Rhetta recoiled as if clawed by a bear. “Bernie,” she uttered, pain as thick in her voice as the tension was in the room.
Bernie wrinkled her nose again. “This is why I don’t spend time with you! You never listen, you never change.”
“Girls!” Aunt Melda, as plump as ever, strolled into the room, her shoulders back, and her eyes flashing indignation. “You two had better get a hold of yourselves before I send you out to bale hay with the hands.”
Rhetta didn’t know if that would be much of a punishment for her, she liked the work. Whereas Bernie would be begging for death from the blisters on her hands alone.
Bernie gave a ladylike sniff and crossed her arms elegantly over her chest. “Rhetta is being childish. I merely explained to her that she just isn’t the kind of woman who endears herself to people.”
Like a nail to the chest, Rhetta felt the ache pierce deeper. Her own sister was looking upon her as though she were nothing. Her own sister…the other half of herself. Her twin. What had she done, all those years ago, that had twisted their relationship into this sham of a family?
Aunt Melda’s stern gaze met Rhetta’s. “What do you have to say for yourself? You’re twenty years old, you’re no child.”
“I know that, Aunt Melda. I am sorry. I just got carried away, that’s all.”
“Carried so far as to insult my own daughters in my own house.” Aunt Melda’s face pinched, her lips thinning.
Sighing, defeat an ugly lump on her back, Rhetta rubbed at her forehead. “Again, I am sorry. It’s just…I don’t feel myself.” No, she felt like an outsider in her own family, the plague carrier sent to live in exile until she died. Alone. “I promise, I’ll do better,” she intoned, her voice as level as she could get it. Inside, she was a trembling wreck, but she’d be darned if she showed Bernie and Aunt Melda just how much this moment hurt. Again, she was reminded that they may share blood and she might share features with Bernie, but that’s where the resemblance ended.
Maybe she was a mole, her head in the dirt.
Aunt Melda clicked her tongue and came to Rhetta, taking the young woman’s hands into her own, chubby ones. “I know this is a change from what you’re used to. Give it a few days, dear. Take a walk to the stables after breakfast. There’s a horse there I know your brother wants you to see,” Aunt Melda said, her face softening.
“A horse?” Bernie effused, clasping her hands in front of her with glee. “Do I get one, too, Aunt Melda?” She sounded so excited, so hopeful…so like the sister Rhetta had grown up with. A girl who got excited over horses and riding and adventures in the woods by Beau du Lac Lake.
Melda nodded, grinning. “I do believe there are a pair of horses waiting to meet you two. But first, breakfast,” she said, directing the two of them down the hallway to a large, hideous, echoing dining room. The walls were adorned with floating marble heads on shelves, the rug beneath the table was burnt orange, the table was much too long for just the three of them, and the sideboard was piled high with foods that smelled appealing but looked…angry, or…sick.
Rhetta didn’t say much during breakfast. She let Aunt Melda and Bernie chat about the house, the ranch, Morgan’s Crossing, eligible men about town, the seamstress, and when they should go into town next.
As they talked, Rhetta’s mind returned to the forest; its dense groves, its packed earth paths, the scents, the utter peace. The large, quiet, intense man who’d frightened the life from her, then promptly gave her life back by saving it. Who was he? His striking blue eyes had bored into her, seeming to look past the surface to the heart of her. What did he see?
The scraping of the chair against the floor brought Rhetta back to the table where her nearly full plate of cold eggs, biscuits, and brown gravy sat, the congealing gravy jiggling as she jostled the plate.
“Rhetta, accompany me to the stable, if you please,” Bernie commanded, rising from her chair with an air of regality. She must have been a princess in another life…I must have been a scurrying field mouse.
Tossing her napkin on the table, Rhetta rose to follow her sister from the dining room, hurrying out of the house on her sister’s heels. Her sister, dressed in high fashion even when gliding out to the stable, looked quite lovely in her dress with her auburn hair twisted into an elegant knot atop her head. Even now, as she hurried, not a single hair slipped from its noose. Now, Rhetta, she’d worn a light blue cotton skirt, re-hemmed, a white blouse, worn, scuffed, brown leather boots, and her long hair was in its usual braid down her back. Her hair absolutely refused to stay in its confines, so she tucked errant strands behind her ears.
