A Gown of Spanish Lace (10 page)

“I’d like to talk.”

Laramie stood before his father in the main cabin that the gang shared during the daylight hours. All the men were there except for Shadow, who was taking the morning watch. Seven pairs of eyes lifted at the simple words. There was something different in the voice.

“Alone,” he added.

Will Russell did not look up from his game of solitaire, simply nodded. The men, without question or further orders, began to rise from wherever they sat and leave whatever they were doing, to file from the room, grabbing needed wraps from the pegs by the door.

At another nod from his boss, Sam took his log seat again. Laramie made no objection.

A few of the men dared to curse under their breath as they went. The day was not warm even though it was sunny, and some had been in the middle of a game of cards. McDuff was grumbling along with the curses. “Jest when I had me a good hand,” Laramie heard him mutter. They could not take the game along with them like Curly was doing with his whiskey bottle.

The door closed and the room became silent. Will Russell continued his game. Sam shuffled uneasily, then pulled his plug of tobacco from his shirt pocket and began to cut off a large chew.

“What’s on yer mind?” Will growled, still not lifting his eyes.

Laramie took a deep breath to control his emotions—his voice.

“I’ve got a feelin’ thet ya know,” he responded.

They had never played games with each other. The father looked up now and met the steely eyes of his son.

“The girl?” he asked simply.

Laramie nodded.

Silence hung heavy in the room. Will played a few cards.

“What’s she doin’ here?” asked Laramie, his voice controlled and hard.

Will looked up quickly. “You questionin’ me, boy?” asked the man, his black eyes growing darker.

Sam shifted on his log seat again.

“Jest askin’ fer a little information—man to man,” Laramie replied coolly.

The father appeared to calm himself. He returned to his cards, laying a ten of diamonds on a jack of spades.

“Pa?” Laramie prompted.

Will shoved back from his card game and looked up at the tall young man. He nodded toward another log section that stood upright near the table, and Laramie knew he was to take a seat. Obediently he pulled the log forward and straddled it.

“We gotta git us some more chairs,” growled the big man.

“The girl,” reminded Laramie.

“Pretty little thing, ain’t she?” said the father, and Laramie felt his cheeks grow hot. It was a new experience for him to flush with anger. His father misunderstood the reddened cheeks and haw-hawed heartily, slapping Laramie on the back and making ogling eyes at Sam.

Laramie’s flush deepened. So this was how it would be with a girl in camp.

He fought for calm. He had to remain cool and level-headed.

“She’s pretty,” he agreed so as to distract his father, but he tried hard not to think of the head of tumbling curls, the frightened eyes.

“How long she gonna be here?” asked Laramie.

Will looked up and exchanged glances with Sam. “Well, now,” he drawled in his raspy voice. “That there depends.”

“What’s she here for?” asked Laramie.

“Boy—you sure are full of questions, now ain’t ya?” said the big man. He was beginning to sound irritated. Laramie knew better than to make his father angry.

“I jest figure—bein’ part of the gang—”

“I don’t need to talk things over with the gang,” cut in his father.

Laramie paused. He was inclined to rise and walk out the door. His father was not being at all cooperative.

Yet he needed some answers. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves and decided on another approach.

“Well—bein’ yer son—”

He had never done that before—never inferred that he should be treated differently from any other gang member simply because he was the boss’s son.

His father did not take kindly to the words now. His dark eyes lifted, and a scowl deepened the creases on his cheeks above the line of his dark beard. “An’ I say,” he thundered, his fist coming down on the table and making his cards dance, “when the time comes fer you to be given privileges, it’ll be because I give ’em to ya. Ya hear?”

“Yes sir,” answered Laramie, and he touched his hat in unconscious subservience.

“Now git out there an’ follow yer orders,” barked the big man.

Laramie nodded and left the room, more troubled than ever.

“Ya really think this is gonna work?” asked Sam as he poured them both a cup of strong coffee after the boss had calmed down some.

The big man looked up and his eyes began to twinkle. “ ’Course it’s gonna work,” he growled pleasantly. “He’s riled up already.”

It was midmorning before Laramie felt in control enough to take the fresh pail of water to the south cabin. He deliberately made plenty of noise with the bar on the door to give her lots of warning that he was coming.

She was at the table, sitting on the log stool that had been provided. An open book was spread out before her, and she nervously looked up from it as he pushed open the door.

