by Gayle Eden
After a moment, Finn asked him, “Why don’t you stick around PineFlatts after the funeral. You could set up a law office maybe. Hell, live here at the ranch house if you want.”
“I might stick around, as to what I’ll do, that depends upon what my sister wanted.” Alex stood and walked over to the window, looking out at the risen moon. “I’d best turn in. It will be a long day with the funeral and neighbors…”
“Yes. Well talk, though later.”
When Alex was at the door, Finn having walked with him, his brother in law said in parting, “Find some middle ground with Lucas this time. If he leaves again, he might never come back.”
Finn closed the door, feeling whiskey churn in his guts. For someone he never felt he actually touched in life, Andrea’s death was certainly peeling the covering on all those raw places away. Lucas and Jordan… His oldest and his youngest.
There had been times he regretted sending Alex to fetch the girl, having been sent to a sister before the soiled dove he’d lain with, had died of TB. Then, he felt guilt, not an emotion a McCabe lived well with. It ate at him. He could even admit that it was not all Andrea’s fault he and Jordan were strangers. He had stayed distant; thinking his wife would give in and take some hand in the girl’s life. Other than sending her to the best schools, boarding schools, she hadn’t. He didn’t know shit about raising a daughter and it all seemed fine with him—until her schooling was over and she’d come back to the ranch.
He knew what the town whispered, but had agreed with Andrea to let her have the Croft name, because Andrea already talked her brother into it. But, Jordan was never fooled. It was in those green eyes, mirrors of his own, when she looked at him. By the time she came home for good, Andrea was sick with the lung fever. Jordan made a tentative offer to help—with Andrea or with the household. Andrea gave him that stone cold stare and…Hell…Jordan was nearly eighteen. Maybe blaming and hating him was best. He hadn’t done shit to make her life any easier.
Finn turned out the lamps and stripped down, absently eyeing the quilt pattern in the moonlight, before he sprawled on the antique bed. It was the one from the original cabin. Closing his eyes, dreading the funeral and burial, both of which he’d pulled out all stops for, already had the huge stone ordered at her request a week before her passing—and fenced in the flower covered rise she’d chosen with black wrought iron French fancy work.
Suddenly tiredness hit him, crawling through muscle and bone with soreness that was like led weight. Looking up at the pattern on the ceiling, his vision blurred for a moment. Breathing was harder to accomplish.
The first time he had loosed his frustration on Andrea was after each of their children were born. She had hired wet nurses and been indisposed until she was well enough to take up her teas and social obligations. She never coddled or held them. Damn Sara too, he’d seen her come out of the church in town, holding Falon’s hand, carrying little Rose on her shoulder. Not much past a year later, he’d spied her out on the range in a one-horse shay with two babies and Falon, and heard her singing something melodic to them.
Andrea didn’t go to the nursery, but had the children brought to her for a goodnight kiss. Finn felt something choke him—because he’d stored too many mental pictures of looking across the border of his land and seeing Sara riding or romping with her children. Frank never went anywhere with her, and there wasn’t a body in a hundred miles he didn’t mutter to how disappointed he was to have daughters. Shit, Finn swallowed. The sonofabitch was lucky to have Sara Douglas for a wife.
Everyone envied him, Finn McCabe, his beautiful heiress wife. Finn pretended to bask in it. But, the ranch and his sons, his blood, they were the fire that drove him.
Sara didn’t look at him, and if their eyes chanced to meet, she glanced away. He never forced it because he knew there was nothing to say. He had lain with Sara a month before that trip to town, and had been her first. Her father taking sick, the ranch work, he’d been busy—but burned every night for her, sweated through pulling sleds of logs and backbreaking chores thinking of it. He’d told her his dreams over the years, and she’d loved the place and shared them. It was unspoken but understood when he lay with her that someday they would wed. He didn’t use words that she did, soul mates, but he felt Sara in his blood from the first time he’d met her.
He had gone into town to meet the train, unload his orders from the freight cars. Stopped at the fancy hotel and—let his cock get him into Andrea’s drawers.
