“I know she did,” Tom said. “It was a right thoughtful gift too.”
“Damn right it was,” Slater mumbled, nodding emphatically.
Lark was trembling. It was obvious Slater was infuriated. She knew the meaningless banter between the brothers was their way of settling themselves. She watched as Slater’s broad chest and shoulders rose and fell with the labored breathing of restrained fury.
His eyes narrowed, and he pointed to Eldon and then to Ralston and Grady, who stepped into the house, mouths gaping open in astonishment as they stared down at their unconscious friend. “None of you other boys…none of you got any ideas where Miss Lawrence is concerned…now do ya?” Slater asked.
“No, sir,” Ralston breathed, shaking his head, nearly quaking with fear.
“Grady?” Slater asked.
“No, sir,” Grady assured his boss. “Not me, sir.”
“Eldon?”
“I ain’t that sort,” Eldon said. “You know that.”
“All right then,” Slater sighed. “Drag him outta here. Make sure he’s gone before I wake up in the mornin’. If he wakes up in the night…you best see him on his way, boys.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Evans,” Grady said as Ralston and Eldon nodded.
With trembling hands, Lark brushed the tears from her cheeks as the three conscious cowboys dragged Chet’s limp body from the house.
“The minute he’s awake…you boys send him off,” Tom reminded them as they left the house.
“Yes, sir,” Grady said, closing the door behind them.
“Let me see this,” Slater demanded, striding to Lark and gently taking her chin in one strong hand.
Instantly, she began to tremble—wildly affected not only by residual anxiety but also by his touch. He frowned as he studied her. She could see his strong jaw clenching as he did so.
“I shoulda killed him,” Slater mumbled as he pressed his fingers against the soreness already beginning to throb at Lark’s cheek. “I shoulda killed that son of—”
“No. Now, Slater…no,” Tom said.
Lark was momentarily mesmerized by the emotions apparent in Slater’s smoldering eyes—anger and guilt. She watched as he quickly licked his thumb, wiping at the blood on her lip. At this, the entire surface of her body broke into involuntary goose bumps. His touch was overpowering to her senses!
“You’re bleedin’ here,” he mumbled, licking the appendage again and stroking her tender lip a second time. The repeated action caused moisture to flood Lark’s mouth, for she knew it was as close as she might ever come to knowing affection from him.
“I-I’m sorry,” Lark heard herself apologize in a whisper. “I’m sorry for this…for the broken window glass…for the…the mess.”
Slater’s frown deepened. “You ain’t got nothin’ to apologize for, baby,” he said. “This ain’t yer fault. Not a bit of it. It’s mine. None but mine. This is my fault…for hirin’—”
“Me?” Lark interrupted as pain pierced her heart. He regretted hiring her—she knew he must. She was certain nothing the likes of what had just transpired ever happened when Mrs. Simpson had been alive.
“For hirin’ Chet,” Slater said. “It’s my fault…for hiring that no-good cowboy.”
A wave of relief washed over Lark—such a great wave that she began to weep once more. She tried to restrain her tears, for she didn’t want to appear any weaker before him than she already did.
“Let me see that,” Tom said, taking her chin in his hand. Tom clicked his tongue as he shook his head. “That’s gonna be awful sore and swollen come mornin’.”
“Maybe we oughta let Chet stay a day or two,” Slater suggested. “You know, heal up a bit…so I can horsewhip him before he goes.”
“Come here, darlin’,” Tom said, gathering Lark into the warm protection of his arms. Instantly, Lark’s emotions were weakened, and she clung to him, soaking his shirt with her tears.
“Thank you,” she whispered, at once overwhelmed with gratitude. Yet she was grateful not only for the protection afforded by Slater and Tom Evans but also for the fact they’d taken her in at all. “Thank you.”
“Oh, ain’t that always the way,” she heard Slater grumble. As Tom held her, she looked to Slater to see the frown on his face had softened a little. “Seems I always do the fightin’…but Tom’s the one who always gets the sugar.”
Though the thought caused her to tremble—to shiver with anxious delight—Lark knew she must somehow find the courage to thank Slater as well—to thank him as she’d thanked his brother. Tom had been the one to hire her, it was true. But Slater had saved her virtue—perhaps her life.