Her hair was no longer spilling about her shoulders but had been pinned up behind her head. It made her face look even smaller, her eyes larger. They were dark blue and as open as her book. She looked both scared and confused. Laramie looked away quickly, feeling that he was looking into her very soul and thus invading her privacy.

“Brung yer water,” he said for something to break the silence, even though he knew it was quite evident what he had brought.

The plate was on the table. Some of the food had been eaten—but not as much as should have been. He supposed that, under the circumstances, she found it hard to have much of an appetite.

He checked the fire but found that she had recently added wood. At least she could take care of herself, he thought.

He wanted to check to see if she had other needs, but he knew he had to get out of there quickly. He was most self-conscious in her presence. She sat there watching him, saying nothing—just looking alone and scared and out of place.

He was at the door before she spoke. Her voice was low and soft—and trembly.

“The slop pail,” she reminded him.

He stopped in his tracks and looked at her. Her voice had surprised him. He was used to male voices that were little more than dark growls.

“The slop pail is almost full,” she explained. “It is all I have for—”

She stopped and looked down in embarrassment. Her cheeks flushed. “For…everything,” she finished softly.

He nodded and lifted the pail.

His anger flamed again as he carried the pail down the path to the edge of the bush and dumped it. “What a way for sech a little bit of a thing to live,” he exploded. “It’s jest plumb crazy.”

He had to renew her wood supply. He was glad for the chore—it gave him reason to swing the axe in his frustration. He cut far more than he needed. By the time he was done he was sweating in spite of the cold winter day. He put down the axe and pulled his sleeve across his brow, knocking his Stetson into the snow. He had forgotten it was up there. With soft curses he reached down and retrieved his hat, whipping it against his knee to shake off the snow.

He still hadn’t figured anything out. He had gotten no answers from his father. Nor was he likely to. He didn’t know why she was there or how long she was expected to stay. He only knew that they had a girl in camp and that he was expected to guard her. She was living in deplorable conditions. Even a man would hate the bareness, the crudeness of the cabin, the isolation.

Then an unfamiliar idea crossed his mind and caused him to flush slightly. Was that why he was riled? If it had been a man in there, he wouldn’t have given him a thought—except to watch him carefully and guard his own back. But a girl. It wasn’t a case of just guarding her; he had to somehow—care for her. And he had no idea how to go about it.

Ariana paced back and forth across the squeaky boards of the cabin, trying to sort through her troubled thoughts.

On the one hand she felt terror. On the other hand she dared hope. For what? She wasn’t sure. But the young man, though hardly to be considered friendly, had not really been menacing.

But he was the boss’s son. He was her prison guard.

He was strangely quiet. Hardly seeming to acknowledge her presence. She had the impression he did not care much for his assignment. Did not want her in the camp any more than she wanted to be there.

Ariana trembled slightly. No, it was not realistic. Sam might have been persuaded to be an ally, to help her—but not this cool, distracted young man with the steely blue eyes.

She shivered again at the very thought of the silent, cold look that he had turned upon her, and a tear trickled down her cheek.

She was helpless and at his mercy. At the mercy of the entire camp of loud, offensive men. She still had no idea why they had taken her, but she prayed as she paced that the awful ordeal might soon end.

Chapter Eight

Guardian

Laramie stacked enough wood against the wall of the cabin to keep the fire stoked for many days—even if the temperature continued to drop. Cautiously he surveyed the room with each trip he made. He noticed that the girl had very little in material comforts.

She had rinsed out the scrap of towel in the basin and hung it to dry by the iron stove. She must have brought a comb with her in that little bit of a cloth bag, for one lay on the shelf by the pitcher. There was no soap, no mirror, no garments, except for the heavy coat hanging on the peg, hat and gloves tucked up beside it. On the floor was a pair of fur moccasins. He was sure they were much too big for the small feet tucked under the table.

Apart from that, the room was bare. Bare and miserably dirty. His own stark quarters were in better shape. At least he could sweep them out and chase down the cobwebs with the broom.

For the rest of the day Laramie watched for an opportunity to speak with Sam alone. He would get no answers from his father—he knew that now—but Sam might be another matter.

He thought of Sam as a reasonable man, and had always been on good terms with him. It was Sam who had taught Laramie his basic letters and sums. Laramie figured that Sam was likely the only one in camp who could have done so.