Bernie entered the large, red stable through one of the two 20-foot high, white-painted doors. Before Rhetta got within ten feet of the building, she could smell the timothy hay, the horse piles, the dust, the leather, and the horseflesh. They were smells that made her think of home, of her own stable back in Dry Bayou. It was one of the places she went to hide to get away from the noise and busyness of a house with too many people in it. The scent filled her with a sense of home she hadn’t known she needed. She smiled, her heart lifting.
Rushing through the doors right behind Bernie, Rhetta came to a halt, her heart now lifted completely into her throat.
He was there, standing beside Timothy, his blue eyes widened in shock, flicking from Bernie to Rhetta, back to Bernie, then settling on Rhetta. Holding herself stiff, Rhetta watched as his eyes hardened into vibrant slits, blazing into her, stealing her breath. A new, devastating heat exploded in her belly, racing into her chest, rising into her face.
That man, the man who found her in the forest, chased her soundlessly, saved her from a bloody death, then cradled her against the hard slab of his chest, comforting her, was standing beside her brother! The impulse to run flickered through her mind for but a moment, but the penetrating, sharpness of his gaze told her he’d catch her. And what would he do once he had you? She fought a full body shudder.
Unaware that his own sister was in danger of expiring on the spot, Timothy grinned, tipping his hat at his sisters, as was his way. “Bernadette, Henrietta, good morning. This is Mac Solomon, my foreman.”
Chapter 4
Henrietta. So, his tree spirit had a name. A very…unlikely name. Standing there, her rich hair coming loose from her braid, her eyes, the color of early autumn, flashing in surprise, then guilt, then embarrassment. The soft pink of a blush rose into her face, making her eyes shine all the brighter. Heavens, but she was lovely; her skin a peach-tinted cream along her neck, beckoned to him, calling for him to kiss her there. Heat bloomed within him, sucking the words from his mind, striking him mute when he so needed intelligent words.
“Hello,” he ground out, his throat closing around the single word. She ducked her face, then slid a delicate hand down her skirts.
“Hello,” the other woman said, coming forward to stick out her hand in greeting. He blinked down at it, unsure if he was meant to kiss it or shake it. Finally, he decided on the least awkward of the two, taking her hand in his for a brusque shake. When he dropped her hand, she stared at it as if he’d passed a visible pox to her skin. The woman looking similar to his hummingbird, except that her eyes were a plain brown rather than a glimmering hazel. Her hair wasn’t as deep brown with red flames as her sister’s, and there was an air about her that made him want to shrink away rather than draw her close. Not like his thanáǧina, who, even now, was just within reach, yet too far away. The urge to brush the other woman—Bernadette—aside and see only Henrietta, was strong.
“Mac, these are my sisters. They are here visiting for a few months. I expect you to keep an eye out for them. If you see them out and about on the ranch, make sure to keep them out of trouble.” Timothy pinned Bernadette with a steady gaze. “That one won’t give you much trouble; she’ll spend most of her time in the house or begging you to take her into town. But that one,” he turned his gaze to Henrietta, “will keep you on your toes. She likes to wander, and can get caught up in
whatever she’s thinking about or drawing or whatever she’s up to these days.”
Henrietta wrinkled her nose at that. Mac was hard-pressed not to chuckle and then plant a kiss on the tip of her nose.
“I’m not a troublemaker, Timmy. I just get lost in my thoughts sometimes, is all. I don’t need a minder, and I’m sure Mr. Solomon would be much happier doing his work rather than looking out after a silly girl.” She clasped her hands in front of her, primly, and stood straight, as if forcing herself to stand still when what she really wanted to do was go right back out into the forest.
“Not at all,” he found himself saying, or rather, blurting. “I’ll help however I can.” And he meant that. He could still remember the hammering of her heart through her back as he held her to his chest. He could remember the feel of her curves, the softness of her skin, the look of awakening in her eyes as she realized he was holding her, murmuring soothing words into the wild mass of hair around her head. Lord, how he wanted to kiss her then, to comfort her, to show her that she was safe, alive, protected.