Quivering with trepidation, she stepped out of Tom’s embrace as he released her and looked to Slater. Still, her courage was spent. She couldn’t embrace him—she just couldn’t! Surely if she allowed herself to be enfolded in his strong, capable arms—even for a moment—surely then he’d be able to know the depth of her true feelings for him. And it was carefully, near desperately, that she guarded the truth of them. Slater Evans could never know that his orphaned, penniless cook and housekeeper was in love with him.
Tentatively, Lark offered her hand to Slater Evans—offered her hand in order to shake his in showing her gratitude.
Slater smiled, obviously amused—the enraged fury gone from him. “You’re gonna shake my hand?” he chuckled.
Lark could only nod, otherwise frozen with battling her desire to be in his arms.
“Alrighty then,” Slater said, taking her hand in his.
At once the warmth of his grip traveled through her hand enveloping her arm to fan out to her bosom, her stomach, and her face.
A low chuckle rumbled in his throat, and Lark gasped as he pulled her to him, wrapping her in powerful arms, drawing her snuggly against his strong body.
Lark could not resist him—could not keep her wits steady in that moment. Allowing her arms to travel around him, she fisted the fabric at the back of his shirt in her hands—sobbed against the solid contours of his chest—nearly swooned when she felt him press his face to the top of her head. He hadn’t really kissed her; it was his cheek that pressed against her hair. Still, she allowed herself to pretend he’d kissed her. She clung to him a moment longer as she whispered, “Thank you,” into the soft folds of his shirt. He smelled like warm sunshine, saddle leather, and green pasture grass. She imagined he wanted her there—there in his arms—imagined he wanted her there as desperately as she wanted to linger there—forever. He was warm, strong—and he would protect her. For all the horror of Chet’s attacking her, Lark could not remember the last time she’d felt so safe. In that moment, she knew nothing could harm her. And he was so warm. She imagined how warm a winter would be spent in Slater Evans’s arms.
“So the next time me and Tom head to town to watch some red-haired robin singing while wearin’ nothin’ but her drawers…maybe you oughta come along. Whatcha think?” Slater asked.
Lark was disappointed when she felt his embrace slacken. Yet she smiled, even breathed a giggle and nodded as she stepped back away from him.
“Maybe I should,” she whispered, wiping more tears from her cheeks.
“Why don’t you find yer bed, darlin’?” Tom suggested, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s late…and them bruises are gonna pain you somethin’ terrible come mornin’. Just rest in. We’ll take care of ourselves for breakfast.”
“Oh no!” Lark began to argue. “No…I’ll be fine. I’ll be up and ready as usual.”
“No,” Slater said. “If you’re up before sunrise…I’ll put you back to bed myself.”
Lark tried to ignore the mad fluttering erupting in her stomach as she gazed up at him a moment. His hair was tousled—windblown—and she wondered if he’d ridden hard to get back to the ranch. She wanted to reach up—to run her fingers through the brown and tawny layers of his hair. Instead, she nodded.
“All right,” she whispered. “As long as you’re both going too
.”
“We got a few things to finish up…but then we’ll settle in,” Tom assured her. “Don’t you worry none about us.”
Lark nodded and felt tears welling in her eyes once more. “Thank you,” she managed to squeak. “Thank you both…for everything.”
Slater nodded, as did Tom.
“Good night, honey,” Tom said. “Sleep sound. Ain’t nothin’ gonna harm you.”
Lark nodded, knowing nothing would. “Good night, Slater,” she managed.
He nodded, and Lark resisted the urge to run to him—to throw her arms around him and beg him to hold her.
Lark’s body ached as she crawled beneath the covers of her bed. The house was cool, and she knew that, even for the sore throbbing at her cheek, she would sleep deeply.
As she closed her eyes, she thought of Chet Leigh—of what his intentions had been. She frowned a moment, even though it had not been the first time a man had harbored such intentions toward her. It had, however, been the first time she had not been able to escape. She inhaled a deep, calming breath, thinking that it had also been the first time a man had fought to protect her—and this was both a soothing knowledge and a delightful one. Of course, it was not so soothing to think on the brutal blows he had delivered to Chet Leigh’s person—or the blood he’d spilled. But even so, it was comforting to know that Slater had come to her rescue. In truth, Lark was secretly delighted by the fact.
