A portly middle-aged man wearing a nickel-plated star on his vest was admiring the stallion. “Fine horse you’ve got here,” he said. “Care to sell him?”
“No,” Trace answered, too quickly. Then, “You’d have to speak to Bridget McQuarry is what I mean. It’s her horse.”
The marshall put out one hand. “My name’s Flynn. Sam Flynn. I don’t believe I’ve seen you around Primrose Creek up to now.”
“Trace Qualtrough,” Trace replied. “I just got here yesterday.”
Flynn assessed him thoughtfully. “You just passing through?”
Trace shook his head. “I mean to tie the knot with the Widow McQuarry,” he said. Might as well spread the word; it was bound to happen, after all, and folks would find out eventually, anyhow.
The lawman chuckled. “Well, now,” he said. “That will come as bad news to the gentlemen of our fine town.” He glanced apologetically at Skye and tugged at the brim of his hat, and Trace could have sworn the older man colored up a little, under all the beard stubble and hard experience. “I hope you don’t think I meant any disrespect for your sister, miss,” he went on. “It’s just that she’s got plenty of admirers around here, whether she knows it or not.”
Skye nodded. Her eyes were twinkling when she looked at Trace. “Sounds like you’ve got some competition,” she said.
About that time, Noah lifted one foot over a puddle of horse piss and stomped.
Skye wrinkled her nose, scooped the boy up, and set him in the mare’s saddle. “Now, look at you,” she fretted. “You’re getting a bath as soon as we get home, Noah McQuarry. And, phew, you stink.”
Trace grinned. The boy smelled, and that was a fact, but such escapades rarely proved fatal. “Glad to meet you, Marshal,” he said, and, after tying the string-bound parcel containing his new clothes, the books, and Noah’s top behind Sis’s saddle, swung up onto Sentinel’s back.
“Looks as if you might be a fair hand with a horse,” Flynn observed. “There’s work around here for a man who knows one end of a critter from the other.”
“I’ve got a roof to build,” Trace replied. “After that, though, I might be looking to make wages.”
The marshall raised a hand in farewell. “I’ll see that word gets around. Not that folks haven’t already noticed you’re here, of course. Don’t wait too long on that wedding, Mr. Qualtrough. We’re mostly men here in Primrose Creek, but there are a few ladies who’ve come to save our sinful souls. One or two of them might take it upon themselves to make judgments.”
Skye glowered. “Those old crows,” she muttered. “They’ll be lucky to save their own souls.” Trace had heard her, and he was pretty sure the marshal had, too. The lawman’s smile confirmed it.
Trace grinned back. “I’ll keep your words in mind,” he promised, and then they headed toward home. They crossed the creek just as the setting sun was spilling crimson and orange and deep violet light over the cold, shallow waters.
Bridget was standing in the dooryard with her hands on her hips. She looked both testy and confounded; testy because she’d probably expected them to spend half the night reveling in one of the tent saloons, confounded because Trace was riding the stallion she believed to be untamed.
“Noah needs a bath,” Skye said immediately. “He stepped—stomped—right into a puddle of—” She paused. “Well, a puddle. And Trace bought me a book, all my own. Noah got a top, and—” She glanced back at Trace, caught the look he gave her, and fell silent. He supposed she was both grateful for the book and afraid he’d tell Bridget that she’d been to Primrose Creek before on her own.
Bridget laughed and shook her head when she caught a whiff of Noah. “Put some water on to heat,” she told her sister cheerfully. “I’ll scrub him down before supper.”
Skye nodded and, after collecting the precious parcel from behind the mare’s saddle, led the boy inside. Bridget took a light hold on the cheek piece of Sis’s bridle, and, for what seemed a long while to Trace, he and Bridget just gazed at each other.
It was Bridget who broke the silence. “Noah had a good time,” she said quietly. “I haven’t seen his eyes shine like that since—well, since last Christmas at Fort Grant, when one of the soldiers carved a little horse for him.”
Trace waited. When Bridget had something on her mind, it was better to let her have her say, all in one piece.