“I don’t suppose Mr. Solomon is available to take me into town this afternoon?” the other woman asked, swatting her lashes, gazing at him, from his scuffed boots to his hat. She was sizing him up while stepping forward to stand in front of her sister. Bernadette tipped up her chin and planted a large, rather practiced smile on her face. She’d be pretty, he supposed, if she weren’t standing next to someone exquisite. “I wouldn’t mind such a handsome escort,” she purred.
He stared in bewilderment. Handsome? She thought him handsome? Well, that didn’t feel right, not coming from her. She seemed the kind of woman to hand out compliments to have her way. But if Henrietta had said he was handsome, it would have meant far more. She seemed to measure her words, think on them, ponder them before speaking. Even now, she was staring at her sister, questions and unnamed emotions flashing through her eyes.
What was going on between the twins?
Timothy saved him from having to answer Bernadette. “Bernie, you know you can’t spring a full day trip on us like that. If you want to go into town, you’ll need to plan that with JoJo, Aunt Melda, and me. With enough days’ notice, I’m sure I could find time to escort you into town.” The man didn’t seem to realize what he’d done. Bernadette stared daggers at her brother, her plan to escape to town thwarted by thoughtful planning.
Henrietta stepped around Bernadette and planted a gentle hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Bernie—”
“I told you not to call me that,” Bernadette snapped, turning her nose up at her sister, her face boiling a hideous crimson. “Bernie is a baby’s name. I am a woman grown. I’d thank you to remember that, Sister.”
Henrietta paled, her hand flying to her mouth to cover a gasp. The desire to spring forward and protect her from her sister’s barbs made Mac move a step toward her.
“Now, Bernie…err…Bernadette, there’s no need to get snippy. Why don’t I take you to meet your new horse, and Mac here can show Rhetta hers,” Timothy offered, taking Bernadette in hand and leading her toward the stall two down from where they were standing.
The silence stretched between Mac and Henrietta—he still didn’t like the name. It seemed too masculine for one so delicately formed…so soft, so spirited. His mind pulled forth images of her running down the hill to the tree line, her hair flaring out behind her, her face raised to the sun in worship. She’d been everything he’d ever dreamed of…and more.
“Mr. Solomon…” Her voice was light, uncertain.
He tensed immediately, her uncertainty pricking every alarm in his body.
“Please, call me, Mac. There hasn’t been a Mr. Solomon since my pa passed,” he replied, feeling like an idiot for mentioning his dead pa so soon. At least wait until you’ve known her a week before unloading your wagon of personal pain on her doorstep.
Color rose into her cheeks, returning the lush pink to her skin. “Mac…”
His name on her lips lit a fire in his gut, a fire he’d never felt before. It was intoxicating.
“Yes?” What a lout! He couldn’t even think in two word sentences!
Her color deepened, her autumn eyes glowed with a mix of embarrassment and…curiosity. She’s curious about me? The feeling was mutual. Very. He’d known her brother, Timothy, for years. He had heard stories about Timothy’s rambunctious twin sisters. He’d chuckled, at least once, hearing the stories of how Bernadette wove ribbons into her horse’s hair, and how Henrietta had witnessed the birth of a lamb and immediately asked if her own babies would be as wooly. He’d heard the stories, had pictured the two young girls as playful children. But nothing he’d heard or imagined had prepared him the beautiful woman standing before him.
“You won’t tell Timmy about what happened in the forest, will you?” She finally gifted him with her gaze, meeting his from under her light brown lashes.
Was she still worried over him telling her brother about her flight through the woods and near death? He’d promised her, had given his word. She doesn’t know you, doesn’t know your word is as good as gold. Still stinging from her disbelief in his honesty, he crossed his arms over his chest.
“I promised, Miss Henrietta. I meant it. I won’t tell your brother. But…” He needed to know why she’d run, why she felt so right held against him, why just the sight of her spun his mind and heart in whirling circles.
She arched an eyebrow and bit her lip, her white teeth leaving a mark in the pillow of her mouth. His body tensed further, his chest, belly, and legs throbbing with the strength needed to remain still when what he wanted to do was taste the lips she so abused. She must have noticed him staring intently because a flash of fear turned her eyes to shallow pools.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, her voice cracking.