Finn shook his head wondering if he could have looked all these years down the road and foreseen it. Sara quickened his blood the way the ranch did. He’d wed someone else and Sara wed Frank Landry, a hard faced, unforgiving bastard by anyone’s account. The man held grudges. He was hell for anyone to do business with. Finn envied him that ranch, had offered him a fortune before Sara married him. Oddly enough, once she had, Finn secretly, selfishly, wanted her close. He never again offered to buy Frank out. Even if he shut some part of himself away and filled the rest with the ranch and his sons, he couldn’t let himself imagine not riding the boarder of their lands and occasionally catching a glimpse of Sara.
Muttering he rolled to his stomach, shoving his hands under the pillows. Find a middle ground with Lucas… the words went through his mind. Find it, or lose him for good.
Chapter Three
Corey stepped down off the porch to meet Falon’s buggy. Her sister had gotten someone from town to sit with the Christie’s, so she could attend the funeral.
“Mamma and Rose left early, there was so much food cooked, they took the wagon.”
Falon wore a black silk serge dress, a small bustle in back, lines form fitted to her slim hips. She had a light black lace shawl over her arms. Her long brown hair was back in a twist, a small hat with a half net atop her head. She set the brake as Corey climbed up.
Having won the argument to wear a split skirt that reached a bit below the knee and her newly polished boots, Corey wore a black blouse with it. Her brown curls were lose and tumbled around her head. Settled, she looked at her sister’s hands in the supple driving gloves. “Did you know Lucas was back?”
Falon nodded and clicked to the horses, heading to the main road.
“Do you think he meant what he said, back then, about being sorry?”
“I don’t know,” Falon, said huskily, her classic face betraying little. “It made little difference to me, since Ashley was dead.”
“You’re not home much anymore—”
“The Christie’s need me more.” Falon spared a glance and half smile for her, before attending the road. “Tobias’s mind wonders, and he’s nearly blind. Poor Dorothy has retreated to childhood. They grow frailer every day.”
“I didn’t realize.” Corey shook her head and sat back with a sigh. “I’ve often wondered, you know, what would have happened if you’d married him and—well, everything.”
“Whatever they thought of it, then, I have no ill feelings about it now, Corey. After they lost him, I think we all saw the grief and love there, and I was all they had.”
Corey chewed her lip. “I know Mamma said we shouldn’t talk about it, that it might hurt you, but will you ever get to be a mother to little Asher?”
Falon swallowed. “I am his mother, he knows it. I know mother would have braved the town, anyone and stood by me, had I kept him. Dorothy and Tobias were so struck down by Ashley’s death, and their cousins were childless…it was such a hard time for me. I was scared and heartbroken; all my future plans were erased when Ashley died. I’d come to love his parents regardless of how they felt about the betrothal— I don’t know, Corey; I try not to chastise myself for choices I made then. Ashley and I had always planned to take care of his parents, and I needed to do that. Raising a child without a father—I—”
“I think you were brave and loyal too.” Corey touched her shoulder. “I’m glad you get to see him, and I know how the townsfolk can be. Mamma said that she goes and sees him after church on Sunday. I n
ever realized that.”
Falon laughed softly. “You’re never home either, brat. You’re always off playing cowboy.” She considered her sister and shook her head. “You’re growing up, Corey. You may still dress like a boy, but you’re a beautiful young woman.”
“Thanks. And I’ve already had this conversation with Mamma.” Corey grunted. “I am fine being a woman, I just have no interest in the things Rose does. I love the ranch, everything about it.”
“I may have too, if papa hadn’t loved it more than us.” Falon kept the horses at an easy pace. “I never even felt that emotion from anyone until he wed Sara. Good lord, I can only hope to be half the woman she is someday. Raising us, putting up with Frank, now running the ranch. Mamma has grit.”
“Yep.”
They saw lines of buggies and shays, people on horseback and wagons full of neighbors ahead. Falon hung back to avoid the congestion. A sea of black, as folks were garbed in mourning ware.
“How do you feel about him?”
“Who?” Falon glanced at Corey again.
“Lucas. Do you hate him?”
