Weathered Too Young

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  “So…whatcha think, boss?” Eldon asked, rattling Slater from his thoughts on cattle breeds. “Is a night in town for the boys and me all right with you? It is Saturday.”

  “You know ya don’t have to ask my permission, Eldon,” Slater said. “If things are done ’round here, yer nights are yer own.” He paused and glanced to Tom. “Just don’t be bringin’ no trouble home with ya.”

  “Oh, we won’t,” Eldon chuckled.

  Still, Slater arched one eyebrow, remembering a Saturday night several months previous when the Evans ranch cowboys had gotten into a brawl over one of the girls at the saloon. Slater and Tom had had quite a time talking Sheriff Gale into letting the boys come home instead of spending the night in jail.

  “No trouble, boss,” Eldon assured him. “Honest.” Tom chuckled, and Eldon added, “Why don’t you boys come with us? You ain’t seen a Saturday night in town in a month of Sundays.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ to interest me in town,” Slater said, patting Dolly’s neck as he stood. “But you oughta go, Tom. It’ll do ya good.”

  “Ol’ Tillman Pratt’s got a new actress workin’ at his drama house, Slater,” Eldon said. “The boys over at the Herschel place say she’s mighty purty. They say she’s got a voice like a bird…and I know how ya like good singin’. Why don’t you boys join us, boss?”

  Slater did like a pretty voice and a sweet song now and then. He figured it was probably because his and Tom’s mother had sung so pretty—and near to constantly. It seemed Ada Evans always had a song on her lips, as well as in her heart. Slater had a moment of mournful melancholy—of missing his mother.

  Suddenly he was tired—tired of chopping wood, hauling hay and oats, mending fence—just plain tired. “What’re you thinkin’, Tom?” he asked his brother.

  “I think I could use a little pretty singin’…and a few hours spent somewhere besides the ranch,” Tom said. “And I know you could.”

  Slater nodded. He was weary of choring and could use a little distraction. He frowned, however, and asked, “What about Lark? Should we be leavin’ her here alone?”

  “Tillman Pratt’s theatre ain’t no place for a girl…but I ain’t quite sure we oughta leave her either,” Tom agreed.

  “Ol’ Mrs. Simpson used to stay home by her lonesome all the time,” Eldon reminded. “Seems to me I remember she liked it that way. Women need time to themselves, after all.”

  “And yer such a wise man where women are concerned?” Tom teased. He chuckled a moment and then said, “I suppose we could ask her if she’d mind bein’ here alone for a time.”

  “Oh, she’d never tell us the truth if she did. I have a hell of a time tryin’ to figure what that girl is thinkin’,” Slater mumbled. It was true too. More often than not, Lark Lawrence was determined not to let on what her thoughts were. Slater found the fact both intriguing and frustrating.

  “I suppose that’s what makes her so interestin’,” Eldon said. “I swear ol’ Chet’s knees go to water whenever he gets sight of her.”

  “Well, if we’re goin’…we probably oughta tell her before she starts supper,” Slater said. “You go on in, Tom,” he said, brushing his hands. “I’ll get these horses stabled.”

  

  Lark lingered at the window in the small room at the back of the house. She’d been watching Slater and Tom curry Dolly and Coaly. She didn’t quite know why she’d lingered in watching them, for she couldn’t hear their conversation. Still, she often found comfort in just quietly observing them. Lark surmised that it gave her comfort to know they were nearby—that it instilled a long-absent sense of safety in her subconscious.

  Eldon Pickering had joined them. He was a pleasant man. Tall, good-looking, with tawny hair and blue eyes—kind too. The other cowboys on the ranch were polite as well, though something about Chet Leigh unsettled Lark a bit—made her glad the cowboys ate, slept, and played cards in the bunkhouse behind the barn instead of in the ranch house with Slater and Tom.

  Lark gasped as she saw Tom start toward the house. Dropping the curtain she’d been holding back as she’d watched them, she hurried to the kitchen. She was late with starting supper and worried that Tom was on his way in to inquire as to what she planned to prepare. Oh, Tom never got angry—not that Lark could see—but she didn’t want to serve supper late all the same.

