Weathered Too Young

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  Slater said nothing at first. “Because I told him not to tell you,” he said at last. He shook his head in a matter of self-disgust. “I told him not to. Katie knows I don’t like to talk about my past…that I don’t like other folks talkin’ about it. I…I can’t tell you why it bothers me so…’cause I don’t know why myself. It just does. It aggravates me…and I don’t like to talk about it…especially about Samson Kane.”

  “I understand,” Lark said—and truly, she did. She didn’t like to talk about her past either. Only she knew why—exactly why.

  “It don’t make it right though…the way I run outta here,” he continued. “Especially after you and me was…a minute before we were…”

  “What were you going to say to me in the kitchen, Slater?” Lark inquired. She had to know. Even now, her heart was racing at the memory. She’d been certain he was about to confess to caring for her in those moments before Tom and Katherine had returned with the children—in that moment before he’d remembered to ask her about the man she’d seen.

  Slater grinned, though it was accompanied by an expression of defeat somehow. “Fact was, I was gonna tell you about Samson Kane…about my past, where I’ve been, what I done before I finally come home and took to cattle ranchin’.”

  Lark was disappointed. She’d felt certain he’d meant to tell her more than that. As she’d lingered in his arms in the kitchen, she’d been sure he was going to tell her he cared for her.

  “Oh,” she breathed. She felt as if the joy she’d known a moment before had been somehow sucked from her body—from her very soul.

  “You best get some sleep, baby,” he said, rising from his chair. “You’ve had a long day of it.” He strode toward her, hunkering down before the sofa and taking her hand in his. He smiled at her, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “I mean…lyin’ to outlaws, pickin’ fights with cactus…” His smile broadened as he added, “Kissin’ old men.”

  Lark couldn’t help but smile as he winked at her.

  “Not to mention thinkin’ you worked for a bandit…then faintin’ and all.” Slater nodded. “Yep…you put in a full day and then some.” He released her hand and stood. “Yep, you best get to yer bed.”

  “What about you?” she asked.

  Slater smiled, and Lark’s heart leapt as she saw the mischief in his eyes.

  “Are you invitin’ me to come with ya?” he teased.

  Lark giggled, delighted by his flirting.

  “You know what I meant,” she said.

  “Did I?” he asked.

  “Yes, you did,” she giggled.

  “Well, I’ve gotta keep watch a while,” he told her. “Ol’ Samson Kane…he’s most likely gonna bide his time a while…but I ain’t positive. So I’ll just wait up a while.”

  “But you’re tired,” she told him. “You have to be.”

  Slater shook his head. “Naw. My feathers are too ruffled for settlin’ down just now. But I want you to get to yer room and get some sleep.”

  He took her hand, pulling her to her feet. “Come on,” he said, picking up the lamp from the mantel and carrying it with him as he led her to her bedroom.

  Once inside her bedroom, Slater set the lamp on top of the small table just inside.

  “I know you’re gonna think I’m a devil,” he began then, turning her to face away from him as he began to unfasten the buttons on the back of her collar, “but I really do need to take a look at yer arm. Cactus needles don’t just hurt. They can cause a nasty infection.”

  Lark pulled her braid to one shoulder as Slater continue to work the buttons. He’d already unfastened the top two buttons of her collar; two more and the collar would be free. She could feel his fingers brush her skin, and it sent goose bumps blossoming along her arms. Lark couldn’t keep the visions of her reoccurring dream of Slater from playing out in her mind. After all, wasn’t it always the same? In her dream, didn’t Slater always begin his seduction with the unfastening of her collar buttons?

  “My sleeve is damp,” Lark said, finding her breathing was uneven. “Katherine must’ve put a warm compress on it while I was unconscious.”

  “Yep,” he said.

  A slight gasp escaped Lark as she felt Slater’s hands on her neck. His fingers traveled slowly, caressively, over the exposed flesh at the top of her back—traveled forward and around until—until she felt him tenderly embrace her neck between his strong hands. She began to tremble as he gently pulled her back against him.