“He’s missed having a man around,” she went on, and he could tell she’d swallowed her pride, that she wanted to look away and wouldn’t let herself. “I was just—I was so afraid. Of his going to town, I mean. I don’t think I could bear losing him.”
“It’s all right, Bridget,” Trace said, and, swinging one leg over the stallion’s glistening neck, slid to the ground. “Noah’s your son. I shouldn’t have brought up the subject of going to town in front of him—it wasn’t fair—and I’m sorry for that.” He was standing very close to her now and wondered how he’d gotten there, since he had no memory of the steps in between. She smelled of green grass and clear creek water and supper, and her proximity filled him with a sweet, mysterious ache, partly pain, partly glory, that he did not choose to explore. “Mind you, I still think it’s wrong to shelter the boy too much. Mitch wouldn’t like it.”
She let that pass. “You’ve been kind to Skye, as well as to Noah. I’m grateful for that.”
He nodded an acknowledgment, held his tongue. He couldn’t think of anything he wanted to say that wouldn’t get her all riled up again, like as not, and he just didn’t have the stamina to hold his own in a skirmish. They just stood there, for a long moment, looking at each other, thinking their own separate thoughts.
“I’ll tend to Sis,” she finally said, and walked away, leaving him standing there, staring after her. She had already removed the mare’s saddle and bridle and left her to graze in the high grass before he took a single step. He might not have had the presence of mind to do that much if the stallion hadn’t butted him between the shoulder blades and damn near knocked him to his knees.
Gus, the storekeeper, appeared on the far side of the creek, despite the settling twilight, waved a meaty hand in cheerful greeting, and began unloading boxes and bags from the back of his buckboard. Bridget smiled somewhat nervously and started toward him. She didn’t have the money to pay for supplies, and she didn’t dare take anything on a note of promise. She might very well need to run up a bill over the winter months, and it was vital to keep the ledger clear in the meantime.
Since Gus’s last name was unpronounceable, nobody ever used it. It made for a unique sort of slap-dash familiarity that would have been improper in most any other place or situation. “Gus,” she called, stopping at the edge of the creek. “What are you doing?”
“I bring you groceries, missus,” he said. His face was round as a dinner plate, and his eyes were a bright, childlike blue. His white beard made him resemble St. Nicholas. “I could carry them over, but my sister, Bertha, she don’t like the night dark. I got to get back to her.”
Bridget was at a complete loss, but not for long. “But I didn’t order groceries.”
He set the last box on the rocky ground, and the buckboard tilted dangerously when he climbed up to take the reins. Bridget’s heart went out to the gray mule in the harness; Gus must have weighed almost as much as he did. “Your feller, he make business with Gus. Good night, missus.”
“But—”
“I tell Bertha you say hullo,” he called, already headed back toward town. He didn’t even turn around, just waved one big hand again, this time in farewell, and drove on.
Trace, after eating a light supper of bread and cold chicken, had gone back out to hack at the fallen cedar tree, taking a lantern along to provide the necessary light, and Skye, having washed the dishes and sung a freshly bathed Noah to sleep, was settled at the table, her head bent over the book Trace had bought her. Bridget did not want to walk into the woods—the prospect of time alone with Trace was simply too disturbing—and she wasn’t about to
drag Skye away from her reading.
Never one to leave work undone if there was a spare minute in her day, she sat down on the bank, unlaced her shoes, and removed them, along with her stockings. Then she tied her skirts into a big knot, roughly on a level with her knees, and waded into the creek. No sense leaving the food where it might be stolen.
One, two, three crossings, and then she was finished, and Trace was standing at the edge of the yard, watching her. She hadn’t heard him approaching, hadn’t seen the lantern. A guilty thrill rushed through her, seeming to come up from the ground, through her body, out the top of her head, because her legs were bare. Quickly, but not quickly enough, she untied the fabric of her skirt and shook it into place, as glad of the darkness as she’d ever been of anything. He had surely seen her limbs, but he didn’t need to know about the heat in her face and the strange riot among her senses.
“You shouldn’t have done this,” she said.
