he’d buried for good.
Now, even when he tried just for the hell of it, he couldn’t pretend he had Charlotte Mae in his arms, rather than Katie Barker. Sometimes he thought if he didn’t have that picture propped up in his room, she’d just fade away from his mind. From his memory.
He set his jaw. Charlotte deserved more. She deserved better than that from him.
Still, the traitorous thought lingered. If he’d brought the girls, he’d have had an excuse
to bring Martha, too. And if he’d brought Martha, he’d have had an excuse to be dancing with her right now, not Katie Barker.
He wondered what she’d feel like in his arms, if she’d feel soft and womanly, if he’d be able to look deep into those big blue eyes without giving in to the need to kiss her, to gather her close to him, as he’d often thought he’d like to do. It was just fantasy, harmless enough. His womanizing days were over—
“Hear anything from Brenda yet?” Katie smiled at him. He liked Katie, respected her, wished the best for her. It wasn’t fair to be fantasizing about some other woman when he was dancing with her.
“Nope. Not a damn word.”
“How are the girls taking it?”
He wondered how much of her concern was genuine, then felt disloyal to his old friend’s baby sister; Katie had offered to help look after the girls when he was in a bind, before he’d hired Martha. “Oh, they’re making out all right. They like the woman I hired.”
“Hmm.” Katie sniffed and looked away for an instant. When she looked back her green eyes were sharp, her voice a little harder. “To tell you the truth, darlin’, I’m surprised you hired a woman like her.”
He frowned. “Why’s that?”
“She’s not one of us, Fraser.” Katie’s eyes narrowed, but her smile never faltered. “Millie—who manages the café down at Vi’s hotel? She told me she saw her. City woman, she said, from a mile off.”
“Can’t see why that’s a problem.” In his opinion, hiring someone from somewhere else was a plus—she wouldn’t be part of the local scene. She wouldn’t be around to gossip or to pop up later, once Brenda was back. Though he couldn’t imagine Martha gone, just him and the girls alone again.
A chill gripped his heart, and he stepped into a turn, concentrating on the feel of Katie’s weight on his arm as she turned expertly with him. Brenda would be back then, he reminded himself firmly. Everything was going to work out fine.
“Just a little surprised you’d trust her, that’s all,” Katie said. The band finished the set, and she smiled as he offered her his arm to escort her to the head table. Katie was one of Mary Jane’s maids of honor.
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