by Gayle Eden
Morgan was brief and polite—and introduced Jordan Croft.
One look at those lime eyes and anyone could see the young woman was a McCabe.
“I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances.” Corey shook her gloved hand. “If you like riding, anything about ranching, come to the Landry ranch sometime.”
Handsome more than pretty, Jordan had a husky voice and when she stood was as tall as Falon, though fuller in figure. “Thank you, I will.”
Corey thought of all the whisper and talk in town. Considering the wealth in that home, the expensive cut of the woman’s gown, she shouldn’t feel any sympathy. Yet she saw a certain tension around that pink mouth, and sensed most of the people had not spoken to Jordan—but nodded polite, civilly distant and moved on.
She said, “Do come by. Monday, if you can make it. Rose and I are night and day, but between us, you’ll find tolerable company.”
“Thank you.” The hand she shook tightened slightly and Corey sensed her genuineness had come through. “Monday, then.”
Corey nodded and grinned, pleased with herself and secretly thinking— let the townsfolk chew on that. They didn’t do anything but gossip about Falon, and had not offered many kind words to the Landry’s at any time. She could imagine what Jordan Croft would suffer if she stayed around PineFlatts; the gossips would make her miserable. McCabe or not, she was an outsider, appeared to be even with her own family, and Corey figured she could use a friend.
Her family didn’t view the body, Corey agreeing with her Mamma that having not known the woman, it seemed wrong to look upon her in death. Rose and Sara went into the huge kitchens to offer help with food. Corey didn’t see where Falon got off to, so she went outside and struck up conversation with a few of the hands who were seeing to the mourner’s horses and tack. She knew some of them and some were seasonal, working both ranches. Sitting on the corral fence, she was more content talking horses and cattle than making polite conversation with the other folks.
* * * *
Falon found her way out, slipping past with a group and then making her way to a bench at the far corner of the lawn. The shade tree overhead protected her from the sun and she let the shawl lay in her lap, welcoming the breeze on her bare arms.
Sitting back, she idly watched the crowds and didn’t respond or nod to stares that came her way. Long ago, she’d learned what faux sympathy was, when Ashley died and good folks pat and hugged her in church, subtly probing to see if rumors were true, that she was carrying a child. She was not stupid. She hid it the first few months with her mother’s help, and it had been winter. The last few she stayed with Dorothy and Tobias’s cousins, who lived thirty miles from PineFlatts, and gave birth, to her son with the both of them holding her hand and patting her brow.
If Asher were not such a happy and healthy boy, it would have been much harder to bear not having him with her. The Samisen’s loved him. He had a father figure to look up to—and she knew deep down, she’d be mourning the Christie’s before winter was out. Already they were fading, as if going to some distant place. Though she had her family, it was like losing her daily link to Ashley. Her memories of their time, their courtship, were poignant and special. Ashley really was a good son, good person, and having a father who resented her, ignored her, Falon had needed him—for so many reasons, and loved him because he made her feel worthy and loved.
Sighing, she watched a driver pull a team of black horses around the side of the house, a lacquer flatbed wagon hitched up. There was probably a discreet door the coffin would be carried to, and then loaded for the journey to the rise.
Since people were still coming and going, she turned her eyes to the other corner of the house, a well-laid garden could be seen. Half stone wall, half iron fences, and gated.
A group of males exited the gate; smoke coming from their cheroots and hand rolled cigarettes as they leaned in various fashions outside the garden gate. She recognized Lucas McCabe as his brother Morgan leaned back against the house. Lucas was facing her direction, his black coat off and sleeves of his shirt rolled up his forearms.
Falon remembered standing before him, looking at his face for the first time in her life, having asked herself a dozen times, despite what she told Corey, if she did ever face him, would she feel loathing and hate—or see pure evil.
Before she’d offered a word he had murmured, “I’d take that day back, in a heartbeat, if I could.”
