“Why didn’t she look for a jojoba? At least it doesn’t have thorns.”
“She wanted the red berries. Her mother used to tell her about decorating for Christmas with holly.”
“You should have stopped her.”
“Who are you?” Mary Wilson asked, changing the subject. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m Pete’s old partner.”
She started to throw back the covers.
“Lie still.”
Joe’s peremptory order stilled Mary’s hand in midair. He pushed her arm down to her side and jerked the blanket back in place.
For a moment she seemed on the verge of defying him. Probably learning he was Pete’s partner wasn’t enough to make her trust him. But if she was afraid, she didn’t show it. More likely she’d show her talons.
“I’m about to fix me something to eat. I need that water,” Joe reminded the kid. She reluctantly left her tree to pick up the bucket and go back outside.
“Does the kid talk?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“She got a name?”
“Sarah.”
“Who is she?”
“Pete’s daughter. Her mother died. I was his second wife.”
Sarah entered the cabin with the fresh water. Joe took the bucket over to the worktable. “Make sure your ma doesn’t get up,” he said over his shoulder. “Maybe if you sing to her, she’ll go back to sleep.”
“I can’t… You shouldn’t…” Mary began.
“Probably, but I’m doing it anyway,” Joe said. “Sing!” he commanded the child.
Turning away from the two females watching him in open-mouthed bewilderment, Joe opened his saddlebags and began to lay out their contents. He was surprised when he heard a very soft voice begin to sing. He knew just enough to know the kid was singing in French.
He wondered what had made Pete Wilson leave such a family—a daughter who was petrified of dogs, wouldn’t talk, and sang lullabies in French; a beautiful young wife who was so weak she couldn’t stand up and was going to have a baby any minute, if he could judge from the size of her.
Memories he thought he’d forgotten came rushing back. Damn! He hadn’t thought of Flora in five years.
He didn’t know why he should now. The two women had nothing in common.
Flora had been vibrantly, noisily alive. She laughed, sang, cried, shouted, always at the top of her voice. He had been wildly in love with her, but she hadn’t been willing to settle down. She had liked flash, excitement, money, action—all the things Joe had learned to avoid.
Mary was nothing like that. She was fair, thin, faded, and extremely pregnant. Despite that, she had a feminine allure. Soft skin, thick eyebrows and lashes, generous lips, the curve of her cheek, the expanse of her brow—all combined to give her an appearance of lushness completely at variance with her condition.
This woman would never want flash or excitement. She would work hard to build a home that nurtured a man, that he would shed his blood to defend.
She’d be the kind of woman his grandmother almost was.
After Joe’s father disappeared and his grandfather died, his grandmother had raised him. Sometimes, when she spoke of her husband, there was a light in her eye, a softening in her voice and touch, that spoke of a time when she had been happy and content. But most often she was harsh and demanding, the woman she had become to survive on her own, to hide her grief over the kind of woman her daughter had become.
Joe was sure Mary would never be like that. She had the strength and staying power it took to endure ill fortune.
Pete Wilson was a fool.
* * *
The sound of soft singing gently drew Mary out of the darkness that clutched at her. She opened her eyes. She must have fainted again. Sarah knelt by the bed, her hand gripping Mary’s, as she softly sang one of the French lullabies her mother had taught her.
A noise caught Mary’s attention, and she remembered the man. Pete’s partner. He was at the stove. Then she realized that the cabin was warm. She hadn’t been able to cut wood for a week. She had done her last cooking with twigs Sarah had gathered.
It was tempting to lie back and let him take care of everything. She was so tired. She couldn’t tell what he was doing at the stove, but he moved with quiet confidence. Then she caught the delicious aroma of coffee.
He was cooking!
Her stomach immediately cramped, and saliva flooded her mouth. It had been almost two days since she had eaten a full meal.
“You never did tell me your name,” she said.
The man turned. “Joe Ryan. Stay put,” he ordered when she attempted to sit up. “The corn bread’s not ready yet.”
“I can’t lie here while you fix supper.”
“Why not? You couldn’t do anything if you did get up.”
Mary had never seen a man cook. She’d never even seen one in the kitchen except to eat. A good woman didn’t get sick. There was no time. She remembered that. She’d heard it all her life, especially after her mother died and she’d had to take over managing the household.
“You don’t have to take care of me.”
Joe looked at her as if she were talking nonsense. “I considered leaving you lying in the doorway, but I figured I’d get tired of stepping over you.”
“What did you fix?” Mary asked.
“Beef and corn bread. It’s not fancy, but it’s good.”
“I appreciate your feeding Sarah. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to fix her a decent meal.”
“Or eaten one yourself,” Joe said as he began to ladle the stew into two plates. “I don’t suppose you have any butter?”
“No. I haven’t been able to catch the cow.”
“I guess the kid will have to drink water. Do you like molasses?”
“We both do,” Mary answered. “I always did have a sweet tooth.”
Joe opened the oven and took out a pan of corn bread. “I made it soft. That’s the way my grandma used to make it.”