  Slater’s hands slid beneath the fabric of her shirtwaist at her shoulders. Slowly he pushed the sleeves of her camisole from her shoulders—softly caressing them—sending waves of goose bumps to rippling over her arms. Lark felt as if she would again swoon—this time with delight—as she felt his breath on the back of her neck, and she knew Slater’s mouth was close to her skin. He didn’t touch her—didn’t press his lips to the place, nor even brush his whiskery chin against her. Still, the sensation of delicious anticipation—the deep longing burning through her, her silent pleading with him to kiss her—was nearly unbearable. His warm breath continued to tease her tender flesh—his hovering in not quite touching her as he continued to unfasten the rest of the buttons of her shirtwaist.

  Once Slater had unfastened every button, he tucked one hand under her arm, gently pulling her wounded limb from her sleeve.

  “It still hurts,” he mumbled. It was not a question.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Carefully, he ran the palm of his hand over the wounded area of her arm. His touch sent a wave of bliss shivering through her.

  “Well, just have to keep an eye on it,” he mumbled.

  He released her arm then as his arms encircled her waist, pulling her back against the firm contours of his body. His breath tickled her neck just below her ear, and Lark closed her eyes—balled her hands into fists in trying to keep from turning to kiss him. She felt him softly blow on her neck—her shoulder. He was teasing her—taunting her—and was near torturous! At last, she felt the tender press of his kiss to her neck—felt his whiskers softly scratching her skin.

  Another shiver traveled through her, and Slater chuckled.

  “Why, you’re ticklish, ain’t ya, Miss Lark,” he whispered.

  Lark said nothing, for she couldn’t even begin to find her voice to speak.

  He caressed the bareness of her shoulder with his whiskery cheek, sending another tremulous quiver through Lark—and she could longer resist him.

  Turning in his arms, she sighed when she found he did not pause in pressing his mouth to hers. Slater kissed her—deliciously kissed her—sending warmth and desire coursing through her body—sending love and hope in love being returned burning through her mind and heart.

  Slater knew he could not be distracted by passion—by love. Samson Kane was hiding somewhere, lurking in the shadows, waiting for Slater to lower his defenses. He could not linger in savoring Lark’s kiss—the sense of her tender body in his arms. No. The sudden realization that Kane had been close to Lark—that he could have as easily killed her as to believe her lie—pulled Slater’s awareness even closer to the danger waiting in the dark. Breaking the seal of their lips, he pulled Lark to him, reveling in the alluring scent of her hair—in the way she fit so perfectly against him.

  For the first time in a long time, Slater Evans had something to fight for. He wanted Lark—wanted her more than anything he’d ever wanted in all his life—and he wanted her because he loved her! He could admit to himself—silently allow himself to hear the words over and over in his mind. He loved Lark, and suddenly, he didn’t care that he was older than she was. Suddenly, he knew he had more to offer than he’d thought. He was older than she was, yes—weathered by life—but it didn’t matter. For in that moment, something affirmed to him that Lark loved him. In that moment—as all the events of the day and every moment of the past months quickly traveled through his mind—Slater knew that he could make Lark happy. He could! She loved him, and he realized then th
at her love had repaired a bit of the weathering caused by his past. He loved her—and he would have her! He would! But he’d have to vanquish the threat of harm now threatened by Samson Kane. Thus, he could not be distracted—not for one moment—not even by love.

  Lark tightened her embrace of Slater; even for the pain in her arm she held him more tightly. She thought how wonderful it would be to stay in his arms—to sleep in them—and she sighed as her cheek rested against the firmness of his chest.

  “Leave your door open tonight,” he said. His chin was resting on the top of her head, and she felt him press a kiss there. “Make sure the window is latched, and leave your door open. I need to be able to hear everything in the house.”

  Lark shuddered as the memory that an outlaw was seeking revenge on Slater returned.

  “He’ll come for you, won’t he?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Yep,” he said.