  “Hey there, darlin’,” Tom greeted as he entered the house. He was smiling—Tom was always smiling, and Lark loved him for it. Over the past few weeks, Lark had come to care very deeply for him. He was kind to her, his countenance always pleasant. She often thought she couldn’t have loved a brother more than she loved Tom Evans, if she’d had a brother.

  “Hello, Tom,” she greeted in return, a smile of delight spreading across her face to accompany the instant sense of security washing over her. “I was just starting supper. I hope you’re not too angry with me for not having it on the table yet.”

  Tom chuckled as he strode to her. “Not at all, honey,” he said. “In fact, me and ol’ Slater was thinkin’ about goin’ to town with the boys tonight. I guess ol’ Tillman Pratt has a new actress singin’ at the drama house. We’ll just scrounge us up some stew or somethin’ there…that way you don’t have to cook for nobody but yourself.” He smiled, his brown eyes rather merry with anticipation.

  “So…a pretty actress, is it?” Lark teased. She felt little like teasing, in truth. The fact was that the idea of being at the ranch house alone troubled her. She inwardly scolded herself for such feminine weakness. After all, she’d been on her own for a long, long time—been alone for longer. She also scolded herself for the thick lump of jealousy rising in her throat. A pretty actress? An unsettling thought crossed her mind—a thought that she didn’t like the idea of Slater Evans being in the company of a pretty actress. Still, she buried the ridiculous notion of jealousy where either of the Evans brothers was concerned.

  “That’s what Eldon says,” Tom answered. “She’s supposed to be right pretty and sings like a bird. You know how Slater likes nice singin’.”

  “No…I didn’t know that he did,” Lark admitted, the anxious, albeit ridiculous heat of jealousy rising in her again.

  “Yep. Our mama was a singer…had the voice of an angel,” Tom explained. “I suppose that’s why Slater has always been partial to fillies who can sing a pretty song.”

  “Oh. Well…well then, I’m sure the two of you are bound to enjoy your evening,” Lark said.

  Tom’s eyes narrowed with sudden suspicion. Ah ha! At last! He and Slater had both been downright frustrated at their inability to read the thoughts and feelings of their little housekeeper, but the fog was lifting, and Tom was watchful. Lark was uncomfortable. He could see it in her eyes—the way the sparkle in them dimmed suddenly. He also read it in the way she cast her gaze from him momentarily and by the sudden deepening of the pink in her pretty cheeks.

  “If ya don’t want to be here alone, then one of us would be more than willin’ to stay home with ya, honey,” he offered—for at first he thought she was simply uncomfortable about being left behind.

  “Oh no! No, no, no,” she assured him, smiling and tucking a loose strand of hair behind one ear. “You all go on…have fun. I could use an evening by myself. I’ve so been wanting some quiet moments to read…if that’s all right with you, I mean. Would it be all right if I read one of the books from the shelves in the parlor?”

  “Of course, darlin’,” Tom chuckled. “You can read anything you want in there.”

  “Well, then…I’ll delight in an evening by myself,” she said, smiling.

  Tom studied her a moment, however. She was rattled—indeed she was.

  “You and Slater go on and have a lovely time,” she added. “Maybe the two of you will even get to meet that pretty actress. Oh, you two certainly deserve an evening of entertainment and respite. And what could be more entertaining than a pretty actress with the voice of bird? I’m sure Slater’s bound to be smitten with her.”

 
Tom grinned as full understanding washed over him. She was jealous! Lark was jealous of the actress in town—jealous of the possibility that the actress might win Slater’s admiration.

  “Smitten?” he asked, having decided to further press Lark into revealing her feelings. “Slater don’t get smitten with nobody.”

  “Oh, everybody is smitten at one time or another,” Lark said, waving a hand in a gesture of indifference. “Even Slater.”

  “Nope,” Tom said as the imp in his playful nature perked. “Slater gets to wantin’ after a woman somethin’ powerful now and then…but he never gets smitten.” It was all he could do to keep from bursting into laughter, for instantly Lark’s eyes widened.

