Nothing.
He felt his body relax. He hadn’t realized he was so edgy. Nor did he know why. Mary was a virtual stranger. Searching her home shouldn’t bother him at all. But seeing and touching her clothes produced a feeling of intimacy he didn’t welcome. It made him acutely aware of her physical presence. His body’s response embarrassed him. He was a decent man. He shouldn’t feel this way about a pregnant woman.
He quickly finished the wardrobe and turned his attention to the trunk. It wasn’t locked. The top shelf needed no search to see there was nothing there. He had his hands deep among the dresses and blankets underneath when he heard a pistol click. He turned to see Mary sitting up in the bed, the cocked pistol aimed at him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.
“Searching for the gold.” He didn’t think she would shoot him, but he couldn’t be sure. He boldly finished running his hand along the bottom of the trunk.
“I told you I knew nothing of the gold,” Mary said.
“I had to make sure for myself.”
“I ought to shoot you.”
“You’d have trouble getting rid of the body. And if you didn’t kill me, you’d have to take care of me.”
The kid woke up. She was frightened to find Joe in the house, Mary holding a pistol on him.
“I ought to turn you in to the sheriff.”
“I’d be gone before he could get here. And I’d come back.”
Mary kept the pistol pointed at Joe a moment longer, then slowly lowered it. He felt the tension in his muscles ease.
“You really think Pete stole that gold and buried it here, don’t you?”
Joe began to put Mary’s things back in order. “There’s no other explanation for what happened. He came here right after the trial. It hasn’t turned up anywhere else, and it wasn’t on him when he was killed.”
“He certainly didn’t give it to me.”
Joe closed the trunk and got to his feet. “I can see that, unless you’re the kind who can sit on a fortune for six months and not spend a penny.”
Mary looked him in the eye. “I could sit on it for a lifetime. I won’t touch stolen money.”
He believed her. There was a quality about her that said she would have nothing to do with a dishonest man.
Joe went to the woodbox and started picking up pieces of wood to start a fire in the stove. “Well, it’s not inside the cabin, so you don’t have to worry about me going through your things again.”
“Despite your actions, I think you’re honest.”
Joe laid the fire carefully. Her response was unexpected. At best, he’d supposed she would only tolerate him. What else could she do? She was alone, down in bed, twenty-two miles from town, with no one to help her but a six-year-old kid. But to decide he was honorable! She must be up to something.
“No need to go flattering me. I know what I am. I never pretended to be anything else.”
“And just what are you, Mr. Ryan?”
Joe lighted the coal-oil-soaked stick he had placed at the center of the wood. A pale yellow flame illuminated the inside of the stove, casting flickering shadows onto its sooty walls.
He had avoided that question for years. He wanted to think he was like everybody else—worthy of dreams, worthy of success. But Flora said he was nothing but a two-bit drifter, a poor and overly serious one at that.
“Nothing much, ma’am. I guess you could say I’m drifting along, looking for a reason to stay put. Kid, I need some eggs for breakfast. See what you can find.” He poured water into the coffeepot and put it on to heat.
“Where is your dog?” Mary asked. “You know she’s afraid of it.”
He went to the door and looked outside. “He’s gone,” he said to Sarah. “Scram.”
The child stuck her head out the door, looked around, then darted outside.
“Don’t you want to be something else?” Mary asked after Sarah had gone.
He poured out a handful of coffee beans and dumped them into a grinder.
“I want my name cleared,” he said over the noise of the grinder. “Once a man is branded a thief, it doesn’t matter what else he is. People can’t see anything else.”
“Isn’t there anybody who can speak for you?”
“It won’t do any good. I broke jail. As long as the gold is missing, nothing else matters.” He poured the freshly ground coffee into a pot.
“Then I hope you find it.”
“Enough to help?” He unwrapped the bacon and began to cut thick slices from it.
“I don’t know anything.”
“You can try to remember everything he did while he was here, every movement, every word he spoke. Even his expression, his mood.” He pulled the curtain across the alcove where Mary slept. “You’d better get dressed. Breakfast will be ready in half an hour.”
* * *
“What was that noise last night?” Mary asked.
She was seated at the table, a cup of coffee in front of her, waiting for Joe to finish filling her plate. He had tried to keep her in bed, but she had been determined to get up. He had insisted on helping her walk. She didn’t need his help, but it was nice of him to offer. The least she could do was lean on him.
“It was Samson,” Joe said, setting down a plate with bacon, one egg, and a thick slice of bread in front of Sarah and another in front of Mary. “You won’t be troubled by coyotes any more. Give him a month, and there won’t be one within ten miles.”
“It’s a shame you can’t leave him here when you go to California. We could sure use him.”
“Can’t do that. If Samson stays, so do I.”
The statement had been made in jest—at least Mary thought so—but the effect on each of them was electric. Mary realized that she had practically issued Joe an invitation to remain at the ranch indefinitely. Judging from his expression, he had considered accepting it. What shocked Mary even more was the realization that she wanted him to stay. She didn’t know what kind of arrangement they might be able to work out, but the idea of having Joe Ryan around all the time was a pleasant one.
