Weathered Too Young

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  “Good night, baby,” he said, winking at her.

  “Good night,” she managed.

  Grinning, Slater turned to leave her room.

  Lark gasped once more as one of the two buttons securing the trapdoor flap to Slater’s underwear suddenly popped off. She averted her gaze only just in time to keep her innocence intact.

  “Oops,” he said, turning around and bending over to pick up the rogue button.

  He offered the button to her, and—keeping her gaze on his face—Lark offered him an upturned palm in return. “There ya go,” Slater said, dropping the button into her hand. He made no effort to protect his modesty—simply smiled at her, turned once more, and left the room.

  Lark gazed at the button in her hand. Had he really kissed her? Really? Perhaps she was only dreaming again. She reached up, pinching her own arm—and it hurt. No, she had not been dreaming.

  Slater chuckled as he closed Lark’s bedroom door behind him. She’d near fainted when he’d lost his trapdoor button, he was sure of it. She’d near fainted when he’d kissed her too. He closed his eyes a moment, willing himself to move forward and up the stairs—instead of turning around and returning to Lark’s bedroom for one more flirtatious kiss.

  As he climbed the stairs, he yawned, hoping his visit to her room had reassured her that her place with him and Tom was secure. It had frightened Lark, when he and Tom had revealed that Katie and the children would be coming to stay with them. He’d seen the fear take control of her—visibly seen the fear in her. No doubt she was afraid she’d have to find another place to wait out the winter. But she wouldn’t—and he’d wanted to make certain she understood it.

  Slater sat down on the side of his bed, stretched his long arms, and yawned again. He thought of the smile that had crossed her face after he’d started the fire in her room. It wasn’t too long after Lark had come to them that he’d realized she had a fear of being cold. He wouldn’t have her fearing the cold any longer. He’d make sure she was kept warm. He chuckled as he crawled into his bed. Yep. He’d make sure Lark was kept warm through the winter—one way or the other.

  Slater tucked his hands beneath his head and stared at the ceiling. The moon was full and lit the room well. He glanced at his gun belt slung over the back of the nearby chair. As always, the sight of his weapon succeeded in drawing his mind away from frivolous fancies—back to a more sensible point of view.

  In that instant, the joy Slater had gleaned from teasing Lark vanished. He scowled, having suddenly remembered his age—the weathered state of his mind and body. Who the hell did he think he was? Did he really think a fresh young sparrow would find any interest in a battered old buzzard? And even if she did—should she? He thought of the day Lark had arrived—arrived with Hadley Jacobson. Hadley was a good man—a young man. Hadley was the sort of man Lark deserved—not beat-up old Slater Evans.

  Growling, Slater closed his eyes, determined to get some sleep. Still, as the memory of Lark’s sweet breath on his cheek, of the soft pleasure of her tender lips, gripped his mind, he knew sleep was not about to come easy.

  He thought of John then—forced himself to think of his childhood friend—his now-dead childhood friend. It was an unpleasant, heartbreaking thought—John gone and Katie a widow, their children now without a father. Yep, a sad and unhappy thought indeed. But Slater always did have an easier time going to sleep while entertaining gloomy thoughts as opposed to glad thoughts. So he tried to think of Katie’s misery—tried to envision ways to help her and her children—instead of envisioning Lark’s youthful sparkle, her pretty eyes and silken hair, her sparrow’s voice, her soft, pastry-sweet lips.

  Cussing under his breath, Slater rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. “Go to sleep, you ol’ buzzard,” he grumbled. “And from now on…leave that sparrow alone.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lark couldn’t help but smile as she watched Mrs. Gunderson wrap the pretty pink calico in brown paper. She hadn’t had a new dress, skirt, or shirtwaist in so long! Already her fingers were tingling, desperate to begin sewing.

  She glanced over her shoulder to see Slater and Tom still standing on the boardwalk outside the general store. The stage still hadn’t arrived, and she knew they were both beginning to worry.

  “That’ll make a right purty dress, Miss Lawrence,” Mrs. Gunderson said. “And I’m so glad to finally meet you. I’ve just heard so very much about you from them Evans boys…and it’s nice to finally have a face to go with their stories. Why, Tom tells me you’re a better cook than Matilda Simpson was.”