He hadn’t had corn bread this way in years.
He scooped corn bread out of the pan and put some on each plate. He covered each portion with a generous helping of molasses. “Get your water if you want it,” he said to Sarah. He moved a chair next to the bed.
“I can get up,” Mary said.
“I told you to stay put.”
“I’m not an invalid.”
“Then why did you faint twice today?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t mind that,” Joe said. “I just mind you acting like you’re well. It’s not sensible. I don’t like it when people don’t act sensible.”
“Then what is the sensible thing to do?” Mary asked, slightly put out.
“Lie back and let me feed you. Then go to sleep until supper. You’re worn down. I’m surprised you didn’t faint before you reached the door.”
She would have if it hadn’t been for Sarah’s scream. Only fear for the child had gotten her that far. She had passed out the minute she realized Joe didn’t mean them any harm. She watched as he picked up the table and moved it next to the chair.
Then he placed both plates on the table. He placed a spoon beside one. He pulled up a second chair, and Sarah slid into it.
“Eat,” he said to Sarah.
“Go on,” Mary said when the child hesitated. “I’m sure it’s as good as anything I could make.”
“I’m a good cook,” Joe said. “You sure you can sit up?”
“Of course.” Mary managed to pull herself into a sitting position. She hoped he didn’t know how close she was to fainting again.
“Lean forward.”
She couldn’t. He lifted her up and placed the pillows behind her.
“You’re weak as a damned kitten.”
“I w
as on my way to town when you got here.”
“You wouldn’t have made it out of the damned yard.”
She would have loved to disagree with him, but she doubted she would have made it out of the house. “I would appreciate it if you would watch your language in front of Sarah.”
“She’s heard worse if Pete’s her pa.”
“Not since I’ve been here.”
“You stopped Pete’s cussing?”
“No, but he did make an effort to curb his tongue.”
He looked as if he was considering her in a new light. Mary wasn’t at all certain it was a flattering one.
“Open up. Your dinner’s getting cold.”
Mary half hoped she’d be able to tell him how truly awful it was, but the first taste confirmed his opinion of himself. He was a fine cook. It was all she could do to wait until he brought a second spoonful to her mouth.
“Eat a little corn bread. I put two eggs in it. As soon as I can find that cow, we’ll have some butter. Beef’s good for building a body up, but nothing works like eggs and butter.”
Sarah looked up at Joe, glanced at Mary, then back at Joe. Mary was delighted to see her plate already empty.
“Get yourself some more if you want, kid,” Joe said.
Sarah filled half her plate with stew, the rest with corn bread.
“For a little thing, she sure can eat.” Joe put a spoonful of stew into Mary’s mouth. “For a woman who was about to meet her maker, you sure talk frisky.”
“I’m afraid any frisk I had disappeared long ago,” Mary said, feeling a little as if she’d been chastised, “but I do have a sharp tongue. That’s been a problem all my life.” She swallowed another spoonful of stew. Her stomach didn’t hurt anymore. Much to her surprise, she was beginning to feel full. She leaned back on the pillows.
“You haven’t told me a thing about yourself,” she said. “I don’t even know why you’re here.”
“That can wait. All you have to do now is eat and sleep. It would help, though, if you could convince the kid to talk to me.”
“The kid is named Sarah.”
“Maybe, but she doesn’t answer to that either.”
“Talk to the gentleman, Sarah. It would be rude to remain silent, especially after he’s been kind enough to cook our dinner.”
“I’m not kind, and I’m not a gentleman,” Joe said. “At least, no one ever thought so before.”
“Maybe you never gave them reason, but you have me. Thank you.”
“The only thanks I want is to see you eat up every bit of this food.”
“I’m feeling rather full.”
“That’s because your stomach has shrunk to nothing. Eat a little more. Then we’ll let you rest until supper.”
By the time Mary managed to eat everything on the plate, she was exhausted. She was also hardly able to keep her eyes open. The hot food, the warmth in the cabin, and the knowledge that she was safe combined to overcome her desire to stay awake and question this unusual man.
“You must tell me what you’re doing here,” she said as she slipped back down in the bed. Joe adjusted the pillows under her head and pulled the covers up to her chin.
“Later. I’m going outside now so you can get some rest.” He picked up his saddlebags and headed toward the door. He turned back. “Tell the kid she doesn’t have to be afraid of Samson. He never did more than growl at a kid in his life.”
“I’ll explain it to Sarah,” Mary replied.
Joe disappeared through the door. A moment later she heard him start to whistle.
Mary nestled down in the bed, but she couldn’t sleep. She had never met a man in the least like Joe Ryan. She couldn’t imagine him being Pete’s partner.
Mary had disliked her husband. She was ashamed to admit it, but now that he was dead, it seemed pointless to continue pretending. He’d been mean, thoughtless, frequently brutal. She had never been able to imagine why her uncle had thought his stepson would make her a good husband. Not even her uncle’s affection for his wife could blind him to the fact that her son was a cruel, selfish man. Her father should have protected her, but he was eager to get her out of the house. One less mouth to feed. Mary had been relieved when Pete left to prospect for gold in Colorado. Not even learning she was pregnant had made her wish for his return.