“Eat your breakfast,” Joe said. “There’s nothing much worse than cold eggs.” He glanced over at Sarah. “We’re going to have to do something about that cow. A kid like you should be drinking milk. You’re nothing but skin and bones.”
“Sarah has always been thin,” Mary said.
“Thin is okay. Skinny as a stick isn’t,” Joe said. “You know where that cow got to?”
Sarah nodded.
“As soon as we clean up, you show me. I refuse to let an old cow turn her nose up at me.”
Mary watched him clear away the breakfast things, talking to a mute Sarah as if they were old friends. He didn’t act like any man she’d ever known. In some ways he was just as dictatorial, just as unconcerned with her feelings as Pete had been. In other ways, he was the kindest, most thoughtful man she’d ever met. He was certainly the most helpful.
He must be up to something.
After Pete was killed, Mary had realized that she had never been able to trust men or depend on them. She had looked toward this Christmas as the beginning of her new life—just her, Sarah, and the baby.
Then Joe had showed up and she had started to question her decision. She found herself thinking if all men were like Joe, or if I could find a husband like Joe… The fact that he was an escaped criminal, a man on the run, didn’t seem to weigh with her emotions. It didn’t even weigh much with her mind.
She tried to tell herself to be sensible, but she couldn’t. Maybe it was the baby. Her mother used to say pregnant women were prone to being emotional and sentimental. Her mother also said love nourished life. Nobody had ever nourished Mary like Joe. Whatever the reason, she liked him. She didn’t want him to go away.
* * *
Joe had rea
ched the conclusion that six months in jail had made him crazy. There was no other way to explain why he was leading a milk cow and talking to a six-year-old girl who wouldn’t say a word to him. He ought to be turning the place inside out. Failing that, he ought to be on his way to California. Some U.S. Marshal was sure to be on his trail by now.
But here he was, walking through the desert with a cow and a kid as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Yep, he was crazy.
“You got to be firm with a cow,” he said as they reached the yard. “They’re real stubborn, especially if you’re little. My grandma had an old black-and-yellow cow who used to chase me until I beat her with a stick. Never had any trouble after that. Get me that bucket I left on the porch.
“You got to tie the cow’s head close to the post,” he said when Sarah returned with the bucket he had washed and set out on the porch earlier. “That way they can’t turn around. Won’t fight so much if they can’t see. Now fetch me the stool.”
Joe felt silly sitting on the tiny stool, but he had to show the kid what to do. After that, she could do all the sitting.
“You got to watch her at first,” Joe said. “She’s been on her own and won’t like being milked.” The cow kicked at Joe when he started to wash her teats. Joe slapped her on the hip. “Let her know you won’t put up with any nonsense.” He pushed on the cow’s hip, but she wouldn’t move her leg back. “Keep pushing on her until she moves that leg,” he told Sarah. “It’s easier to milk her that way.”
Joe pulled on a teat. A stream of warm milk hit the bucket. He jerked the pail out of the way just as the cow kicked at him. He smacked her on the hip again.
“She’ll do that a few more times before she figures out you mean business. Cows are stubborn, but they’re not dumb. Has she got a name?”
The kid shook her head.
“She’s got to have a name. How will she know when you’re talking to her?” Joe thought a moment. “How about Queen Charlotte? She acts like a queen, and she’s just as ugly as the real one.”
Sarah nodded her agreement.
“Good. Now it’s your turn.”
Sarah looked reluctant.
“You can’t let her know you’re afraid, kid, or she’ll keep on kicking until you give up. Come on, sit down.”
Sarah sat. She reached out a tentative hand.
“Don’t be timid. You’re the boss.”
Sarah squeezed the teat three times before the cow kicked the bucket over.
Joe smacked Queen Charlotte on the hip and moved her back into milking position. “Now try again.” Seconds later the cow kicked again. Sarah stood up.
“Here, let me show you,” Joe said, taking his place on the stool. “I haven’t done this in nearly fifteen years, but it’s something you don’t forget. Move over, Queen Charlotte,” he said to the cow. “You’re about to get the milking of your life. You kick this bucket one more time, and I’ll feed you to Samson piece by piece.”
Sarah giggled.
Through the window, Mary watched, bemused, as Joe milked the cow, talking to Sarah and the cow equally. When Samson wandered up, Joe included him in his conversation, introducing him to Sarah just as if he were an equal.
The man fascinated Mary. The more she saw of him, the more she wanted to know about him. She was drawn to him in a way that defied her notions about the feelings that could exist between a man and a woman. He touched a part of her that had lain silent all these years, the loving and longing part that Pete had nearly killed. She wanted to reach out and touch him, as though physical contact would recapture the youthful dreams she’d nearly forgotten.
She found herself looking at his body, admiring the shape of his thighs, the curve of his backside, the power of his shoulders. She had never felt this way about Pete. She had never looked forward to their nights in bed, nor had she missed them after he left. But Joe touched something deeper in her, far beyond anything Pete had touched. She found herself blushing, wondering what it would be like to sleep with Joe.
