Weathered Too Young

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  “What’s she got to say?” Tom asked.

  Slater shrugged and began to open the envelope he held. “I ain’t read it yet. I figured I’d wait to get home first.”

  “Who’s Katie?” She couldn’t stop the question from passing through her lips. She had to know who Katie was.

  “Our cousin,” Tom answered. “Well, our cousin’s daughter. That still makes her our cousin…right?” He looked to Slater questioningly.

  “Yes…I think,” Slater said. “I never did understand the cousin mess…first, second…twice removed. It’s nonsense.”

  Tom smiled and lowered his voice as he looked to Lark and said, “Slater’s a little tender about where him and Katie stand as cousins or not…on account of him and her was so sweet on each other for so long.”

  “That ain’t true, Tom,” Slater corrected. He looked to Lark and said, “I was sweet on her…but I didn’t pay no mind to whether or not she was my cousin.”

  Slater looked to the letter and began reading.

  Tom winked at Lark. “Daddy always told us that keepin’ track of cousins was just like keepin’ track of cattle breedin’…sires and dames and such,” Tom told Lark.

  “Oh hell, Tom,” Slater grumbled, looking up from the letter and frowning. “Did you ever know one cow who knew whether or not another cow was her cousin?” Slater rolled his eyes with disgusted exasperation.

  Lark could’ve almost giggled at the course of the conversation—if it hadn’t been for the fact that the letter from the woman named Katie seemed to hold Slater’s attention like nothing she’d ever seen before.

  “Oh no,” Slater breathed as he read over the letter.

  Tom frowned. “What’s the matter?”

  “John’s dead,” Slater muttered.

  “What?” Tom exclaimed.

  “It’s true. She says it right here.” Slater paused to silently read further into the letter. “He died…looks to be about two weeks back.”

  “Of what?” Tom asked. “He weren’t much older than you.”

  Slater’s eyebrows arched, in morbid agreement, as he nodded. “He’s dead though,” he mumbled as he continued to read the letter.

  “What? Did someone shoot him?”

  Slater shook his head. “Nope. He was out helpin’ to bring in his herd. One of his boys saw him clutch at his chest…then he just fell off his horse.” Slater looked up, handing the letter to Tom. “She says he was dead before he hit the ground.”

  “Slater, no,” Tom breathed, frowning as he accepted the letter.

  Lark watched as Tom began to read the letter. She didn’t know what to do—how to react. Should she offer her apologies? Should she leave them alone? She felt she was the intruder—as if she didn’t belong there with them.

  Slater forced a smile, however, grinning at her as he removed his hat from her head and tossed it at the hat rack. It rung a hook and stayed.

  “How about some supper?” he asked, still smiling—though she could see the excess moisture gathering in his eyes.

  “I-I’m so sorry,” she heard herself whisper.

  He nodded, turned, and strode into the kitchen.

  Lark looked to Tom for direction. She felt somehow disoriented—uncertain as to what action to take.

  Tom looked up from reading the letter. The tear in the outer corner of his eyes made Lark’s eyes water.

  “Go on and feed him,” he mumbled. “It’ll help.”

  Lark nodded, quickly hung her slicker on the coat rack with Slater’s, and hurried to the kitchen.

  Slater was already sitting at the table. He was rubbing his freshly shaved chin with one hand and seemed lost in deep thinking. Lark said nothing and simply prepared him a plate of food and set it on the table in front of him.

  Tom entered the kitchen and took a seat across the table from Slater. He nodded to Lark—a gesture that she should join them. She sat down, noticed the way her hands trembled as she rested them on the table, and moved them to her lap instead.

  “John? I can’t hardly believe it,” Tom muttered as he folded the letter and returned it to its envelope.

  “I know it,” Slater sighed.

  “She’s right to come here with us though,” Tom said, nodding.

  Instantly, fear washed over Lark. Come here? Another woman? A woman that Slater once cared for—obviously still cared for? What use would the Evans brothers have for Lark if their beloved Katie was coming?

  “Yep,” Slater said, mashing his already mashed potatoes with his fork. “Where else would she go? We got the room, and she knows we love her…and the kids. I do know Katherine though. She’ll be wantin’ to find a place of her own…maybe in town…but she needs to stay here awhile.”

