Lark paused and frowned, momentarily unable to remember the next trail of lyrics. “Little Lucy Sparrow, perching on a limb so narrow…oh, won’t you trill a love song for me?” she mumbled, closing the pantry door behind her. “La la la la…” Lark shook her head, frustrated at being unable to remember the next line of the song.
“A pretty senorita, perhaps named Rosalita…for that is what I wish for, from thee,” Slater sang in a low, masculine voice as he descended the stairs, a clean white shirt in hand.
“That’s it!” Lark smiled.
“Oh, Lucy trill her to me,” she sang in unison with Slater—awed by the dazzling smile on his face. “We’ll kiss beneath the plum tree,” they continued. “Oh, won’t you trill a love song for me?”
Lark giggled and clapped her hands with delight.
“My mother used to sing that to us when we were boys,” Slater said, smiling. Lark watched as he slipped muscular arms into white shirtsleeves.
“My mother sang it too,” Lark said. “When I was very little, before…”
“Before she passed?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered.
He didn’t press her for further information as she feared he would. Simply he nodded and began buttoning his shirt.
Tom descended the stairs then, smiling as always.
“You must be in a good humor, Slater,” he began, slapping his brother soundly on the back. “Singin’ sweet songs with Lark here. I ain’t heard you sing somethin’ like that since…well…I can’t quite remember when.”
“Fact is, I’m a might more pleased about gettin’ into town than I thought I’d be,” Slater said as he tucked his shirt into the waist of his trousers. “You sure you’ll be all right here alone, baby?” Slater asked Lark.
Lark nodded, attempting to appear calm. It was true that the Evans brothers had taken to addressing Lark with rather endearing-sounding nicknames. Tom rarely called her by name—choosing to address her as darling or honey. But it was Slater’s habit of referring to her as baby that sent her nerves to nearly drowning her in delicious waves of delight. Oh, she knew it was just their way—their casual manner. Yet she liked to imagine that Slater’s referencing her as such meant more—that he favored her somehow.
“I’ll be fine,” she managed to tell him.
“Then let’s get,” he said, nodding to Tom.
“You enjoy yourself, honey,” Tom said, winking at her.
“You too,” she said as she watched them snatch their best hats from the hat rack by the door.
“Good night,” Slater said, nodding to her as he pressed his hat onto his head and left, closing the door behind them.
“Good night,” Lark mumbled.
Almost instantly she felt alone—deeply alone. She felt chilled as well.
Hurrying into the parlor, she started a fire in the hearth, feeling even more alone as she heard the sound of horses breaking into gallops as the men left for town—all the men.
Forcing herself to an appearance of serenity for her own sake, she began to read the titles on the spines of the books gathered on the parlor bookshelf.
“Ah, there you are,” she said as she carefully selected a book. “Mr. Twain’s Tom Sawyer. I’ve heard you’re a wonderful adventure.”
Sighing, Lark snuggled down in the big, worn, and very comfortable armchair near the hearth. Opening the book, she began to read, attempting to ignore the feelings of loneliness and insecurity threatening to grip her. Slowly the story began to enthrall her—to distract her from any feelings of lonesomeness. Furthermore, the fire in the hearth was comforting, an ever-present reminder that she was warm—and would be warm—all through the cold winter.
CHAPTER FIVE
She was pretty, Tillman Pratt’s new actress. Oh, not as pretty as some women Slater had known—not even as pretty as some women he currently was acquainted with. Yet she was pretty, and she sang well. He did marvel at her costume, it being hardly more than a glorified, embellished corset—marveled at the depth of confidence and wild abandon a woman would need to possess in order to appear so nearly bare in public. He smiled yet immediately scolded himself as a thought flitted through his mind—a wondering of how Lark Lawrence would look dressed in such a lack of dress.
Slater shook his head to dispel the inappropriate if not highly agreeable thought—tried to return his attention to Miss Josephine Glory and her rendition of a Stephen Foster melody.
“She’s got a purty voice,” Tom whispered.