Samson tried to lick Sarah’s face. The child was still frightened of the huge dog, but Joe made her hold out her hand for Samson to smell. Then she had to pat him on the head. Sarah was still wary, but Joe had broken the back of her fear.
Joe laughed, and the sound sent a frisson of pleasure racing through Mary. It was a deep, rolling sound, a sound that promised something very special to the person who could find the source and tap into it.
She picked up her pad and began to draw. In a few moments, she had preserved forever some of the magic of this morning.
* * *
Joe looked over Mary’s shoulder as she drew a picture of Queen Charlotte and General Burnside staked out in the meadow beyond the barn, mountains in the distance.
“It’s incredible,” Joe marveled. “I don’t see how you do it. You put a few squiggly lines here, a few more there, and you have a picture. All I’d have would be a bunch of squiggly lines.”
Mary laughed, pleased with the compliment. Pete had never liked her drawings. He had considered them a waste of time. “It’s not very hard. You just have to practice.”
“Hell, I could—Sorry, I can’t seem to control my tongue. It doesn’t hardly know how to talk without cussing.”
“That will come with practice, too.”
“Maybe. What do you do with all those pictures?”
“What should I do with them?”
Joe looked at the drawing again. “Sell them. I know hundreds of miners who’d pay plenty to have something like that to brighten up their walls. You could make more money than you can running cows on this place.”
“I’m perfectly content to stay here running cows. Besides, I like to do drawings for people I know. I ought to be doing some for Sarah. She wants to decorate the house for Christmas.”
“If that pathetic tree is any example,” he said, indicating Sarah’s bundle of thorns, “she ought to give up the idea.”
“If you understood about her mother, you’d understand why it’s so important to her.”
“Then tell me. I won’t figure it out otherwise.”
“Sarah’s mother died when Sarah was four. I don’t know why Pete married her. He seems to have hated everything about her. He got rid of everything that belonged to her or reminded him of her. According to Sarah, her mother loved Christmas and would spend weeks getting ready for it. She used to spend hours singing to Sarah, telling her stories about Père Noël. Last Christmas was Sarah’s first since her mother’s death. Pete wouldn’t let her decorate, have a tree, or do anything for Christmas. To Sarah, that was like taking away the last link with her mother. She likes me, but she adored her mother. Christmas is all she has left of her. It’s terribly important to her.”
“Pete was a real bastard,” Joe said. “Why in hell did you marry him?”
Mary ignored the curses. “Pete’s stepfather was my uncle. He thought Pete would make a good husband for me. My father was anxious to get me out of the house. One less mouth to feed, one less female to contend with. I guess I was tired of waiting for a man who didn’t exist.”
Joe gave her the strangest look. Mary badly wanted to know what he was thinking. She wondered if he’d ever been in love, if he’d found his perfect woman. He seemed lighthearted, but beneath that she detected a cynical streak. He didn’t believe in goodness. That was odd, considering he had so much of it in him.
“If she’s hoping that ratty old tree will attract her Père Noël, she’s looking down an empty chute.”
“Please don’t tell her that.” Mary looked to where Sarah sat churning cream for butter. “She thinks if she believes hard enough, Père Noël will find her.”
Joe shrugged and headed toward the door. “I don’t know anything about Père Noël, but I do know about horses and cows. I’d better do some work on that corral.”
“You don’t have to do that
.”
“If I don’t, you won’t have any milk after I leave. It’ll never hold Queen Charlotte the way it is now.”
Still amused by his habit of bestowing fanciful names on his animals, Mary asked, “When are you leaving?” She was stunned to realize that she had known this man less than twenty-four hours, but she no longer thought in terms of his leaving.
She liked him. He might be a criminal, but she liked him.
No. He was an escaped convict, but she couldn’t believe he was a criminal. He’d fixed three meals for them, perfect strangers he owed nothing, especially if Pete had set him up. He had spent hours helping Sarah, even though the child wouldn’t speak to him. He had even praised Mary’s drawings.
He was rugged, curt, and given to cursing, but underneath all that roughness he had a generous nature. He showed a wonderful understanding of her and Sarah. On top of that, he took better care of her than any man she’d ever known, including her father. Why shouldn’t she fall in love with him? He was exactly the kind of man she’d always hoped to find.
No, she had to be mistaken.
She couldn’t love him. She was letting his kindness go to her head. Maybe it was being pregnant. Her mother had warned her that pregnancy could do strange things to a woman.
Mary redirected her attention to her drawing pad. She needed more Christmas pictures for Sarah. Drawing would give her something to do and keep her mind off Joe and the foolish notion that she might be falling in love with him.
That evening after dinner, Mary tacked up the drawings she had done during the day. She wondered if they would mean anything to Sarah. The child had never known anything but the desert. To Mary, nothing about the desert spoke of Christmas. She had done a few drawings of the surrounding hills and mountains, but she had been in Arizona only eleven months. Christmas to her was the snow-covered pines and oaks of her native Virginia, magnolia, and bright holly berries.
It sounded strange to hear rain on the roof—it had been raining since late afternoon. Even more strange to Mary, everything would look the same tomorrow. In this land, rain didn’t bring the green she longed for.
Christmas in a Cowboy's Arms Page 4