  Tom sighed. “It’ll be fun havin’ the little ones runnin’ around,” he said.

  Slater nodded and said, “I suppose they ain’t so little anymore though.” He was quiet a moment, still picking at his meal with a fork instead of eating it. “I just can’t believe it…John.” He looked up to Tom, shaking his head in lingering disbelief. “Could have as easy been me. After all…I rode a lot harder life than he did.”

  “He was never as tough as you though, Slater,” Tom said. “I couldn’t quite ever figure why Katie married him instead of waitin’ for you to come back.”

  There it was—evidence that Slater had been in love with the woman—evidence that he possibly still was. Lark’s stomach churned. She thought for a moment that she might lose the contents of it, for she indeed felt ill.

  Slater glanced up to Lark, and she instantly dropped her gaze to her lap. This was a private conversation between brothers. She shouldn’t be there.

  “You think you can handle cookin’ and cleanin’ up after a grievin’ widow and her three young children?” Slater asked.

  “Me?” Lark squeaked, disbelieving that she’d heard him correctly. “Y-you want me to stay?”

  Slater glanced to Tom and then back to Lark. He frowned, grumbling, “Of course. What? Do you expect us to take care of her and her babies…by ourselves?”

  “We’ll have to get to cleanin’ out those rooms in the back of the house, I s’pose. And dig out all Mama’s old quilts from the attic,” Tom suggested.

  “Yeah,” Slater said. “And I probably oughta head to town tomorrow and lay in a few more supplies.”

  Unexpectedly then, Slater reached across the table, gently gripping Lark’s shoulder with one strong hand. “Now understand, baby…we’ll help you,” he said. “Don’t you worry none about it. We don’t expect you to do all this by yourself. Still, you know we’ve kind of closed up the back part of the house, and even if Tom and I clean them rooms out…” He paused and sighed. “Well, we ain’t too good at makin’ things look warm and pretty. I want Katie and her kids to feel at home…safe. We want ’em to know they have a place where they’re welcome to stay…for as long as they need to,” Slater added.

  Lark nodded as hope began to beat down the fear in her—beat down part of it, at least. It seemed as though she would stay on through the winter—but it was obvious Slater still cared for this Katie. Silently, Lark prayed that her dreams of Slater Evans would stop—sleeping dreams and waking ones.

  “How old are her children?” she managed to inquire.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Tom answered. “She’s got a boy, ’bout twelve, I guess. And there’s a girl ’bout six and another boy ’bout…what…four? Darlin’ little babies…just darlin’.”

  Slater rested one elbow on the table—rested his forehead in his hand a moment as he mumbled, “I just can’t believe John’s gone. Them poor kids.”

  Lark wanted to touch him—to simply lay her hand on his arm in offering reassurance. In truth, she wanted to wrap her arms around him and promise him that the pain caused by the loss of his friend would subside, that she’d take care of his little cousins, that she’d even take care of the woman he still cared for.

  “The three of us used to have such a time together when we was young,” Tom be
gan. He looked to Slater and grinned. “Remember, Slater? You and John and me? Remember how we’d go out down by the crick and go swimmin’ buck neked. Mama used to get so upset.”

  Slater chuckled. “Yeah. We had some times, all right. Remember when Katherine caught us swimmin’ that one time? She turned as red as an overripe tomata!”

  “Poor Katherine,” Tom sighed. “Poor little Katie. Just can’t imagine what she’s goin’ through ’bout now.”

  Lark’s discomfort was increasing. So many thoughts and feelings were battling within her. She wanted to stay—she did! More than anything she wanted to stay on at the Evans ranch. But could she? Could she linger in watching another woman come into the house, a woman both men cared so much for—especially Slater? She thought of a story her mother used to tell her when she was small—about a girl who lived in the cinders and was abused and mistreated by a cruel stepmother and stepsisters. Would her life begin to mirror that of the poor cinder wench? Oh, she knew the Evans brothers would never abuse her, but would they grow to unknowingly ignore her, to put off her company for that of Katie and her darling children? Yet winter was so near—only a breath away. She couldn’t leave, even if she’d wanted to, and she didn’t. Lark didn’t want to leave the Evans ranch. She didn’t want to leave jovial, playful Tom Evans—and she couldn’t leave Slater. He’d stolen her heart, and she couldn’t abandon it—not yet.

