Comanche Rose (23 page)

"But the milk's good—a little rich, that's all. That's where the cheese I brung came from."

"Oh. I've never milked a goat, but I'm sure I can learn."

"Nothing to it. Just don't let 'er nip you." Taking charge now, Mary headed for the kitchen. "I'd better get started, 'cause he's going to want to head home right after he gets back. 'Course, I aim to make him stay till supper," she confided. "I reckon the fried chicken'll make him hold still that long, anyways."

"I'd like that."

"Be the second time in two days we've et chicken— fixed one fer Captain Walker last night."

"I expect it pleased him."

"Oh, it did. Said he'd been livin' on jerky all the way down from Fort Sill."

"Or at least a lot of it," Annie murmured.

"You oughta seen Jim, honey. I thought he'd plumb pass out when the man allowed as how he was Hap Walker. You'da thought the pope was callin'—no, it was more'n that, Jim wouldn't give a snap fer no pope. But now Walker, well, that's somethin' else."

"Yes, he is."

"Now, there's a man as they don't make no more. And there he was a-sittin' at my kitchen table. Who'd've ever thought it? 'Course, Jim was disappointed that he wasn't carryin' the gun he killed Big Coyote with."

"No, this is a new model, he said."

"He don't talk much about being a ranger, does he? Why, a body'd think he'd want t'brag about it, but he don't." When Annie said nothing, she turned back to her. "Ain't a hard man to like, is he?"

"No—no, he's not."

"Said he might be stayin' fer Christmas. Be a good thing if he was t' take a shine to you, Annie. Man like that could stop a lot o' talk."

"Or start some."

"You're still a pretty woman, honey. And from the way he was soundin', Jim was thinkin' maybe he was gettin' sweet on you."

"No—at least I hope not. I couldn't bear that." Ignoring the other woman's sharp look, Annie stooped to set the kitten down, then watched as it scampered across the floor after its brother. "They are lively, aren't they?" she murmured, turning the subject away from Walker.

It was dark when Hap came over the hill and saw the lighted windows of the farmhouse. The smell of burning wood wafted upward, sweetening the cold air, welcoming him. As tired as he was, he felt a certain satisfaction at being there, at knowing he'd been able to bring Annie Bryce home. He'd been three years late, but he'd gotten her home where she belonged.

Yeah, he was feeling pretty good about that at least. For the first time since he'd taken that Comanchero bullet, he felt that he'd done something useful. That and making the supply run. She was going to be surprised when she saw he'd gotten back early—and even more surprised when she saw what he'd gotten from trading the oxen.

As he drove down the narrow, overgrown path to the barn, a chicken flew up, startling him—then he remembered. The Willetts had said they had some to spare, and they must have brought it over. Annie ought to feel pretty good about that. At least she'd have somebody to speak to after he left.

He unhitched the team and led them into the darkened barn. Old Red smelled him and raised his head, then went back to eating. It took a lot to bother that horse. The mule, on the other hand, moved skittishly, backing up against the wall. He turned the two draft animals loose in stalls, then stumbled into the pile of hay. He guessed Willett must've done that, too. Unable to see the pitchfork, he scooped up two arms full and threw them over the gates. That'd have to hold 'em till morning, when he'd do a better job of it.

Suddenly, he felt a tug on his coat, and the hairs on his neck stood on end. His hand eased downward to his holster, then he spun around, gun drawn.

"What the hell—?"

Something had a hold on the coat, and it wasn't turning loose. He struck it with his hand, hitting a knot on its bony skull, but it held on. It was some kind of animal. Feeling like an idiot, he sheathed the gun and felt in his pocket for a match. Striking it, he looked downward into a pair of round black eyes. It was a goat, and it was trying to eat through the buffalo hide.

"You damned near got yourself killed, you know that?" he muttered, backing out of its reach.

Retracing his steps back by the flatbed wagon, he made his way to the house. "Annie!" he shouted. "It's Hap, I'm back!"

It didn't take her long to get the door open, and she was obviously glad to see him. He took off his hat as he stepped inside, utterly unprepared for the change in the place.

"Whew, you've been busy," he said in an understatement.

"The Willetts came over, and Mary spent most of yesterday helping me—no, she spent most of the day
getting
everything done," she explained. "Here, let me find a place for your coat."

"Yeah," he murmured, shrugging out of it for her. "That varmint you got out there tried to eat it."

"You must mean Henry."

"The damned goat."

"Henry. It's a milk goat."

"Henry?" His eyebrow lifted.

"It probably should have been Henrietta, but I think it was mis-sexed when it was born. Anyway, it's obviously a female now." Hanging his coat on the peg by the door, she added, "I didn't think you'd be back before tomorrow, if then."