“Look out the window and see what he’s doing,” Mary said to Sarah.
“He’s just looking,” Sarah told her.
“At what?”
“Everything.”
“The horse?”
“Yes.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“Looking in the shed.”
“Anything else?”
“He’s digging a hole next to the shed.”
That made Mary uneasy. Any partner of Pete’s was likely to be of poor character. Stealing horses from a helpless woman would probably be a small thing to him.
“Bring me the pistol,” she said to Sarah. The child got the pistol from its place in the dresser drawer and brought it to Mary.
Mary checked to see that it was loaded. “Tell Mr. Ryan I would like to see him.”
Two
Joe rubbed the last of the dried sweat off General Burnside with a handful of straw. “I shouldn’t have left you standing this long,” he apologized to his mount, “but I had to dig a few holes first. No gold buried next to the shed.”
He tossed the straw aside. They both contemplated the corral. “I suppose you might stay in that if you’d been ridden so hard you were wobbly in the knees.” He pushed on a rotten rail. It broke into two pieces and fell to the ground. “I guess I’ll have to hobble you.”
Samson trotted up from his round of inspection. “Did you find any likely places to bury gold?” he asked the dog as he put hobbles on General Burnside. “I hope you didn’t eat any of those chickens. Apparently the coyotes consider them their own personal property.” He shook his head at the gaping holes in the chicken fence.
He walked to the shed, a large structure open in the front and the back. In between was a room entered through a door from the house side. Much to his surprise, Joe found wire for the chicken yard and a large number of rails for the corral. From the dust on them, they had been there a long time. Apparently Pete hadn’t lacked the money or the materials to keep up the ranch, only the will to use them. Joe looked around, but saw no likely place to hide a strongbox. He’d look under the floorboards, but he doubted he’d find anything. Too obvious.
“I don’t know why Pete thought panning for gold was easier than fixing a few fences now and then,” Joe said. All the tools anybody would ever need were scattered around the shed. “It’s a hell of a lot harder to build a sluice box and defend it from some rascal who’d rather shoot you than build his own.”
He walked back out into the December sun, pulling his hat lower over his eyes. He glanced toward the house. The gold had to be there, but was it inside or out? He’d have to make a thorough search.
He could see the kid watching him through the window. Funny little kid. Odd she should be afraid of dogs. It was almost as if she was afraid of him, too. Her mother wasn’t. In fact, she’d sent the kid to tell him she wanted to see him. He’d obey the summons once he’d finished in the yard.
“Don’t know why Pete left a woman like that,” Joe said to Samson, who followed at his heels. “She’s got a bit of an edge to her, but she’s got standards. A woman ought to have standards. Gives a man something to live up to.” He tested the poles in the chicken yard. They needed bracing. “I can’t believe Pete was such a lazy skunk.”
The broken fence irritated him. It was such a little job, so easy. But it wasn’t his responsibility. He looked up into the hills beyond the ranch house. If the gold was up there, he’d probably never find it.
He didn’t think Pete had told his wife about it.
The place didn’t look like five dollars had been spent on it, certainly not twenty thousand. No, Pete had buried it here, because he didn’t have time to bury it anyplace else before he was killed in a card game over a pot worth less than two hundred dollars. Only a fool like Pete would do something like that when he had twenty thousand buried.
His irritation made it even harder to ignore the broken fence. “Oh hell, I might as well fix it. Why should the coyotes have all those chickens?”
He was silent while he braced the corner poles and replaced others that looked ready to break. Then he cut out the broken sections of wire, leaving clean sections to be replaced. “Can’t say I look forward to catching all these chickens,” he said to Samson as he wired a new piece of fence into place. “But she’ll need eggs to get back on her feet. After the baby comes, she won’t have time to be chasing them down.”
He finished one section of wire and began cutting a piece to fit the next gap.
“Can’t figure why a woman like that would marry Pete, the lazy son of a bitch. She wasn’t brought up out here. You can tell that from her voice. It’s soft, sort of gives the words a little squeeze before she says them. You know, leaves off a few letters here and there. Virginia or Carolina. After bringing her all this way, why did Pete run off and leave her, especially with a baby coming? It’s a terrible thing for a woman to be alone.”
He finished the last piece of wire, tested his work, and found it strong enough to withstand coyotes and wolves.
“A lot of good work was done on this place some time ago, Samson. The man who built that cabin knew what he was doing. This shed, too. But everything is in bad need of work now.”
Joe hadn’t been on a farm since he was sixteen. He’d thought he hated it. But as he had grown older, he’d come to treasure his memories of the years he’d spent with his grandmother. But that kind of life needed a family, and he’d had none since she died. He’d never found a woman who made him want to stop drifting. He’d never found the right kind of place. Despite the sagging corral, the shingles missing from the roof, loose hinges, broken windows, this place seemed the right kind, Mary the right kind of woman.
Christmas in a Cowboy's Arms Page 2