A Stockingful of Joy (27 page)

She saw him start to shake his head. Zach apparently saw it, too, for he chimed in swiftly. "Please? Then you could show me that kind of snare you were talkin' about, to catch rabbits."

Morgan never looked at the boy, he simply stared at her, those blue-gray eyes searching her face, her eyes, as if he could see clear to her soul.

"A woman alone should be careful about who she invites to supper," he said at last.

"Yes," she agreed, holding his gaze levelly. And for an instant saw that surprise flicker in his eyes once more. And then, to her shock, he lowered his eyes as if he could no longer meet her gaze. But he nodded in acceptance of the invitation, and Faith's heart gave an odd little leap in her chest.

"I'll finish this up." His voice sounded oddly husky.

"And I'll take the wood in," Zach said, as if a moment ago it hadn't been a chore he'd been none too happy about.

A few hours later, Faith set a big pot of savory stew on the table. She'd used up far too many of the precious stores she'd purchased in Granite two weeks ago, but it somehow seemed important. And proper; Morgan had worked hard all afternoon, rarely stopping even for a breather, there was nothing left of the big log and even the smaller pieces were trimmed and cut. Even Zach had been helpful, stacking the wood against the house until the pile got too high for him to reach. Then Faith herself had stepped in, stacking as the boy ran back and forth with as much of the wood as he could manage, trying to keep up with Morgan's killing pace.

"If you're careful," he'd said, "it'll hold you until spring."

"We can't begin to thank you," she said now as she served up the stew with thick slices of the bread she'd baked yesterday.

He indicated the steaming bowl she set before him. "This is thanks enough."

He took a bite of bread, and a spoonful of stew. Faith held her breath; she'd never thought much about cooking, thinking herself average at it, until Zachary—Zach—had kept telling her she wasn't as good as his mother.

"And good," he added, and she breathed again.

"You must be starved, after all that work. Eat up."

He nodded, and for a while the only sound was of good food being consumed.

"Where'd you come from?" Zach asked Morgan when he'd slowed down his gobbling. Faith supposed she should hush him, it was not a question that was asked here in the West, she'd soon learned. Hope had written her that people didn't much care where you were from or if your family was important; they only cared about who you were now. It had been, she supposed, another reason she'd wanted to come here instead of sending for Zach to come to her.

Besides, she was immensely curious to hear the answer herself.

"Came here from Washington Territory," Morgan said, and Faith didn't miss the slight evasion.

"I don't know where that is," Zach said frankly.

"Northwest of here."

"Oh. How'd you get there?"

"Rode."

"Your black horse?"

"No. A cow pony I picked up down in Texas, when I was working the cattle drives."

"Oh. Was he a good horse?"

Morgan nodded. "Not quite as good as the black, though. He's the best horseflesh I've straddled since the Pony Express."

"You rode with the Pony Express?" Faith asked.

"For a few months, part of the Nevada run."

"But that was… so long ago," Faith said. "The telegraph's been up for over fifteen years. You couldn't have been more than a boy."

"Sixteen," he admitted.

"And they let you ride? Wasn't it dangerous?"

"That's why they preferred orphans."

"Why'd you stop?" Zach asked, clearly intrigued.

Morgan's mouth twisted. "I grew."

Zach blinked. "Huh?"

"Nearly six inches over the winter of sixty-one. I just got too darned big."

Faith stared at him as Zach chattered on, asking question after question about where the fascinating visitor had been. And it seemed he'd been everywhere, from Denver to California and most points in between. But Faith wasn't really listening, she was trying to picture him as a boy, as anything other than the man he was now.

Not too darned big
she thought,
but just right. Just about perfect, in fact
.

She felt her cheeks heat at her wayward thoughts, and bent her head over her cup of coffee to hide it. She'd nearly recovered her poise when Zach innocently shattered it again.

"You're not gonna sleep in the barn again, are you?" he asked Morgan. "It's a lot warmer here in the house. You should stay in here."