Startled she’d murmured, “Thank you.” And, moved on, hardly knowing what she said to Morgan. Her perception of Lucas was one of hardness and pride, struggle to say those words—and yet, she believed him. He was night to Ashley’s day. She believed most of what was said of him. Nevertheless, she believed it was an accident—. One that would have never happened had he not been in town fighting, drinking, and looking for trouble. Still, she believed what she saw in those steady amber eyes a moment ago.
Two of the men went back through the gate, and Morgan McCabe pushed from the wall, going toward the group of ladies and men in the man yard.
Falon felt herself stiffening as Lucas McCabe began to slowly walk toward her shaded spot. She didn’t move from her seemingly relaxed posture, but her dove gray eyes watched him; an easy walk, confident, but not cocky. His hair wavy, coal black, in need of a trim, but shimmering in the sun.
His gaze met hers long before he reached the spot. He stood casually, as if in conversation to anyone looking. But, to Falon, he was looking over her face, reading her, it felt like. She was not sure she liked it.
Finally, he sat on his haunches and picked up a twig, idly rolling it in his swarthy fingers, his gaze on hers. “For families that grew up on adjoining lands, we don’t seem to have spoken before?”
“No.” She let her gaze move over his face, trying to read his purpose in doing so now, then back to his eyes.
“I remember your father, Frank.”
“We—spoke even less,” she said that unemotionally. “I doubt it was a secret our father had no use for daughters.”
“He wasn’t easy for any man to talk to.” A slight smile curved those sensual lips. “He caught Morgan and me bathing in the creek once, the one that separates both our lands, and ran us off, cussing and waving his gun. Insisting we were on his property.”
“Not surprising.”
“Nope.” He looked away, around, then back. “I hear the Christie’s are bad off. I’m sorry for that.”
“You don’t look like a man who is sorry for much,” she said direct and quiet.
“Most of the time, I’m not,” his tone matched hers. “But I know they’re decent folk, and I had no malice toward their son.” He looked down at the twig a heartbeat or two. “I was trying to avoid killing a hot headed cowboy who drew on me. I shot wild and it ricochet—”
“Yes. The Sheriff explained.”
That gaze on hers again, Lucas murmured, “I took their son’s life and took your intended. If it’s any comfort, I think about it a lot, and wish I’d have gone home, passed out, seen him—anything to change what happened. I am not a man of clean hands. In my profession, I have killed a dozen men I had to, but only one stays on my conscious. One who was innocent of anything—one I didn’t set out to harm…”
“There is no comfort when you’re dreams die and your heart breaks, and the void of someone you love is never filled,” Falon said truthfully. “You should lay it to rest. It was an accident, no matter what.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You said that.” Falon held his gaze. “I believe you.” She stood and leaned down to pick up the shawl that fell from her lap.
Lucas had been about to stand, and caught it. He held it out to her, once they were facing, a kind of strange tension stretching until she took it.
“If there’s anything I can do—”
“No.” She shook her head feeling both light headed and tight in her stomach. “It’s been five years.”
His eyes were searching her face again. “I’ve seen y
ou, at a distance. Saw you years ago. I never really thought… about what young Ashley looked like, and strangely, the image of him in that wagon is forever burned in my head.”
She was shaking hers. “Don’t do that to yourself—”
“You’re young and beautiful,” his husky words surprised her. “Too young for someone have taken your dreams and broken your heart, forever.”
Falon was surprised to hear such words from a man like Lucas. She knew, sensed, he was hard and cynical, that maybe only she, because of Ashley’s death, would ever see that raw place inside him.
“I’ve let Ashley rest, Lucas.” She peered up at the ruffling leaves overhead. “I think his parents did too. In some ways, they are drifting more toward him, than they are in the world. I don’t think about forever anymore—because I am trying to prepare myself for the day two people I love dearly are no longer here. I know they want to go and be with him.” She looked down and found his waiting gaze. “That will be a comfort. I take my days as they come.”
She started walking down from the tree and he joined her for a space.