Sometime later she heard heavy footsteps ascending the stairs—heard one boot hit the floor overhead and then the other. The boards in her ceiling (which were likewise the boards in Slater Evans’s bedroom floor) creaked as he walked. Soon all was quiet, and she knew both men were settled for the night.
Swaddled in the comfort of knowing she was safe, Lark at last drifted into deep slumber. Her last thought was of warmth, of the warm fire she’d enjoyed in the parlor while reading and of the even better warmth—the warmth of being held in Slater Evans’s arms.
CHAPTER SIX
Chet Leigh was gone by morning, all right. Slater had half expected to wake up and find the man still passed out cold somewhere, but he hadn’t. Instead, he awakened to find Chet Leigh had indeed ridden away. However, Chet had apparently opened the east fences and scattered cattle as he went—the idiot. Slater nearly rode out after him, intent on giving him a beating that would make the one he’d given him the night before look like a waltz. Still, he hadn’t. He knew the best thing to do was just to let the dirty dog go.
Slater swore under his breath as he spotted the young Black Angus bull off in the distance. Sure enough, the little cuss had headed straight back to Pete Walker’s place. He scolded himself for not having branded the bull the day before. Slater knew Pete Walker well—not the most honest man in the world. If the young bull made it back to Pete’s herd, no doubt Walker would try to pass it off as a different bull entirely.
“Go on, Smoke,” Slater said, spurring his horse.
As Smokey galloped toward the bull, Slater readied his lasso. It would be easier to herd the bull home once a rope was round him. He’d rope that bull and haul him back to the ranch—brand him right then and there—before he helped Tom and the other boys to round up the scattered herd. He wouldn’t have Pete Walker claiming the young bull was still his.
Slater easily roped the little Angus. He wound the lead around his saddle horn and turned Smokey back toward the ranch. “Come on, you sorry little devil,” he said. “I got enough to worry about without you causin’ me any trouble.”
Soon the bull was headed back home, and Slater’s mind wandered to other things—things he’d been attempting to keep it from wandering to.
The fury that rose within him every time he thought of Chet Leigh laying a hand on Lark was almost irrepressible. Several times during the night, he’d thought about heading outside, finding where the boys had tossed Chet for the night, and getting in a couple more good punches. He stretched his right hand and then made a fist. It was sore—indeed it was—but he’d like to have let go a few more on Chet, even though his bloody knuckles had stained up the sheets of his bed pretty good already.
Slater ground his teeth, stiffened his posture, and inhaled a deep breath in trying to calm himself. Chet Leigh had touched her—the dirty drunk had dared to touch Lark! What if he hadn’t ridden back in time after finding out Chet had left the drama house? What if he’d paused one more moment in doing so? Still, Slater’s daddy had always told him and Tom not to dwell on what might have been—good or bad. Thus, Slater decided to just be glad he’d ridden out when he had.
Still, he’d never forget the sight of it—of breaking the window with his elbow and opening the door to see Chet Leigh about to have his way with Lark. Slater Evans had seen some mighty terrible things in his thirty years, but in that moment he silently admitted to himself that nothing—nothing—had ever scared him more or provoked him to such rage as the sight of Chet Leigh abusing Lark.
He reached up and lifted his hat, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He looked up to the sun, which lingered behind a cloud. It wasn’t even warm out. Fact was, he was wearing his slicker and still felt the cold on his face. Why then was he perspiring?
It was Lark. She had a way of warming up his blood. Anytime he was near to her, he nearly thought he might fire up to such a boil that he’d need to run off and dip himself in the creek. At first, he’d thought it was just the scorching heat of summer, for it had still been summer when she’d come to him—when she’d come to him and Tom. Yet it hadn’t taken Slater long to realize it wasn’t the heat of the day causing him to feel restless and warm: it was Lark.