  “When will they be arriving?” she asked.

  “A week before Thanksgivin’…so her letter says.” Slater mumbled. “I do feel sorry for those kids. They’ll have to finish growin’ without a daddy now. It’s tragic, that’s what it is. Plain tragic.”

  Lark could see that both men were deeply upset. She felt it best to leave them alone. Mourning a friend or loved one was a deeply personal journey, and she was only the housekeeper and cook.

  “Well, I-I should…I have a few things to finish up,” she stammered awkwardly. “Would it be all right with you both if I finished these dishes tomorrow before breakfast?”

  Slater and Tom both frowned and looked at her as if she’d just uttered the oddest string of words they’d ever heard.

  “Honey,” Tom began, “before you come to us…well…we’d been lettin’ the dishes sit dirty for near a week before warshin’ ’em.”

  Slater nodded as he finally started eating his meal. “Most times we didn’t even use plates…just stood at the stove, eatin’ out of the pot. And a man don’t need nothin’ but his hands for jerky.”

  “You go on and turn in, if you’re wantin’ to, honey,” Tom told her. “It has been a long day.”

  Lark nodded. Yet feeling tears of empathy filling her eyes, she bit her lip to keep them from escaping and said, “I am sorry…about your friend John.”

  Tom smiled gratefully, and Slater nodded.

  Lark left the kitchen and started toward her room. She paused, however, the beautiful lavender wool coat catching her eye.

  Glancing behind her to ensure both men were still in the kitchen, she hurried to the coat rack, quickly snatching the coat.

  Once in her bedroom, she closed the door, exhaling a heavy sigh. The room was dim. She hadn’t built a fire in the hearth, for she didn’t want to waste wood that might be better burned in winter. Still, she had lit a lamp and now turned up the flame as she sat on the bed to examine the coat.

  She smiled as she buried her face against the soft wool. Oh, it felt heavenly! Lark was certain the wool coat even smelled warm. Quickly, she stood, slipping her arms into the long sleeves. It fit her as if it had been made for her! It was warm indeed, and she was soothed, thinking that even if winter proved to be merciless in its low temperatures, she would be safe. Her smile broadened as she thought of Slater’s having purchased it for her. She wondered what Mrs. Jenkins thought—wondered what he’d paid for it. Surely the ten dollars Slater had taken from Tom as payment toward a coat could not have afforded both the lovely lavender coat and the leather slicker. Her heart leapt at imagining Slater thinking of her while he was in town not once but twice.

  As Lark removed the coat and hung it on a hook beside the bedroom door, she realized how truly chilled the room was. She studied the small pile of wood near the hearth a moment—the wood Slater had brought in the night before when he’d built a fire for her. Oh, it was tempting—to build a fire, open the window just a few inches, and sleep warm. Still, she must not be greedy—or weak. She would be warm enough once she was in bed.

  Lark startled as a soft knock echoed from her door.

  “Yes?” she called.

  “It’s me,” Slater said from the other side. “I’m comin’ in.”

  She smiled, somehow delighted by the fact that he did not ask her permission to enter—simply informed her he would.

  The door opened, and Slater Evans stepped into Lark’s bedroom. She hoped her eyes hadn’t widened too noticeably as she took in his state of undress. He wore only a rather ragged pair of trouser underwear.

  “I almost forgot to start you a little fire in here,” he mumbled as he crossed the room in his bare feet and hunkered down before the hearth.

  “Oh…I-I’m fine. Really I am,” Lark stammered, watching the muscles in his arms and back ripple as he worked. “We shouldn’t waste the firewood.”

  “It ain’t a waste,” he mumbled. “We need to keep you warm.”

  Lark felt her brows pucker in a slight frown as she noticed the scar on his back just below his left shoulder. It was a strange-looking scar—almost star-shaped—as if a wound had been roughly stitched together once.