Falon thought it likely seemed odd, even shocking, to people who looked their way. She understood in some sense, that Lucas, no matter what else he may have done and lived with fine, needed redemption from her.
Before they reached the crowds she murmured, “Bury your mother, Lucas McCabe, and stay clear of PineFlatts saloon.” Drawing her shawl on her shoulders Falon walked away adding, “Don’t give the town the satisfaction of building on that rumor that you’re a gunslinger. Being a McCabe is intimidating enough.”
* * * *
Lucas watched her until she blended in with the crowd, his skin still tight with tension and his stomach tighter from the unaccustomed knee weakening he’d felt from the time he’d seen her up close in the parlor. Standing under that tree, holding her soft gray eyes—eyes that bespoke some inner strength, pain and pride, a woman who held herself together—held parts of herself back from everyone—He’d spoke words he hadn’t even rehearsed in his head.
There was something in Falon Landry he admired. Yet, something that he wanted to reach into and soothe. His cynic side sneered at him for that. But, the part of him that admitted he had stolen everything precious from her, made him wish he had some balm to fill the wound.
Setting his teeth, he walked back to the garden and through to the parlor, finding the far doors closed, and his father, and uncle, Morgan too, was waiting for him. The coffin was closed and they lifted it and carried it out through the side door, and set it in the wagon. Flowers were placed on top. His father climbed on the seat beside the driver. He’d yet to speak to the old man, their eyes meeting a split second when he had entered the parlor this morning.
Lucas and Morgan mounted horses and rode behind the wagon, Alex riding in the back with the casket. Mourners sang hymns and walked up the path to the rise. A preacher read scripture and Alex from a book of sonnets. More singing as the casket was lowered.
He took off his jacket, shoveling in soil along with his father and Morgan, moving almost numbly, having risen at dawn, ridden the range and done his good-byes there. There was unease in him from the old man, from being back here, from speaking to Falon Landry. He could not stop its gathering any more than he could have avoided coming back at all.
The grave was filled. He picked up his jacket and tied his horse to the wagon as Morgan did; riding back, then seeing to the unhitching while folks were making plates and eating.
The noon dragged into evening, and soon night fell, clusters of people were everywhere. Lucas went inside to his old rooms, washed up and changed into worn denim, boots, and a denim shirt. He felt necked without his gun but left it on the bed and went out the back way, smoking as he passed the yard. He headed for the corral where Morgan and several others were sitting, sipping from a flask and talking.
Some of the mourners had hitched up and left, more were in the process. Lucas helped the hands and lit lanterns—seeing his father standing in the yard, his jacket off too, and sleeves rolled up. He was regarding Finn when Morgan moved to go toward Sara and Rose Landry, their arms full of bowls and such the kitchen help had washed up. The wagon Sara brought was hitched and waiting. Lucas’s brow rose as he took a draw off the cigarette. He held and released smoke, watching Rose Landry jump as if startled and drop her burdens when Morgan came up beside her.
She stepped back into her Mother in turning, the basket Sara held fell. What was more interesting was that Finn McCabe, who would ordinarily bark out for some hired hand or maid to come and help them, bent down and retrieved the basket Sara dropped—while Morgan, was collecting and taking the burdens for Rose.
The four walked to the wagon, Morgan loading the items after handing Rose in. His father was on the other side. After the basket was added to the rest, and when Finn made as if to help Sara up to the seat, the woman rancher pushed his hand away, climbed up rather jerkily, and turned the wagon, heading out.
Morgan was already helping someone else, but Lucas saw Finn standing there watching the wagon. When his father finally did turn, his gaze skimmed the circle of light Lucas stood in. Their eyes touched before a tight-jawed Finn strode across the yard and back into the house.
What distracted Lucas from probing his father, or rather Sara’s responses further, was Falon walking his way. She appeared to be looking for Corey somewhere beyond him.
“I’ll get your buggy.” He waited until her eyes jerked to his and waved toward the corral fence. “Your sister is there.”