Oh, certainly he could never say a word to Tom—or anybody else, for that matter. He was Slater Evans—hardhearted, hard-working, cattle-driving Slater Evans. Some little wounded sparrow wasn’t about to get under his skin—at least, he’d never let on.
A vision of her beautiful green eyes leapt to his mind. The way her dark eyelashes shaded them—the way the tiny, light freckles scattered across her nose caused him to chuckle and smile with delight sometimes. He wondered how it would feel to bury his hands in the soft silk of her hair.
Again he cussed a breath—shook his head in an effort to dispel such adolescent musings. He didn’t have time for a woman. He had cattle to herd, a ranch to run, endless work to do. Anyway, Lark was young and vibrant. The evidence of the fight she’d put up where Chet was concerned was proof of that. Slater winced as he thought of her pretty face—imagined how bruised it would be by the time she climbed out of bed. Still, she was vibrant, and he had no doubt she would recover and move on. Yep, young and vibrant—and he was old and weathered. Lark was like a daffodil in springtime, and he was like a worn-out old boot.
Slater rubbed at his eyes, trying to keep his mind from lingering on the memory of holding Lark in his arms the night before. He’d nearly been driven mad with wanting to keep her there—with pure wanting her altogether. He growled, thinking himself no better than Chet Leigh at having such thoughts.
She’s a good cook, Slater thought, attempting to steer his ponderings to simpler, more suitable trails. And she keeps a fine house too. Still, the truth was Slater Evans didn’t care too awful much for such things. What he liked was the sparkle in Lark’s eyes first thing in the morning—the way the evening sky lit up her face with a pretty smile—the way her pretty smile lit up his soul.
The Angus bull tugged on the rope, and Smokey whinnied his complaint, breaking the smooth rhythm of his step.
“I had me enough trouble to last quite a spell already, boy,” Slater called to the bull. “You simmer down. We’re almost home.”
Slater could see the house and barn in the distance. He could see Tom was bringing in a few heifers. No doubt he’d corral them until the other boys rounded up the rest. In that moment, he hoped Chet Leigh was long gone. It wouldn’t do a bit of good to have the herd scattered again. Cold weather was moving in. The cattle needed to be close.
Slowly, Lark opened he
r eyes. The painful throbbing of her cheek and lip had caused her a fitful sleep. Soft sunlight streamed through the lace curtains, painting the opposing wall with lovely designs borne of shadow and radiance. Lark smiled, for it was a beautiful sight to wake up to. She could hear birds just outside her window—fancied the scents of grass and dust, of the fading wildflowers of autumn were nature’s perfume in that moment.
She sat upright in bed, however, as she heard the drumming of horse hooves thundering past her window.
“We need to brand him right now,” she heard Slater shout. “So get that fire stoked, Tom.”
Leaping from her bed, Lark drew back the drapes. She unlatched the window and opened it, tenderly pressing a warm palm to her sore and swollen cheek.
“Yer gonna have a time bringin’ him down, Slater,” Tom chuckled as he hurried from the barn carrying a branding iron. “We’ll see if you still think that polled breed is worth raisin’ after you try and bring down a hornless bull.”
“Oh, he’s plum tuckered by now,” Slater said. “Surely he ain’t got much fight left in him.”
Lark shaded her eyes from the morning sun and looked to the small corral to the left of the barn. Slater’s newest bull, the young Black Angus he’d acquired the day before, was there.
Astride Smokey, Slater rode past the window once more, and Lark marveled at how well-matched the horse and rider seemed to be. A large tan-colored horse with black mane and tail, Smokey boasted the opposition of Slater’s hair—Slater’s sun-bleached hair being fair on top and dark beneath.
“But is he tuckered enough to let you take him down easy?” Tom asked. He laughed and added, “I don’t think so.”
“Even so, we gotta brand him,” Slater said. “You know we can’t trust Pete Walker any more than we can Lucifer himself.”
Guilt washed over Lark as she realized Slater and Tom had most likely been up for several hours. They should’ve had a good breakfast—and it was her fault they hadn’t. Remembering that they had both insisted she sleep longer than usual, she thought it no excuse for laziness. She was certain they’d ridden out with little more than jerky to start their day.
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