“What?” he asked. His voice was hoarse, and he sounded honestly puzzled.
“You shouldn’t have bought all this food. I can’t repay you, and I don’t like being obliged.”
He sighed. “You’re not obliged, Bridge,” he said. “I’m your friend, remember? I believe it was only this morning that we agreed on that.”
She couldn’t be angry with him. He was generous; it was his nature. Besides, he’d made Skye and Noah so happy. “Yes,” she said. “We agreed.” He handed her the lantern, bent to lift one of the crates with an exaggerated grunt. “You carried this stuff across the creek? Remind me not to arm wrestle you.”
Bridget laughed. “Oh, I will. If indeed the subject ever comes up.”
He carried the box inside, set it on the floor beside the stove. He refused any help, over Bridget’s protests, and went back for the others. Bridget occupied herself putting the treasures in their right places—sugar, coffee, flour, salt. Tea. Spices and butter. Dried peas and salt pork. Canned meats and vegetables. Two bars of soap, one for laundry, one for bathing. Kerosene for the lamps. It had been so long since she had had such luxuries, all at once, that she was very nearly overcome.
Skye didn’t look up from her book even once during the entire interlude, and that made Bridget smile. She, too, had missed reading, missed it desperately. She’d been through the Bible twice since leaving home—skipping Leviticus and Lamentations both times, with apologies to the Lord—and she was ready for a story she hadn’t heard, read, or been told beside a campfire. Perhaps, when Skye had been through that lovely clothbound volume of epic poetry two or three times, she would make Bridget the loan of it.
She became aware of Trace very suddenly, knew he was standing just inside the cabin, though she had neither heard nor seen him after he brought in the last box. A moment passed before she thought it prudent to turn around and face him.
He was there, just where she knew he’d be, his fair hair golden in the light of the lamp Skye was reading by.
Guilt swamped her, for surely the things she was feeling were sinful, especially when all tangled up with the deep and private fury he roused in her. She thought, God help her, of what it would be like to tell him her secrets, to cry, at long last, because Mitch and Granddaddy were both dead, and her home, her heritage, her birthplace, was gone forever. She wanted to confess that she’d been scared—no, terrified—more times than she could count, but she hadn’t shown it, hadn’t dared, because Skye and Noah had no one to depend on but her. Not even the day those Paiutes came, riding their short-legged, shaggy ponies, armed with bows and arrows and hatchets. She’d nearly swooned when she’d looked up from the clothes she was washing in the creek to see them on the other side of the water, watching her with fierce, expressionless faces.
She’d been so frightened that she hadn’t even noticed the paint stallion they were leading, magnificent as he was. All she’d been able to think of was her sister and her son and all the dreadful stories she’d heard about women and children at the mercy of savages.
Then one of the men had ridden across the water and indicated the oxen, the two tired beasts who’d pulled the wagon all the way from Virginia to the mountains of Nevada, with a thrust of his spear.
“Take them,” she had said. “If you want them, take them.” She’d given Skye strict orders to stay out of sight if the Indians ever came, no matter what happened, to take Noah and climb out over the low place in the back wall and hide in the root cellar until she was sure it was safe to come out. Despite Bridget’s explicit instructions, Skye had walked right up to Bridget’s side, bold as you please, and solemnly handed her Granddaddy’s shotgun. And scared as she was, Bridget had thought to herself, She’s growing up. Then, Oh, God, please—let her grow up.
The Paiutes had looked askance at the shotgun, and little wonder. They were equipped with army carbines, in addition to their knives, bows, and spears. They’d spoken to one another in a quick, clipped, and guttural language, and then they’d laughed.
Bridget had cocked the shotgun. Told them to take the oxen and get out.
Miraculously, they complied, and when they went, taking the oxen with them, they left the stallion behind. . . .
“Bridget?” The sound of Trace’s voice brought her out of the disturbing reverie.
She blinked. “Oh. Yes. Yes?”
“I just wanted to say good night.” Dear heaven, but he was a fine-looking man; he had always been half scoundrel, half archangel, and that had never changed.