Faith's breath stopped in her throat. Morgan paused in his chewing of another slice of bread. After a moment he resumed, then swallowed.

"Hadn't heard I was staying at all," he said.

Zach looked crestfallen. "But I thought…" The boy's voice trailed away.

"Now, Zach, I'm sure he has more important things to do than…" Her own words trailed away as Morgan looked at her, an oddly intent expression on his usually unreadable face.

"Some things," he said, "need an invitation."

Faith blushed. "Oh! But… of course you're welcome to stay. It's the least we can do."

"Lot of protection in that word," he said in that detached, observing tone she was coming to know all too well.

"What word?" she asked, feeling a touch of irritation.

"We," he said, glancing at Zach for a moment before turning back to her. "You don't need it. Not from me."

Faith drew back slightly, stung, but struggling not to show it. While she knew there were men who preyed on women in vicious and filthy ways, she doubted very much that Morgan was one of them, so she knew he was mocking her. He had to be; no one could think she needed the kind of protection he was referring to, the kind that made it hazardous for a woman to be alone with a man. She was hardly the type to incite a man to uncontrollable urges.

"I get your meaning," she said tightly, "there's no need to ridicule me."

His brows lowered. "You may have gotten my meaning, but I think you misread my intent. I only meant you're safe, Faith."

"Of course I am," she said, her voice still sharp.

He looked at her closely then, studying her with that intentness she found so unsettling. "It's never good to assume too much," he said quietly.

It was beyond bearing. She gathered up her scattered pride and lifted her chin as she said coolly, "I know what I am, and what I am not. I know most pity women like me, but I want none of that. Not from anyone, and especially not from you."

"Whatever I feel for you, Faith Brown," Morgan said, "it's surely not pity."

His own words haunted him that night as he lay down on the pallet she'd fixed for him on the floor near the fire. What in Hades
did
he feel for Faith Brown?

Concern, he supposed. It was natural that a man worry about a respectable woman alone in still wild country. True, she was fairly close to town, such as it was, but she was still alone out here on this place, and some no-account could stumble upon her at any time and she'd be trapped and helpless, her and the boy.

And maybe he felt a little empathy. He knew what it was like to have a dream, but not the means or knowledge to carry it out, or to have life take that dream away, through no fault of your own. And he supposed, in her way, Faith felt as much an outcast as he always had. He'd never considered what happened to women who never married; if he thought of it at all, it was to picture them as bitter old maiden aunts like his own, or schoolmarms who were happy enough with their lot in life. But just as he once had, Faith wanted a place in life, a place to belong. He'd given up on it long ago, he'd learned that the only thing you really owned was yourself, and counting on anything else was for fools.

And if he were honest, he supposed he could admit to a bit of admiration for her. She'd left an apparently comfortable, if not enjoyable life behind to come out here and try to carry out her sister's last wishes, to keep this place as the boy's heritage, and to raise him herself. Not in the way Aunt Abigail had, to tout her own nobility to her friends, but out of love for her dead sister, in a place and among people strange to her. And she was determined to succeed, to make a home, to make a boy lost in his own grief love her, and to see that he got what his parents had worked so hard for. And even the fact that she seemed doomed to failure didn't keep her from trying. Yes, if he were honest, admiration would be in there as well.

But none of that, not concern, not empathy, not admiration explained why he was lying here listening for any sound from the small bedroom at the back of the house, when he should be exhaustedly sleeping after the work he'd done today. Why he'd found himself taking deep breaths, drawing in that sweet lilac scent whenever she was close enough. Why he'd found himself listening to the soft rustle of her skirts with a strange kind of pleasure. Why he suddenly found brown eyes the color of cinnamon so warm and lovely. Why he'd spent so much time wondering all over again just how long her hair was.

And what it would feel like sliding over his skin.

He shuddered suddenly as his body cramped with violent longing. He rode it out, nearly groaning aloud. He'd been a long time without a woman, but he hadn't even been aware of wanting one until now.

You've waited too damn long, if you're getting yourself in a state over old, weepy, spinster Aunt Faith
, he told himself harshly.