“Yep,” Slater agreed. He glanced to one side, curious as to what the other Evans ranch cowboys thought of Miss Josephine Glory and her black and pink corset. He smiled, amused as he saw Eldon Pickering’s eyes were as wide as supper dishes. Ralston and Grady were mesmerized as well, grinning so wide that Slater wondered if their faces might crack clean in two. He leaned forward a bit, looking down the row of seats and tables to see if Chet were enjoying the performance of the scantily clad songbird. He frowned slightly when he saw that Chet no longer sat next to Grady. He glanced to his other side—to the chairs and tables beyond Tom. Chet was not there either.
“Where’s Chet?” he whispered to Tom as a strange sense of unrest began to rise in him.
Tom looked from one side to the other, a frown furrowing his brow as well. “I don’t see him,” Tom whispered. He shook his head. “That boy has near to a barrel of whiskey in him…and we don’t need no trouble.”
“I’m tellin’ ya…we shouldn’t let our boys drink liquor,” Slater mumbled.
“They’re free men, Slater. Ain’t much we can do when they ain’t at the ranch.”
“Maybe we oughta start hiring boys that don’t take to whiskey then,” Slater growled. “He’ll get himself in trouble, sure enough.”
“Well, you ain’t his daddy,” Tom reminded. “You can send him ridin’ off if he gets into trouble…but you can’t keep him from drinkin’ if he has a mind to do it.”
“You worried about Chet, boss?” Ralston asked in a whisper.
Slater nodded. “That boy favors hard liquor too much for his own good.”
“Oh, don’t worry none, Mr. Evans,” Grady whispered, leaning forward and offering a reassuring nod to Slater. “Chet said he was headin’ home. Said his thirst was too mighty powerful to quench at the bar…that he needed to get home and take care of it. I figure he’ll just fall right into bed…if’n he makes it back to the bunkhouse, that is.”
Ralston chuckled, but Slater did not. Tom and Eldon frowned as well.
“He wouldn’t do nothin’ to Miss Lark…would he, do ya think?” Eldon asked.
But Slater’s instincts had already warned him that a drunken Chet Leigh should not be anywhere near Lark. Chet Leigh had proved himself to be an ugly drunk once before. In that moment, Slater wished he and Tom would’ve let Sheriff Gale lock the boys up for a night the time before when the boys had gotten into trouble in town after drinking.
He was on his feet in an instant. He did not pause to see if Tom or anyone else would accompany him. Simply he strode from Tillman Pratt’s drama house and across the street to where Smokey was tied to the hitching post.
“Slater!” Tom shouted as Slater rode off at a mad gallop.
He knew Tom would follow—Eldon too. Gritting his teeth with anger, he determined that if Ralston and Grady weren’t back to the house near to as close as he was—well then, they could spend the winter somewhere else.
“Come on, Smoke,” Slater growled, leaning forward in the saddle as the horse raced toward the ranch. He would beat them all home—he knew he would. Smokey was the fastest horse in three counties, with endurance the like he’d never seen. It was five miles back to the ranch, and he’d run Smokey all the way.
Slater didn’t like Chet Leigh; he never had. He’d only hired him on at Ralston and Grady’s assurance he was a good cowboy. Chet did prove to be a good ranch hand and cowboy, but Slater had never been convinced of his possessing a good character. Furthermore, he wasn’t as blind to Chet’s infa
tuation with Lark as Eldon might have thought. He’d seen the way Chet watched her—seen the smile spread across his face whenever he did watch her. He and Tom shouldn’t have left Lark home alone. He shouldn’t have left her home alone. After all, he knew far more about the likes of Chet Leigh than Tom did. He should’ve known better.
He clenched his jaw tight, tried to concentrate on Smokey’s pace—on the horse’s breathing—on the sound of muscle and leather straining. There was a good rhythm to it. He’d be back at the ranch soon—but would it be soon enough?
The knock on the door startled Lark. She’d been reading for hours—reading about Injun Joe, about Tom and Becky trapped in a cave. Thus, she nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard the hammering at the door. At first she wasn’t sure whether her heart was hammering so brutally in her chest that she’d imagined the beating on the door.