  Lark smiled, having grown very fond of Slater’s short answer of assurance—the one he ever used, even when circumstances might have begged for a longer, more detailed response.

  He took her face between his hands—gazed into her eyes. His dark eyes smoldered with emotion, and Lark smiled at him. He cared for her—he did! It was evident in his eyes—in his expression—in his kiss and his touch.

  A handsome smile spread across his face as he studied her a moment.

  “What is it?” she asked, for she knew something was in his mind—tripping on his tongue in wanting to be said.

  “Nothin’,” he said. “I was just thinkin’ that the closest I ever come to bein’ an outlaw…is in moments like this one…moments with you, when I’d rather close us in this room and have my way than be a gentleman and leave you to your bed…alone.”

  Lark giggled. “You shouldn’t say things like that to me,” she scolded—though only because she knew she should.

  “I know,” he said, releasing her and stepping backward toward the door. “That’s what I mean. I gotta be careful or I’ll find myself in Yuma prison…and all because of you.”

  He winked and stepped from her room. He started to close the door behind him and then seemed to remember his own instructions and pushed it wide.

  “Leave this open,” he reminded.

  Lark nodded, sighing with mingled delight in lingering pleasure and disappointment as she heard his heavy footsteps echo across the floor, striding him farther away from her.

  She should be terrified—only terrified. Yet as she changed her day clothes for her nightdress, the lingering sensation of being held in Slater’s arms—the ambrosial flavor of his kiss as it clung to her lips and yet warmed her mouth—caused such a sense of hope and joy to linger in her bosom that even the danger of an outlaw lurking nearby could not dispel the bliss that owned her.

  As she lay in bed, sleep was indeed elusive. Still, the comforting sounds of Slater’s footsteps in the kitchen and of the warm light that still glowed from the embers of the parlor fire lulled her. At last, Lark drifted to deep slumber, though not with fear and visions of Samson Kane for company but rather with hope and visions of Slater Evans—strong, handsome, desirable Slater Evans—Slater Evans—who was not an outlaw.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Slater had been right. Samson Kane was hiding. The night had been peaceful. Even Eldon, Grady, and Ralston heard nothing—saw nothing. Lark awoke with hope that perhaps the outlaw had turned coward—decided it was not worth his time to lay in wait for Slater and revenge.

  Yet that morning at breakfast, Slater assured everyone that Samson Kane would come—he would not give up. The cowboys were to stay near the house, and the children were to stay inside unless a trip to the outhouse was necessary. Even then, one of the men had to go with them. Lark and Katherine were not to venture out without Slater, Tom, or one of the cowboys to escort them either.

  “Samson Kane ain’t too good with a pistol or a rifle,” Slater explained. “If he’s at a distance, he most likely won’t get a good shot off. His weapon of choice is a knife.”

  “That’s what Daddy told me,” Johnny said, nodding as he finished his eggs.

  A cold shiver of fear traveled up Lark’s spine, for she’d remembered Johnny’s description from the day before—that Samson Kane gutted his victims.

  “Well, he’s still good enough with a gun to cause damage,” Tom said. He looked to Slater, eyebrows arched in a rather reminding expression.

  “That’s true,” Slater said. “So everybody needs to be watchful. All right?”

  “All right,” Johnny said, nodding.

  Charlie and Lizzy nodded too. Lark wasn’t at all certain the children understood the danger that was near. She was glad they weren’t fearful. She knew what it was to live in fear and insecurity as a child. Katherine’s children had already suffered enough anxiety at the loss of their father. Thus, she was happy they did not seem overly concerned.

  As Tom and Slater left the house to see to the stock, however, the children were not happy about having to stay indoors. The warm sunshine and fresh breezes of spring beckoned to them like a siren’s song, and they were ill-tempered about being forced to stay in. Johnny was impatient, growling and fussing at Charlie and Lizzy like an old bear. Charlie and Lizzy were either quarreling with one another or racing around the house squealing and bumping into furniture.