  Lark blushed, simultaneously pleased and suspicious. Tom had often told her she was a better cook than Mrs. Simpson had been, so she didn’t doubt he’d also mentioned it to Mrs. Gunderson. What she did doubt was that the stories Mrs. Gunderson had heard—well, she did doubt they were all told by Slater and Tom alone. No doubt Mrs. Jenkins had mentioned selling the lavender dress coat to Slater. No doubt everyone had whispered here and there about the young, unmarried woman keeping house for the unmarried Evans brothers.

  Still, it was nice to be in town at last. When Slater and Tom had suggested she accompany them to town to meet the stage bringing Katherine and her children, she’d paused. Lark knew there was bound to be gossip. Yet her desire to visit the general store, to spend some of her collected wages to perhaps procure some fabrics and notions for a few new pieces of clothing for herself—well, she’d decided she could endure the gossip. She’d endured worse, after all.

  “Are…are those for sale?” Lark asked as her gaze suddenly fell to a shelf of books nestled next to a large pickle barrel.

  “The books?” Mrs. Gunderson asked, following Lark’s gaze.

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Gunderson smiled. “Why, yes, they are!” the cheery proprietress exclaimed.

  She was a tall, slender woman, older, with gray eyes and hair the color of dried leaves. Lark thought Mrs. Gunderson looked just like she belonged in autumn—as if her appearance matched the weather outside the store.

  “We’ve got several books here that I hear are very interestin’…though I haven’t read them, of course,” Mrs. Gunderson said, leaving the counter and walking toward the shelf. Lark watched as Mrs. Gunderson stooped to look at the books. “Here’s one…The Countess of Vista Verde…and here’s one called Two Moths and the Moon.”

  Lark frowned, disappointed in the titles the woman had mentioned. “Are there any others…perhaps adventure tales…or maybe something by Mr. Twain?” she asked.

  Mrs. Gunderson looked again. “Hmm. Not that I see right off.”

  “Maybe some poetry? I read a small book by Longfellow once…and I do like Lord Tennyson,” Lark said.

  “I know I’ve got a little book of poems here somewhere,” Mrs. Gunderson mumbled. “Ah, yes…here it is!” Lark watched as the woman pulled a small book from the shelf. Handing the book to Lark, she said, “Favorite Poems. Will that do ya for a spell, do ya think? I can order in anything ya like…but this looks like a sweet little book for today.”

  Lark accepted the book, somewhat disappointed at first. She’d hoped for some grand adventure to read—or at least a collection from a poet she knew. Still, as she let her fingers travel over the pretty little book, its lovely white cover embellished with gold lettering and a pretty rendering of a sprig of lilacs, she smiled. Carefully, she leafed through the small book, pausing to glance over the list of poems in the contents. For all the books the Evans brothers had in their parlor (rather, for all the books in the parlor that had once belonged to Slater and Tom’s mother), there wasn’t one poetry book. Thus, Lark put the book on top of the stack of paper-wrapped parcels of fabric and notions.

  “I’ll love it!” she told Mrs. Gunderson. And she would, for Lark had not owned a book since she was a small child.

  “Wonderful!” Mrs. Gunderson exclaimed.

  Mrs. Gunderson figured the cost of the fabrics, the notions, and the book, and Lark paid her.

  “You sure ya don’
t need me to help ya out with all that?” Mrs. Gunderson asked.

  Lark smiled and shook her head. “I can manage…but thank you.”

  “Well, I’ll just see ya next time ya come to town then, sweetie. You keep warm this winter.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  Mrs. Gunderson tossed a friendly wave, and Lark stepped out of the general store and onto the boardwalk.

  “Most likely just runnin’ slow,” she heard Slater mumble. “Right?” he asked Tom.

  “Most likely,” Tom agreed.

  Lark frowned, however. She could see both men were worried. “How late is it?” she asked.

  Slater and Tom turned, and Tom forced a smile. “Oh, near to an hour,” he said.

  “Have I been in there that long?” she asked, looking back to the general store. Mrs. Gunderson smiled through the large window—tossed another wave.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Tom said. “And it looks like Mrs. Gunderson had a good day in the general store too.”