“Miss Lark?” came a man’s voice from the other side of the door.
Lark sighed with relief, placing her hand on her bosom to try and settle the mad racing within. “Chet? Is that you?” she asked. She indeed recognized the cowboy’s voice. Still, something told her to be wary.
“Yes, ma’am,” came Chet’s friendly assurance.
Breathing another calming sigh, Lark opened the door to find it was indeed Chet standing on the porch.
“Did you all have fun in town?” Lark asked, glancing past him to see if the other men were home as well.
Chet smiled a knowing, rather devilish smile that did not comfort Lark in any regard. “No, ma’am,” Chet said. “I figure on havin’ my fun here…now.”
“You’re drunk,” Lark said, noting the harsh scent of whiskey about him. “You better get to the bunkhouse and sleep that off before morning. I’m certain Slater and Tom don’t have much tolerance for drunkenness.”
A low, rather threatening chuckle emanated from Chet’s throat as he pushed the door wide open, stepping into the house. Slamming the door closed behind him, he drew the small bolt. Suddenly, the Evanses’ ranch house did not seem as safe as it had a moment before.
Though she’d hoped her instincts had been wrong, Lark knew they hadn’t been. Chet meant her harm, of one sort or the other. She shouldn’t have opened the door—but it was too late now.
“If your intentions are not honorable—” she began.
“I ain’t had an honorable intention in my life, girl!” he growled, reaching out and taking her face between his hands.
But Lark was not without experience where the vile intentions of some men were concerned—nor was she without a sense of self-preservation. She stomped on Chet’s foot with the heel of her boot and drew her knee up to hit him below the waist where she knew it would cause the most pain. Chet doubled over, but only slightly. No doubt the whiskey Lark could smell on his breath had somewhat numbed his sense of pain.
She cried out as he reached out, taking hold of her arm in a firm grip. Still, she was not so easily assaulted. She raised a foot, kicking him in the stomach. This time when he doubled over, Lark turned and bolted toward the back of the house. Chet was quick, however, and Lark gasped as she felt him take hold of her hair at the back of her head. He pulled hard on her braid, and she crumbled to the floor.
“Let go of me!” she shouted. “Don’t you dare touch me!”
“You’ve got spirit, girl!” Chet chuckled as he took hold of her shoulders and pushed her back to the floor. “I’ll give ya that.”
Lark fisted one hand, hitting him square in the jaw with as much force as she could muster. Chet shouted, letting go of her as he put a hand to his chin.
Frantically, Lark scrambled away from him, but she was not quick enough, and his grip on her ankle found her facedown on the floor once more.
“You best quit fightin’ me, girl,” Chet growled. “You’ll have more fun if ya just give up.”
“I’ll die first,” Lark cried, tears escaping her eyes to stream down her face.
“No,” Chet chuckled. “No…you won’t.”
Easily he flipped her over to her back on the floor. Lark beat at his chest, his arms, his face, but he was unaffected.
“Shut your mouth,” Chet growled, clamping a whiskey-scented hand over Lark’s tender mouth. “What do you think, girl? You think us boys are just gonna sit by and watch them Evans brothers have all the fun?” He chuckled, maneuvering her body so that he was soon sitting down hard on her legs, hovering over her like some wretched disease. “No, siree. I figure it’s time Slater and Tom Evans learned to share a little of the goods they got.”
Desperately, Lark struggled and slapped Chet Leigh hard across the face—attempting to pull out a handful of his hair. She was startled into stillness when the back of his hand brutally met one side of her face. Again he hit her, sending her senses reeling with explosive pain and dizziness. She tasted the blood as it entered her mouth by way of her damaged lip.
Summoning every ounce of courage and life-saving determination she could, she said, “You hit me again, Chet Leigh…and I swear…I swear to you I’ll gouge out your eyes.”
“Don’t you make to threaten me, girl,” he breathed, chuckling as he bent and kissed her cheek. “Don’t you dare…or I might have to knock you out cold and then have my fun.”