  Finally, Katherine had no other recourse but to separate them in order to settle down her and Lark’s already weary nerves. Johnny was sent to his room with a book to read, and Lizzy was put to the task of helping her mother in making bread. Charlie was sent to the parlor. Wooden soldiers in hand, Charlie miserably slunk into the parlor, sat himself in the far corner, and began to set them up in rows.

  “I’m so sorry,” Katherine apologized as Lark washed several dishes that had been neglected after breakfast. “It’s just that, after bein’ so pent up all winter, the children can’t hardly tolerate another day in the house.”

  “I wanted to smell the hyacinth today,” Lizzy whined, pressing a fist into the smaller mound of bread dough her mother had given her to knead.

  “I know, sweetie,” Katherine sighed.

  Lark smiled, her heart aching with sympathy, for she too had taken every opportunity to enjoy its perfume, knowing the lovely fragrance of early spring hyacinth would soon be spent.

  “I just hope Charlie isn’t into mischief,” Katherine mumbled. “Lark, would you look in on him for me? I swear, when he’s anywhere by himself, I’m always worried I’ll look up to find he’s burned the house down around us.”

  Katherine continued to knead the dough on the countertop as before, and Lark nodded.

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” Lark said. “But one can never be too sure about little boys.” Lark dried her hands on her apron and winked at Lizzy. “Isn’t that right, Lizzy?”

  “Oh yes, Miss Lark,” Lizzy agreed. “Last time Mama sent me to check on Charlie, he was eatin’ a bug. He said he’d just always wondered what they’d tasted like.”

  “Oh dear,” Lark said, frowning. She certainly hoped Charlie hadn’t decided to see if one bug tasted different than another. Hurrying into the parlor, she was relieved to see the boy had not taken to eating bugs to battle boredom. Rather, he sat in the chair in front of the old desk in the corner.

  At once—though Lark was relieved Charlie was not crunching on some multilegged creature—she knew that the desk was rarely touched. Slater and Tom had explained to her that it had belonged to their father—that they somehow liked the idea of it being just the way he’d left it. Just as they’d liked the idea of their mother’s knitting basket remaining on the floor near one end of the sofa, just as she’d left it—before the fever had taken them both within three days of one another.

  “Charlie?” Lark ventured, hoping the boy hadn’t had time to disturb the desk too much. “What’re ya doin’, sweetie?”

  Charlie turned around, smiling and eyes bright with excitement.

  Instantly, Lark’s worries increased. It
was well she knew the expression plain on Charlie’s face in that moment—he’d been into something.

  “Look what I found, Miss Lark,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Here in this desk drawer.”

  Lark hurried to Charlie and the desk, hoping what he’d found was something easily replaced or shut away.

  “Honey, you know none of us touch Mr. Evans’s desk,” she said as she approached.

  “But look,” Charlie said, holding up a key. “This key was in the drawer. I know’d it wasn’t there before, so I turned it and pulled…and look what I found inside.”

  Lark did look. As Charlie pulled the drawer open once more, a slight gasp escaped her as she saw what lay in the drawer.

  “I know what this is,” Charlie said, picking up the silver US marshal’s badge and holding it out to her. “I seen these before. I saw one on the sheriff when we was in town yesterday even. This is a lawman’s badge!”

  Lark was astonished! Had Slater and Tom’s father truly been a US marshal? She wondered why she’d never heard either man mention it.

  “And look here,” Charlie continued. Reaching into the drawer, he removed a finely crafted wooden box. Lifting the lid, he whispered, “Pearl-handled pistols!”

  “Charlie!” Lark breathed. “We shouldn’t be—”

  “But what does it say?” Charlie interrupted, obviously careless of any ramifications of having discovered such a treasure. “Right here…on this gold plate on the inside of the box?”

  Lark looked to the place Charlie indicated. There, on the inside of the box lid, was indeed a rectangular gold plate. Lark could see an etching or engraving on the plate and moved closer in order to see it more clearly.

  “What does it say?” Charlie asked. “And what does this paper say too?”