  Slater studied the stack of packages in her arms. “Elvira Gunderson don’t let nobody leave without emptyin’ their pockets first,” he said, grinning. Without asking, he took the parcels from Lark’s arms. “Here…I’ll run put these in the wagon for ya.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” Lark began to argue. “I can just—”

  “I’ll be right back,” Slater interrupted, however. “And don’t worry. I’ll see they’re stored safe.”

  Lark watched him stride across the street to where Dolly and Coaly waited in the alley with the wagon. Eldon, Grady, and Ralston had already headed back to the ranch with the other wagon of supplies. Slater and Tom were determined Katherine and her children would want for nothing while spending the winter at the ranch. Thus, they’d sent the cowboys home to unload before Katherine and her children arrived, explaining that they didn’t want Katherine to know they’d laid in extra stores. She’d worry herself sick with guilt.

  “He’s worried ’cause the weather’s lookin’ a might threatenin’,” Tom explained. “We wanna be sure we get those children home and settled before any snow flies.”

  “Snow?” Lark exclaimed. Instantly she felt chilled and worried. Lark didn’t like snow—not one bit. To her, snow meant hardship—deep, biting cold—fear and anxiety.

  Tom nodded, looking up into the sky. “It don’t feel cold enough yet, but it’s chilled…and the air is calm.”

  “I don’t like snow,” she whispered.

  “You don’t?” Tom asked. “Not at all? Not even at Christmas?”

  Lark shrugged. “Maybe at Christmas…if everyone is safe inside and there’s plenty of wood.”

  She watched as Slater returned from the wagon. Unaware a delighted smile was spreading across her face (for she loved the rhythm of his swagger), she thought how nice a winter might be—how she might grow to like the snow—if it kept Slater in the house and nearer to her.

  Oh, he hadn’t kissed her again—hadn’t even flirted with her too often since the day after Katherine’s letter had arrived. He’d returned to the Slater Evans he’d been before—rather brooding, sometimes laughing, most times working himself into a deep fatigue. Lark was disappointed, of course. Yet she’d almost instantly come to understand that his flirting with her, his kissing her, was merely because an unusually good mood had overcome him that day. Pete Walker had only just agreed to sell him five or six Angus heifers come spring. Furthermore, he’d had his hair trimmed and a comfortable shave while he’d been in town. Lark understood these things had simply combined to put him in a more jovial disposition than usual. That was all. Moreover, she’d made up her mind not to linger in melancholy and unhappiness over the fact that he never kissed her again—never appeared unexpectedly in her bedroom intent on building a fire and wearing only his under-trousers. No. Instead, she’d made up her mind to savor the fact that he had kissed her at all! Yes. The entirety of the day following Slater’s flirtatious kisses, Lark had pondered her life—her situation. She was safe at the Evans ranch, after all; even if her heart wasn’t, she was. She was safe and warm and earning a hefty wage. It was true that, though she was in love with him, Slater wasn’t in love with her. Yet to be near him, to linger in his company, it was the only place she longed to be.

  Thus, having thought and pondered, having reevaluated her life and circumstances, Lark had chosen to find happiness instead of disappointment. If the arrival of Katherine and her children meant change, then she would have to endure it. She’d endured worse. Still, the worst she’d endured didn’t have the potential to break her heart the way her current situation did. But she was not deterred. She would stay at the Evans ranch for as long as Slater and Tom would have her there. And she would secret her love for Slater as if it were the most valuable treasure on earth and she had been called upon to protect it.

  Therefore, as she watched Slater approach—as she watched his broad shoulders sway back and forth with the striking rhythm of his saunter—she forced a calmness to her expression and ignored the gripping pain of regret and longing in her heart.

  “I hear it,” Tom said as Slater stepped up onto the boardwalk.

  “Thank you,” Lark said.

  He nodded and smiled at her a little.

  “Listen,” Tom said as he leaned over and looked down the street. “Here it comes.”

  “Finally,” Slater mumbled, also leaning over to look down the street.