“Thank you.” She went in that direction.
Lucas hitched the horses in the trace and was checking it when the women showed up. Corey sprang up into the seat, still leaning to finish a conversation with the hand. He reached for Falon’s gloved hand as she stepped up, then handed her the gathered reins. When she gathered them, her shawl slid again and he caught it—their eyes holding as he braced on the step, and put it around her shoulders.
He stepped back, flickering a glance at Corey who was now finished and had spoken to him.
“Drive careful.” He nodded at her thanks.
Walking a pace back as Falon turned the horses, one of the hands leading the pair until they cleared the yard, he still felt the fine silk in his palm and smelled the aroma of jasmine faintly in his nose.
Shit. Shit. He took a couple of sips from the flask, managing to keep himself busy until everyone left and the lawyer called them into the study.
The day seemed about a week long. Lucas leaned against the panel wall, behind the others, who sat in chairs; Morgan, his father, Alex.
The lawyer opened a satchel and drew out three packets He looked up, his muttonchops silvery and catching the same light that bounced off his horn rim glasses. “Is Jordan here?”
A crackle seemed to go through the room. “I’ll get her.” Morgan stood, passing Lucas on his way out and saying under his breath, “Pray Mother didn’t stick one more knife into the girl. Shit.”
Lucas didn’t pray. He did know how his mother felt about Finn’s illegitimate daughter, and he didn’t agree with her deliberately hurting the girl. Though, in her way, however skewed, having her educated, giving her the Croft name was a great concession for Andrea. In her world and in her mind, she was being generous.
The door opened. Finn, having turned in his chair, let his gaze skim Lucas before he watched Jordan enter. She had already changed and bathed. Her cinnamon hair was wet and hanging down her back, she wore slippers and a cream skirt and blouse. Her normally honey hued face was stark white. It looked more like Morgan was pulling her inside, rather than leading.
Morgan sat her in the chair he’d vacated and stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders.
“Get done with it,” Finn sighed and waved to the lawyer.
The first envelope was opened. The man read it silently and then looked up at Alex. “You get all the land deeds.” He handed him the paper.
Glancing at Jordan, the man went through the same pr
ocess. He sat back afterwards and looked at Finn.
“Well, spit it out,” Finn grunted bluntly.
Those eyes turned on Jordan. “The rest of the stock is to be liquidated. The money from those sales will be yours, Jordan Croft, so long as you never use the McCabe name, or claim the blood.”
“Fine.” Jordan stood.
“God dammit!” Finn stood his full height, trying to reach for Jordan’s arm, as he began, “She’s got no right to dictate that from the grave. I’ll be damned if I—”
“It doesn’t matter.” Jordan was looking at him in a way that made Lucas want to smile. A McCabe, damn your eyes, look, that came with a lift of her chin. “At this point in my life. It doesn’t matter a damn what you say. It’s too late.” She reached for the paper and then turned to look at Alex. “You’ll take care of it?”
“Yes. Jordan, I—” He stood too.
She smiled at him, strained but sympathetic. “Don’t worry about it, Alex. Everyone knows I am not your youthful indiscretion. In fact, I’m just no one to anyone—but the daughter of a whore.”
She laughed humorlessly and looked around at each of them before shrugging. “It is ironic, isn’t it, that the person who wished I didn’t exist, one who resented me the most, gave me the most. An education. Now, a fortune.”
Her green eyes went to Finn, who still had not sat, a nerve ticking in his cheek. “She was only twenty, Susie Mae, a down on her luck woman, who took a room at the brothel that week, to try and make enough to get back home to Indiana. I looked up her kin. The reason she knew the father of me, was that you were the only one who lay with her. You paid her enough so she didn’t have to take anyone else.”
“Jordan—” Finn rasped.
She shook her head. “I don’t want your name. Not now. I won’t need your money. As soon as things are settled, I will be out from under your roof and you can forget I exist. What you could have done for me, you should have done when you found out I existed.”