Looking ahead and breathing in deep, letting it out, Falon said, “No. Five years, is too long to hold onto hate. I was too devastated to feel that when it happened. I was angry for awhile. But, hate seems too hot or cold an emotion to waste on people. I don’t think of him, one way or the other. I’m too busy.”
“I’m curious.”
“No kidding.” Falon laughed dryly. “About everything since you came out of the womb….”
“I mean, about him.”
Shaking her head, Falon started the buggy moving again. “Stay out of trouble, Corey. And Lucas McCabe, is trouble.”
Corey knew that. The whole town said so. She was still curious.
One of the McCabe hands, wearing black shirt, boots, trousers, bandanna and hat, directed them where to pull up the buggy. Corey was already craning her neck, since the huge yard was filled with people—in dyed black bonnets, and capes, women lined up with baskets and such, carrying food into the house.
When she and Falon were set down, she spied her mother and Rose. Sara having worn a black lace dress with sheer lace sleeves, her hair braided and in a bun, velvet hat with silk roses on the side. Rose as usual had an elaborate do. Her longer strawberry hair up in intricate jade pens, her gown a black and dove silk with tiny buttons up the front and bustled in back. Black gloves.
“Rose is so pretty.” Falon spied them too, Rose standing back a bit as their Mamma spoke to some ladies. “And so shy.”
“I don’t think she’s shy. I think she’s self-conscious.” Corey noticed the way Rose had draped a shawl over her upper arms and tied it, to hide her bosom. In her opinion, having seen Rose in a corset and stockings, her sister was prettier than any woman their age. But, she knew Rose would never believe that. She thought herself fat, and thanks to boys in school, rude men in the streets, thought her breasts and generous hips were the cause of leering and whispers. They were, but their Mamma carried the same figure with a high head and ignored the rest, poor Rose simply could not.
Falon, a good four inches taller than Corey’s five feet and three, steered them through the mass, until they reached Rose and Sara,
Finished speaking with the woman, Sara turned and smiled, embracing Falon. “Are you staying the night at the ranch?”
“Yes. I’ve asked Mary to sit with the Christie’s.”
“Good. I have missed you. And we need a long cozy chat.” Putting her arms around Rose and Falon, she winked at Corey. “If Corey would condescend to join us, we might just make chocolate and—”
“I’ll join you.” Corey smiled, knowing she always opted out when her sister’s and mother piled in Sara’s room to talk, or sat up at the table eating sweets and such. Normally, she was sneaking to the bunkhouse, to play poker, or a few times just camping on the range, dreaming of someday. She had not deliberately set out to relay she wanted to be a boy. She didn’t really. It was just the only way to be near her father. She drew the line at wearing frills and dresses, but didn’t want to drift far apart from her sisters.
“Mrs. Landry.”
They turned, Sara’s hand dropping from Rose and Falon, Corey, moving to stand by Rose, as Morgan McCabe stood there.
In a thigh-length black coat, white silk shirt, and string tie, the coat with velvet lapels, fine creased trousers and boots, his black hat in his hand—the rugged son and spitting image of brawny Finn McCabe, passed his lime eyes over each of them with a small smile of welcome. Handsome with his silk black hair shimmering and all that sun bronze skin, Corey thought humorously that they all had to look upwards to meet that smile. She wondered in her newfound maturity if most women looked into those black rimmed lime eyes and felt flushed as she did.
“Thank you for coming. Won’t you follow me to the parlor?”
He offered his arm to Sara, who took it with a, “My condolences, Morgan. I am so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, Sara.” He offered his other to Rose.
Rose flushed pink and shook her head. “Falon is the oldest.”
Moran McCabe’s silken black brow rose. There was some humor in his smile as he stared at Rose a moment. “So she is, Miss Rose.” He winked and turned to Falon, who laid her arm there.
Interested in the by play, Corey saw Rose applying her fan, trying to recover from that wink— and laughed, elbowing her, before taking her hand. “He looked at your eyes, your face, Rose, not your breasts. He was flirting with you.”