  Lark didn’t look in the direction of the approaching stage. She simply tried to steady her breathing and convince herself that all would be well. Pulling the collar of her slicker more snuggly around her neck, she waited and listened to the approaching rumble of the horses and stage, her heart hammering louder and louder, her anxieties growing as quickly as the stage approached.

  In a matter of seconds, the stage driver pulled the lines, halting the team of horses directly in front of the general store. Lark held her breath as the shotgun driver climbed down from the stage and opened the door. She saw young faces at the window—the faces of children—wearing expressions of excitement mingled with fear. Instantly, her heart ached for them. They’d lost their father; they’d been stripped from their home and everything familiar.

  Lark forced a friendly smile and waved to a little boy who had his nose pressed up against the window as he stared out at her.

  Katherine Thornquist was a beautiful woman! Lark felt her mouth drop slightly agape as the stage driver offered her a hand to help her out of the stage. She was small, like Lark, but had hair as bright as the sun and the bluest eyes Lark had ever seen. Lark noted the red, puffy state of her nose and eyes. She’d been crying. Lark thought that she’d probably been crying since the death of her husband. As Katherine stepped gracefully down from the stagecoach, new tears sprung to her eyes. Lark thought it incredible that a woman could still look so beautiful in such a state of agonizing emotion.

  “Slater! Tom!” Katherine cried, collapsing into Slater’s alluring embrace.

  Lark bit her lip as jealousy mingled with empathy. The sight of another woman being held in Slater’s arms caused a scream of heartbreak to rise in her throat. She gritted her teeth to keep it silent, however, as her own eyes filled with tears as Katherine began to sob mournfully.

  “I can’t believe this, Slater! I just can’t believe this!” she cried.

  “I know, darlin’. I know,” Slater said, his voice low and comforting. “But you done right comin’ to us,” he whispered softly into her hair. He kissed the top of Katherine’s head and held her as she continued to sob.

  Unable to endure the jealousy or sadness washing over her, Lark looked to see the children alighting from the coach. They rather spilled out—tumbled over the stairs and up onto the boardwalk. A little girl, the image of her mother, immediately clasped the hand of a small, delightfully impish-looking boy. An older boy positioned himself behind them—protectively. No doubt this elder brother had taken on the role of protector in his father’s absence. He was tall, yet his youthful good looks revealed hi
s tender age. Lark remembered having been told he was about twelve, and he looked it—save the worry and sadness around his eyes.

  Tom hunkered down in front of the little girl and boy.

  “My goodness!” he exclaimed. “This ain’t little Charlie, is it? Why, it can’t be! You’re darn near as big as me!”

  The toddler giggled with pride and threw his arms around Tom’s neck. Tom stood, chuckling and tousling the tike’s hair. He glanced down to the girl then. “And this can’t be Lizzy, can it?” He let out a long whistle. “My, my, my! You’re the spittin’ image of yer mama when she was little, sweetheart! Yer a beauty, darlin’’.

  Little Lizzy blushed and threw her arms around Tom’s waist. He patted her back lovingly and then offered a hand to the older boy. “Johnny. You’ve plum grown up, boy. Didn’t hardly know you. Bet you got all the girly hearts a-beatin’ like crazy in Sunday school class, don’t ya?”

  “Naw,” the boy muttered shyly, taking his cousin’s hand and giving it a firm, manly shake.

  Lark’s thoughts were that of discomfort and anxiety. She didn’t belong here. This was family. She didn’t belong. Still, she remembered her resolve to remain brave and determined. Thus, she glanced away from Tom and the children a moment—to Slater and Katherine.

  Slater still held Katherine, smoothing her hair and kissing the top of her head repeatedly as she cried. Lark felt a moan of agony threatening to leave her throat, for she’d never known anything so painful as watching another woman linger in the arms of the man she loved. Still, she gritted her teeth once more, straightening her posture in an endeavor to endure.

  Slater glanced over at her then, winking at her with reassurance—but reassurance of what? That Katherine would recover and they’d soon be on their way back to the ranch? That he understood she was uncomfortable and wished her to know that she had no need to worry? Whatever his reassuring wink was meant to convey, it did not change the fact that Katherine Thornquist was wrapped in Slater’s arms—and Lark was not.