  “Well…well, I…” Lark stammered. “I…I wouldn’t know about such things as wanting after a woman, as you phrase it.”

  Immediately, Tom was guilt-ridden. He shouldn’t tease her about such things—not when it was apparent Slater had somehow managed to unknowingly weasel his way into her heart. Tom wasn’t at all surprised, however. He’d always suspected Lark’s discomfort in his brother’s presence had more to do with the strange ability Slater had to attract women than it did with his often brooding and cantankerous demeanor. Tom knew he likewise owned a certain something that drew women to him. Yet it seemed where Lark Lawrence was concerned, Slater had prevailed.

  “Oh, I’m just teasin’ ya, honey,” he said, taking one of her hands in his and kissing the back repentantly. “I’m sure ol’ Slater gets as smitten as every other feller.” The imp in his nature was not yet squelched, however, and he added, “Could be you’re right and the pretty little songbird at Pratt’s will be the one to do it.”

  “It could be,” she mumbled, and he didn’t miss the worry on her brow.

  “But more than likely…it’ll be me that finds himself smitten,” he added in an effort to comfort her where Slater was concerned. “Actresses are more my type of women then Slater’s, I would think.”

  Lark seemed somewhat encouraged and smiled at him. “Well, whether or not one of you is smitten with Mr. Pratt’s pretty new songbird…I hope you enjoy your evening,” she told him.

  He guessed her friendly smile was a little more forced than usual and silently scolded himself for teasing her.

  “Goodness knows the two of you deserve some relaxation.”

  “Oh, you’re far too good to us, Lark,” Tom told her. “You just be sure and enjoy yer time to yerself.”

  “I will,” she said. “I’ll just read a book…and be warm.”

  Tom felt his brow pucker a little, for it seemed an odd thing to say.

  “Now you better change your shirt if you’re going to town,” Lark told him. She reached up, brushing a smudge of dirt from his forehead. “You’ll want to look your best for Mr. Pratt’s new actress.”

  As Tom nodded and headed up the stairs to his bedroom, Lark tried to swallow the lump of insecurity and jealousy settling in her throat. The Evans brothers did deserve a night of entertainment and distraction. Furthermore, if she regarded it from another perspective, she probably would enjoy an evening of reading by the fire.

  It was true, Lark liked to keep busy. Keeping busy kept her tired out—kept her mind from wandering to ridiculous musings. It kept her from worrying about the fact that the weather was cooling—that winter was on its way. So, since arriving at the Evans ranch more than a month before, she had kept busy—as busy as she possibly could. The truth was she’d nearly worn her fingers to the bone with keeping busy. Consequently, she was almost afraid to be left alone in the ranch house. Not because she was fearful of anything about the house—just that she knew her irrational inner fears would attempt to surface and try to whisper doubt and uncertainty to her mind.

  Still, she wouldn’t let it—no! She would build a nice fire in the parlor hearth, choose a book from the shelves, settle in the comfortable chair nearby, and read. She’d read all night if she chose to! It had been so long since she’d had time to read—since she’d had a book available to read from. Truly it would be a wonderful evening—or so her mind tried to convince her.

  Lark startled as Slater entered through the front door.

  “You’ll be all right here alone?” he asked.

  Lark forced a smile. “Of course,” she told him, trying to stop the fluttering that began in her bosom at the sight of him. “It will be very soothing to have an evening of quiet.”

  As he strode nearer to her, however, she was unable to stop the wild fluttering that erupted in both her bosom and her stomach. Silently she scolded herself, disgusted with the reaction her body experienced each time Slater was near. She’d thought surely by now he would cease in affecting her so. Over the past several weeks, Lark’s attraction to Slater Evans had multiplied with each passing hour, it seemed. Still, she was far too practical a woman to pay heed to such things—or so she tried to convince herself. Furthermore, it rather vexed her at times that it should be Slater who caused her heart to beat so quickly, for Tom was the congenial one—the calm, charming, and friendly one. At times Slater seemed nearly as cold and unfeeling as an old river rock. Yet Lark had grown to suspect this was a mask he sometimes wore, for often she would enter a room to find him and Tom erupting with laughter or discussing some melancholy sentiment.