She wet her lips and deliberately remembered Mitch. How he’d loved her. How he’d trusted her. How he’d died to defend her and Noah and all the things he’d believed in. “Good night,” she said, barely breathing the word, and then the door was shut fast, and he was gone.
Bridget swallowed hard and wondered why she wanted to cover her face with both hands and weep inconsolably. To distract herself, she walked over to Skye and laid a hand lightly on her silken brown hair. “It’s time to rest,” she said softly. “Besides, you’ll spoil your eyesight, reading for so long in such poor light.”
Skye looked up, blinked. Made the transition from the world inside the pages to the one around her, the roofless cabin, the bed she shared with both Bridget and Noah, when at home she’d had a large room all her own. They all had, Skye, Christy, Megan, and Bridget herself. Oh, but everything had been so different before the war. Everything.
“What?” Skye asked.
Bridget bent to kiss the top of her sister’s head. “Time to put out the lamp and go to bed,” she said. “Morning will be here almost before you close your eyes.”
Skye sighed dreamily. “Do you suppose Megan and Christy have ever seen a real knight? Being in England, they might have—”
Bridget smiled. “I suppose so. But I don’t think knights wear shining armor these days.”
Her sister sighed again, though this time she sounded a little forlorn. “I wish we had knights. Here in Nevada, I mean.”
Oddly, Bridget thought of Trace, almost said there might be one or two around. Wearing ordinary clothes, of course. Building roofs and training wild horses. “Silly,” she said, and laughed. “You’ll meet a nice man, when the time is right, and you won’t care that”—she snapped her fingers—“about knights in England.”
Skye looked miserable. “I asked Trace to marry me today,” she said.
Bridget was taken aback. “Oh, Skye.”
“I thought if you didn’t want him, well, I’d take him. I mean, I think he’s nice, and he’s handsome, too.”
Bridget was careful not to smile. “And what did he say?”
“That I’m too young. That I’ll have men singing under my window someday, and that if he said yes, he ought to be shot.”
Bridget bit the inside of her lower lip. “I see.” She went toward the bed, unbuttoning her bodice as she walked. “Well, I’d say he was right on all counts. You are too young. You will have all manner of suitors. And I would most certainly have shot him. Come to bed, Skye. You’ll have time to read tomorrow, after the ch
ores.”
“Do you think he’s handsome?”
Bridget had stopped talking, stopped thinking, stopped breathing. There was a book lying on her pillow, a red leather book with golden print embossed on the cover. “Wh-what did you say?” she asked. She must have started drawing in air again at some point, she reasoned, or she wouldn’t have been able to speak. Her hand trembled as she reached out for the treasure.
Skye had put out the lantern and was now standing on the opposite side of the bed, pulling on her nightdress. In the spill of moonlight seeping through the canvas roof, Bridget saw that her sister was smiling.
“He bought that for you,” she said. “It’s a present. I thought I’d die, waiting for you to notice.”
Bridget’s knees felt unsteady; she turned her back to Skye, sat down on the edge of the mattress, one hand to her mouth, the other clutching the book to her chest. She hadn’t looked at the title, had no idea of the subject, but it didn’t matter. It was a book. Tears brimmed in her eyes.
“It’s a love story,” Skye whispered, climbing carefully into bed, lest she awaken Noah. “Very tragic. There’s a horse, and somebody dies. I’m not sure who, though I don’t imagine it’s the horse. It will make you cry, though.”
Bridget said nothing. She was, after all, already crying, but there was absolutely no point in calling attention to the fact.
Trace, her heart called, through the darkness that separated them. Oh, Trace.
Chapter
4
Trace had already carried water in from the creek and gotten the fire going in the stove by the time Bridget opened her eyes the next morning. Skye and Noah were still sleeping, Skye fitfully, Noah with a sweet-dream smile touching just the corner of his small mouth.
“Morning,” Trace said, quiet and gruff-voiced. It wasn’t yet dawn, but his grin flashed like light off a mirror. “I was beginning to think you meant to pass the whole day right there in bed.”
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