  “It’ll be all right, you know,” he said, glancing over one broad shoulder to her, nodding.

  “What will?” she asked. In truth, the fact that Slater Evans had appeared in her room so entirely unclothed had entirely rattled her thoughts.

  He frowned a little. “Katie and the children,” he explained. “It’ll be all right. You won’t have to do much more than ya do now…except cook bigger meals, I guess. I’m sure Katie will see to their mendin’ and warshin’ and such.” He looked back to his task. “I just didn’t want ya worryin’ about it.”

  “I’ll be glad to help,” Lark told him.

  She watched as he leaned forward and blew on the kindling. The flame took, and Slater added two small logs. He stood, dusting his hands together and turning toward her.

  Instantly, visions of her rather sensual dreams of Slater began to repeat in her mind. She even felt goose bumps rippling over her arms when she realized that, in her dreams, he’d been dressed exactly as he stood before her now—or rather, undressed exactly as he stood.

  “You’ll like Katie,” he told her. “She’s a fine woman.”

  “I’m sure she is,” she managed, though a fiery, painful jealousy broke over her at Slater’s praises of Katie.

  His eyes narrowed a moment, and she feared he might somehow sense her unhappiness. Slater rubbed his chin with one hand and seemed to study her a moment.

  “It ain’t too often that I get me a shave in town,” he said. “But I sure like the way that barber pampers up my face. He puts a warm towel on me after he’s finished shavin’ me. It sure feels good. Don’t you think?”

  “I’m sure it does,” Lark answered, her heart suddenly hammering so viciously she wondered if it had somehow leapt into her throat. Oh, he was attractive! Everything about him was attractive. She studied his dark hair a moment, mussed as if someone had just tousled it. His eyes smoldered in the fire- and lamplight, the shadows cast by the flames in the hearth dancing across the broad contours of his chest. His trouser underwear sat low on his hips. Lark had the sudden hope that the tattered drawstring was robust enough to keep the article of clothing in place.

  “M-my mother used to warm a towel by the fire…wrap it around my feet when she tucked me into bed to warm me,” she babbled, suddenly quite overwhelmed with nervous excitement. “So…so I almost imagine what a warm towel would feel like after a shave.”

  Slater grinned. “The towel did feel go
od,” he said, taking a step toward her. “But I was meanin’ my face. Don’t ya think my face feels good after that barber shave?”

  He reached out, taking her hand and placing her palm to one cheek. The instant memory of the moments before Slater had remembered the letter from Katie—of touching him—of his touching her, kissing her—caused Lark’s body experience a blissful quiver.

  “Y-yes,” she stammered in a whisper. “It’s very smooth.”

  “Of course, it ain’t as soft as yours,” he said, bending to caress her cheek with his own as he’d done earlier. “But it’s nice all the same.”

  Lark’s senses were reporting like fireworks! She felt one of Slater’s hands come to rest on her waist—felt breathless and near faint.

  “I-I…I think I forgot t-to…to thank you for…for the coats,” she stammered.

  “Then thank me,” he mumbled against he corner of her mouth.

  “Thank you for…”

  Her words were lost—lost along with her breath as she felt him press a light yet lingering kiss to her lips.

  “What was that?” he breathed. His breath tickled her mouth.

  “Thank you for the…for the coats,” she managed.

  “You’re welcome,” he whispered. He wasn’t kissing her, yet his lips lingered in lightly brushing hers. She could feel him smiling. He knew she was unsettled; she knew Slater Evans knew that she was profoundly unsettled!

  “Thank you…for that fine supper,” he breathed against her lips.

  “Y-you’re welcome,” Lark managed.

  He straightened then, and Lark found she could not meet his gaze at first. When at last she did look up at him, it was to see him frowning—studying the bruises on her cheek.

  “It’s lookin’ better,” he said, lightly caressing her cheek with the back of his hand. Still frowning, he gently pressed his index finger to her lower lip. “We just gotta get that lip healed up,” he added. His face softened, a slight grin curving one corner of his mouth. “Before my next barber shave anyway.”

  Lark gasped slightly, entirely elated by his flirting.