  Yet the fact remained—Slater Evans was her employer. That was all. He had no interest in her beyond expecting her to keep house and cook meals, and this was as it should be. Thus, each time Slater’s presence would cause Lark’s innards to begin wildly trilling, she would simply remind herself of her position. Most times this worked in subduing any goose bumps threatening to erupt over her limbs at the sound of his voice. Most of the time this allowed her to hide her feelings, for she was nothing if not guarded in her thoughts.

  “We oughta be back by midnight,” he said.

  She nodded. “Enjoy yourselves. You are very deserving of reprieve.”

  “So are you,” he said. He smiled at her, and Lark fought to keep her sudden breathlessness hidden.

  “Then, if you don’t mind, I’ll just be about my own business,” Lark said. “Good night.”

  Slater couldn’t help but smile as Lark began to struggle with the knot in her apron at her back. He’d not missed the fact that their little housekeeper had a tendency to grow frustrated with apron strings, tie them into a knot, and forget she had done so until the end of the day. More often than not, Lark found herself frustrated with the task of trying to remove her apron when the knot had grown so tight at her back.

  She grumbled under her breath, already frustrated as her small fingers struggled with the ties.

  “Here,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and turning her away from him. “You best let me get you out of this apron…or else we’re bound to come home in the dead of night to find you still tied up in it.”

  Lark couldn’t move! She felt his hands at the small of her back—heard a mild, mumbled cuss escape him as he struggled with the knot in her apron strings. She had a sudden and nearly overwhelming desire to lean back—to rest her body against the strength of his and beg him to enfold her in his strong arms. But these were schoolgirl fancies, and she inwardly scolded herself—and harshly.

  “There ya go,” he said at last.

  Lark exhaled the breath she’d been holding as she felt her apron go slack at her waist. “Thank you,” she said, pulling the white ruffled bib apron up over her head. She’d braided her hair that morning instead of pulling it up into a more practical bun, and somehow her braid caught in the apron.

  “Ow!” she exclaimed, pausing in removing the apron—for the motion had pulled her hair as it entangled it with the apron.

  “Here,” Slater said. “Hold on. You’re all snarled up here…”

  Lark felt his hand at the back of her neck—felt the rough calluses of his palm against her flesh—and she could not will away the goose bumps erupting over her arms. She could feel his hands working to separate her hair from the apron, and simply the knowledge he was t
ouching her caused her to slightly tremble.

  “There ya go,” he said, pulling the apron off over her head and handing it to her.

  “Thank you,” she said, draping the apron over her arm and pulling her long braid to lie over one shoulder. “Enjoy your evening, Slater.”

  “I will,” he said.

  She watched him take the stairs two at a time—heard him begin to whistle. She couldn’t help but smile, for it was a rare thing to see Slater Evans experiencing a moment of lightheartedness.

  Lark sighed. There was no reason to cook supper now. She’d satisfy her hunger with some bread and butter, perhaps a strip of Slater’s special peppered jerky. Then she’d choose a book from the shelves in the parlor and do nothing—nothing at all.

  Suddenly, an evening alone began to appeal to her, and Lark smiled and began to hum as she rather strolled into the kitchen to tuck her apron away in the pantry. She giggled a moment later when she realized she’d been humming the same tune Slater had been whistling—“Little Lucy Sparrow.” A vision of her mother sitting next to her bed, darning stockings, and singing “Little Lucy Sparrow” wafted through her mind, causing her heart to ache a moment. She wondered if Slater’s mother had once sung the song to him.

  “Little Lucy Sparrow, perching on a limb so narrow…oh, won’t you trill a love song for me?” Lark began to sing. She smiled, remembering how dear the song was to her—how dear were the memories of her sweet mother. “A handsome caballero that wears a wide sombrero…is only what I wish for, you see.” Lark giggled, suddenly delighted by the melody and clever words of the song. “Please, Lucy, trill him to me, as a blossom bee to honey. A handsome caballero he’ll be. And as I perch on his knee, just as you there perch in your tree…Oh, Lucy, trill a love song for me.”