Again he hit her, and Lark’s consciousness reeled. She felt his mouth on her neck, but her arms were too weak with the pain at her face and the whirling in her head to return the abuse.
“What?” the drunk breathed, suddenly.
Lark blinked—thought she’d heard something too—a loud thud, as if something had been hurled against the back door.
“Who’s that?” Chet shouted. “Is that you, Ralston?”
The sound of shattered glass hitting the floor helped draw Lark from the painful stupor Chet’s beating had cast over her. She heard Chet swear—saw an arm reach through the now broken window next to the back door and pull the bolt. A moment later, Slater burst into the house.
“Why you filthy son of a…” he growled, taking hold of Chet by the back of his shirt collar and pulling his body from Lark’s.
Slater didn’t pause, and Lark winced as she saw his fist meet directly with Chet’s jaw. The loathsome cowboy reeled—stumbled—but he didn’t fall.
“Get on yer horse, boy!” Slater shouted. “Get on yer horse and ride outta here!”
“What?” Chet said, wiping the blood from his nose. “You’re sending me off? Just for havin’ a little fun with yer girl here? I ain’t done nothin’ that you ain’t done a hundred times!”
Lark gasped as the brutal power of Slater Evans’s fist met with Chet’s jaw again. This blow sent the man to his knees and his mouth to bleeding too.
Chet chuckled and spit blood and saliva from his mouth as he shook his head. “You’re a tough old dog, Slater Evans. I’ll give ya that.”
Lark rose to her feet, wiping tears from her face as she watched Chet struggle to stand. Yet stand he did, spitting once more, this time on Slater’s boot.
“And you’re a sturdy drunk. That’s all I’ll give ya,” Slater growled. He looked to the blood and saliva Chet had spit on his boot. “But ya know what?” he asked.
Chet’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”
“These are my good boots,” Slater growled an instant before his fist sent Chet sprawling to the floor a third time.
Slater didn’t pause for Chet to regain his senses. Instead, Lark watched in horror as Slater fisted Chet’s hair in one hand, delivering another brutal blow to his face—and another. He released the cowboy then, and Chet’s head hit the floor. The man was still conscious, however, as Slater began to pace back and forth in front of him—fury causing his powerful body to tremble.
“You dared to come into my house?” Slater growled as he paced. Lark thought he looked more like a mountain lion stalking his prey than a man. “You dared to come into my house…and lay yer hands on that girl?” he shouted, pointing to Lark. Instantly, he quit his pacing and hunkered down before Chet, taking hold of the fron
t of his shirt. “I’d as soon kill ya as look at you, boy!”
“You wait, Evans,” Chet growled. “You wait ’til I’m sobered up. We’ll see if you can knock me down when I ain’t drunk.”
“I could kill ya easy,” Slater threatened. “Drunk or not.”
Lark cried out as Slater delivered another powerful blow to Chet’s face. “If you’re wantin’ me to prove it…”
“Slater!”
Lark sobbed as she turned to see Tom step through the back door. Eldon was with him, Ralston and Grady looking on from behind.
“Let him go, Slater,” Tom said. “Just let him go. He can ride out, and we’ll be done with him.”
“You don’t know what his intentions were here,” Slater said, wagging a finger at Tom with one hand as his other held tight to the front of Chet’s shirt.
“I’m sure I do know,” Tom said. “But ya gotta let him go. Let’s just tie him to his horse and send him off.”
Lark watched Slater’s eyes narrow as he looked to his brother. He nodded.
“You’re right, Tom,” Slater said then. “I oughta let him go.”
Lark cried out, however, as Slater delivered one last powerful blow to Chet’s face. Angrily he shoved the man backward as he released his hold on the front of his shirt. Chet fell, sprawled on the floor—unconscious.
Standing, Slater wiped the blood and saliva from his boot on Chet’s trouser leg. “He spit on my good boot,” he said to Tom.
“He shouldn’t have done that,” Tom said, shaking his head. “But he’s out cold now. So let’s just move on.”
“Matilda gave me these boots…last Christmas,” Slater said.
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