He should have stayed in that saloon in Granite, tossed a silver dollar at one of the hard-faced whores, and taken her every way he could think of, until he was drained and dry. That he hadn't been the slightest bit interested then wasn't any consolation now. He should have done it. The blonde had looked like she hadn't been at it quite so long, and there had been a flicker of interest in her eyes when he'd walked in; that always helped, made him feel a bit less like he was a chore a woman had no choice about. He didn't mind paying for his pleasure, much preferred women he could walk away from without a backward look, and if there was something missing from the encounters, it was surely something he could live without. As he did so many other things. It was worth it, never having to say good-bye.

"Damn it," he muttered, shifting again on the blankets. It was too damned warm in here; he should have stayed in the barn. At least there, sleeping in his clothes would be a necessity, not a concession to sharing a roof with a woman who would probably faint dead away at the sight of a less than fully dressed man. And who could sleep with that damned lamp burning? He should just turn the damned thing out. The boy was long asleep by now, after his day of doing chores apparently never asked of him.

But he left the small china lamp burning. Something about the way Zach had put it in the window, something about the look on the boy's face as he made sure it glowed out into the night, kept him from putting it out. He could think of a dozen reasons it was foolish, from drawing unwanted attention to the waste of kerosene, but he still didn't douse the wick.

Gettin' soft
, he muttered inwardly.

"Soft in the head," he answered his own thought aloud, and then shook his head at his own craziness.

He had finally dozed off when a scraping sound brought him to his knees, Winchester in hand, ready to fire. He froze when he saw a small figure in a white nightshirt that reached almost to the floor.

"Morgan!" At Zach's excited rather than frightened voice, he removed his finger from the trigger. "Come look, she's here! Mama's here!"

"Zach," he began, but the boy scurried back to his little alcove. It was to the side of the fireplace, to take advantage of the warmth of the fireplace; a wise placement for a child, he thought. And then he followed the boy, thinking he would at least get him back to bed. He caught a glimpse of white near the bed, but when he stepped past the curtain, the boy was off to the other side. Morgan frowned, wondering what he'd seen.

"She's gone," the boy said, his voice laced with disappointment. "But she was here, honest. She was here, and she smiled at me, and touched my face, and—"

"Easy, Zach," Morgan said, lifting the boy and putting him back in the narrow bed. "There's nothing here."

"But she was," the boy said doggedly.

"Okay, okay, easy now." He was talking much as he did to a nervous horse, soothing, almost crooning. The boy seemed to react to the tone if not the words, and looked at him pleadingly.

"You believe me, don't you?"

Morgan chose his words with a care he found painful; this was why he didn't talk much to women or kids, he thought. "I know you believe you saw her."

"I did."

Stubborn, Morgan thought wryly, apparently runs in the family. "If it was your mother, then you know she meant you no harm. So you can go back to sleep now. It's nearly midnight."

The boy was reluctant, but he lay down. Morgan pulled the covers over him, and a moment later was staring in amazement as the boy went swiftly back to sleep.

Wish it was that easy for me
, he thought.

He turned to go back to his restless bed, then stopped. He sniffed the air, catching an unmistakable whiff of lilac. That explained it, he thought. Faith had been checking on the boy.

Except that there was no way on earth she could have done it without waking him. Not when his senses were trained by a lifetime of wariness to function even when he was sleeping. Not when he'd been half awake anyway.

Not when he was so damned attuned to every little move she made that she could hardly breathe without alerting him.

No, she hadn't left her room. He would have known. Hadn't he been lying here for hours, wondering what she'd do if he went to her? What she'd do if he betrayed the promise he'd given her, that she was safe from him?

There's no need to ridicule me.

Her words, and the tightness in her voice when she'd said them, dug at him now like claws. He'd only meant to assure her he wasn't the kind of man to make advances on a respectable woman, a woman who would rightfully expect something in return from him, something he would never be able to give. He'd never meant to imply that it was because she really was… old and weepy.