“He was not,” Rose hissed and fanned harder until they passed through the entry door. Beautiful silk wallpaper above wood panels of cherry wood distracted both of them. Paintings hung along the walls. Vases graced carved tables. They tread on a deep burgundy runner that cushioned their steps.
Two lines were passing by the coffin, one viewing, and the other going behind, where Finn McCabe, Lucas, and Alex Croft stood. A young woman with cinnamon red hair stood beside Alex Croft, who wore more formal black and white than the thigh coats and string ties of the McCabe’s. His was eastern cut and had a strip of black silk down it, slight ruffles on his silk white shirt.
“Quit gawking,” Rose muttered.
“Follow Mamma.” Corey muttered back, seeing her mother and Falon escorted to the men by Morgan.
“I am.”
Corey and Rose stood politely watching as Morgan joined his family; standing on his father’s other side. It occurred to her that Finn requested he fetch them, and that got her thinking—although getting a look at Lucas McCabe up close—wiped almost everything else out of her head.
Sensual. That was the word. No one ever told Corey that the same wild Lucas, the gunslinger, also took after his Mamma in looks. He had the black hair of his papa, but eyes of jasper, that passed over her family and herself for a moment. —Dear lord, Cory muttered mentally, all that lean sinew and swarthy from the sun didn’t hide high cheekbones, sensual mouth, slightly flared nose, angled jaw, and chin. The man was like some dark angel—some beautifully wickedly handsome Hades.
“Miss Corey.”
Having followed behind Rose, Corey shook Alex Croft’s hand, a little heady and intoxicated by his own topaz eyes and mane of wheat and brown hair. The Croft’s certainly got looks in abundance. “My condolences, Mr. Croft. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Alex.” He corrected and winked.
She smiled, and at any other time would have said to Rose, ha! I got winked at too. But, that seemed so childish. As Alex subtly looked her up and down, she didn’t feel childish, but even more flushed.
By the time Corey found herself in front of Lucas, her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. Which was fine, since Lucas didn’t look at her right away—but was watching Falon, who was speaking to Morgan. Suddenly, it dawned on Corey, that she’d wanted to see her Mamma speak to Finn McCabe, and she’d missed witnessing Falon speak to Lucas. Drat it all. Still, as she looked up and tried to read Lucas’s face, she found it more
curious that he could not seem to look away from Falon.
Finally, she took his hand.
He turned his eyes on her, stiff and alert.
She winced, muttering, “Didn’t mean to startle you. Is this your shooting hand?”
He blinked and then looked from the top her curly head, down over her boots. “Corey, right?”
“Yep.”
He shook her hand. “I can use either one.”
She looked at his hand, lean and callused, masculine. Then she murmured the condolences. “I didn’t know your, Mamma.”
“Thank you.” He was looking over her face.
“Are you back to cause trouble?”
“Not if I can help it.” He smiled and raised a brow.
She had the grace to flush. “Sorry. I stick my foot in my mouth all the time.”
His white teeth flashed. “I got no trouble with blunt speaking, Corey.”
“Come on.” Rose’s hand on her arm drew her eyes from his face. Rose rolled her own. “Move along, Corey, please.”
Corey moved, hearing a soft low laugh from Lucas. She spoke quickly to Finn McCabe himself, amazed looking between him and Morgan, how much that son took after him. There was potent strength in Finn. If not for the silver in his hair, lines at the corner of his eyes, he would look like Morgan’s brother.
“I hear you’re an ace wrangler,” Finn McCabe intoned in a seasoned voice.
“I do all right.” Corey nodded and looked around for Sara. “But don’t tell, Mamma I break horses. That’s the one skill she’s forbidden me.”
A black brow arched. “Dangerous business for any cowhand.”
“Yep.” Corey agreed, a little intimidated to be conversing with the McCabe himself. She swallowed and nodded, seeing her mother standing by the cinnamon hair’d Jordan, and observing her with—that—look. It meant, do not stick your foot in your mouth. Do not be nosey. Therefore, Corey rushed, “Sorry for your loss, Mr. McCabe.” And, got a brief nod before she moved to Morgan and said the same.