He shook his head, unsure how to answer. Because you’ve become something like breath to me. How was the possible? “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…to make you uncomfortable. It’s just that…I’m not used to having such a…”
It was her turn to cross her arms as a look of hurt furrowed her brows. “Plain, brown, dull, mouse?”
His thoughts scrambled and he struggled to understand. She thought herself plain? Dull? A mouse? How could she not know how vibrant, stunning, and remarkable she was?
“No. That’s not what I was going to say—”
“I saw you looking at Bernie—excuse me, Bernadette. She’s always been the…favored one.” She pulled back her shoulders and fixed him with lifeless eyes. “Don’t worry about me, Mr. Solomon. I can meet my horse another time, I know you’re busy. I’ll just head on back to the house,” she intoned dryly, turning her back to him.
“No. Please. Stay, Henrietta,” he said, lowering his voice to hide the desperation.
She stiffened but didn’t turn back to look at him.
“My name isn’t Henrietta.”
No, she wasn’t a Henrietta. She was a thanáǧina, a hummingbird. Beautiful, mesmerizing, and easy to scare. Mac stared after her as she walked away and wondered why his hummingbird was running from him again. He needed to know, so that when he approached her the next time, he wouldn’t make her flitter away.
Chapter 5
Rhetta stood at her bedroom window, watching Mac, down in the corral, working with one of her brother’s new horses. From up here, she could take her time, look her fill, let her eyes and her mind take in all that was the man who’d saved her life. Mac was tall, well-built, and could easily control the movements of the young horse with the lead rope. With each pull of the lead rope, the thick cords of Mac’s arms stretched the fabric of the linen shirt he wore. She could remember the feel of those arms around her, holding her to him, gently comforting her in one of her worst moments—no, the worst moment.
Mac stopped, removed his hat, revealing a head of thick, straight, black hair that fell to his broad shoulders. Rhetta had never seen a man with hair like that. It was a striking contrast to his copper skin and his eyes. His
copper complexion reminded her of the paintings of Indians the Mosiers would sell in their Dry Bayou mercantile. So, he was an Indian. But what about his name: Mac Solomon? It didn’t sound like a Native name. And his eyes…
He was certainly a well-made man. His eyes, their startling blue, flashed in her mind, and an answering heat bloomed in her belly. It wasn’t just his eye color that had the power to make her feel, it was the intensity with which he looked at her. Like he was waiting for her to say or do something extraordinary. Like she was something extraordinary. It was unsettling. It was…exciting.
Grunting, she turned away from the vision before her, trying to get her mind right. She needed to think on something other than Mac Solomon. Her gaze flitting from one corner of her room to the other, she forced herself to take a moment to actually see the room. It was a moderately-sized room—larger than the one she shared with Bernie at home—but not so large you could hold a country dance in it. The furniture was elegant, almost fragile-looking, with soft blue upholstery and white flower accents. Everything about the room screamed delicate, lady, high society—all the things her sister was and wanted. Bernie hadn’t always been so fashionable and marriage minded. Rhetta could remember a time when she and Bernie would come home dripping with mud, grins on their faces, and twigs in their hair. Their mother would have a fit, send them to wash up, and Rhetta and Bernie would giggle all the way. What happened to that sister? A heaviness settled over her chest, pressing down with the weight of fear, uncertainty, anxiety, and loneliness. With Bernie, she’d always thought she’d have a best friend, someone to rely on, no matter what. But now, Bernie was one of the people she needed to talk about, to reason her thoughts out about. But she couldn’t talk about Bernie with Bernie. So, that left Timothy, Aunt Melda, one of her odious cousins, or…Mac. His name resonated within her mind like the report of a rifle. She couldn’t talk to Mac about her sister; he was a stranger. But he had saved her life, and he had promised to not tell anyone about it, and he had actually followed through with it. Rhetta remembered the hurt on his face when she’d asked him if he’d kept their secret…no. Mac Solomon may be a man of honor, but he didn’t need to be burdened with Rhetta and her problems. Even if talking with the man that morning had alleviated a smidgen of her lonesomeness.
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