"Yeah, well, I got rid of the oxen, so I made better time. Got rid of the wagon, too. Fellow over at Vest's wanted em." When she said nothing, he prompted her. "Well, don't you want to know how I got back?" A corner of his mouth fought to smile. "Go ahead, ask me."

"You rode a horse."

"With supplies? You still haven't learned to read minds, have you?"

"All right, if you sold the wagon and oxen, how did you get here?"

"I didn't say I sold 'em, Annie." He lost the battle and grinned. "Traded 'em for a team of draft horses—and a buckboard you can manage."

"Draft horses!"

"Yeah. I was talking to the Willett fellow, and he allowed as how he'd be willing to help you farm the place, but all he had was a couple of plug plow horses. I figured between you, you could use these. Pretty fine pair, and you can pull the buckboard with em."

Her eyes widened, then she looked away. "You didn't need to do that, Hap."

"I know I didn't. But maybe I wanted to. Maybe I kinda felt like I owed you."

"Owed me? For what?"

"Hell, Annie, I didn't need 'em—and it saved me a trip back down to San Angelo."

"But you don't owe me anything, Hap—I owe you! I've been nothing but a burden to you!
I owe you!"

"If I'd done my job to start with, you wouldn't be in this fix."

"No. I can't take all this from you, I can't."

Hiding his disappointment, he shrugged. "I'm not making another trip back to trade 'em again, Annie."

"But—"

Moving past her, he dropped into a rocking chair close to the stove. "I'll bring in your things after while, but right now I'd like to sit a spell. Maybe eat a bit, if you got anything you don't have to fix," he added, looking up at her.

There was something boyish in his face, in that tousled hair of his, that made it difficult to be angry with him. "I'll pay you back, I swear it," she muttered. "All right," she conceded, coming to terms with what he'd done, "and you can have whatever you want. There's cold chicken, bread, and beans—or I can fry you an egg."

"I don't care." He leaned back lazily in the chair. "I'm not a hard man to please, Annie. Just don't put yourself out."

"Then pick something." In spite of herself, she found herself smiling. "I'm not a mind reader, remember?"

"What kind of chicken?"

"Fried. We had it last night, but it's been kept cold outside."

"Drumsticks?"

She shook her head. "White meat."

"Suits me. With beans. I don't mind 'em cold. I reckon I've eaten a full ton of 'em like that."

"They're green beans, Hap."

"Oh. Well, I'm not above trying it, anyway."

"I'll heat them. It's the least I can do for you," she decided.

He was tired, damned tired, but he was glad he'd pushed himself to get back. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them to look around the room. Savoring the smell of freshly polished wood, of the freshly washed curtains, of the hot iron stove, he felt a pang of regret. This was the way it was supposed to be. This was the way a man was supposed to want to live.

CHAPTER 16

As tired as she was, she couldn't sleep. Her house was in order, her pantry full, and none of that meant much. In the stillness of night, lying in the bed she'd once shared with Ethan, she felt a stifling, overwhelming loneliness. She didn't want to live like this. She wanted her life back as it had been. She wanted the impossible. At the very least she wanted Susannah.

Finally, unable to stand it any longer, she rolled out of bed and reached for her old flannel wrapper. Tying it around her, she felt with her foot along the ice-cold floor for her knit slippers, then bent to retrieve them. Shivering, she made her way in the dark to the parlor. There was a faint glow showing beneath the door. Opening it a crack, she peered inside. She could see the lighted kerosene lamp on the table, and feel the warmth of the stove.

Surely Walker wasn't still up, not at this time of night. It had to be well past midnight, she guessed. Moving cautiously, she crept into the room, then saw him in the rocking chair. By the looks of it, he'd fallen asleep there. She started to retreat.

"Oh!" She jumped, startled, as a kitten ran across her foot.

"One of 'em get you?" Hap asked, sitting up.

"I thought it was a mouse."

"Fast little devils, I'll give 'em that," he murmured.

"I didn't know you were still up."

"Yeah. I was just sitting here by the fire, thinking about going to bed. I figured you were asleep a long time ago."

"I couldn't sleep," she admitted. "I was going to warm myself some milk. I don't suppose you want any, do you?"

"Goat's milk? I don't think so." He held up a long-necked bottle. "This works better, anyway."

"Liquor?"

"Whiskey."

"You drink quite a lot, don't you?"

He appeared to consider it for a moment, then shrugged. "I don't know. I guess you could say so."

"I would."

"Man's got to have some vices, or life's not worth living. What about you, Annie—you got any vices?"

"You're drunk, aren't you?"

"No." He heaved himself up from the chair and walked toward her, holding the bottle out. "Don't waste your time on goat's milk, Annie. You want to forget? Try this. You can drown a lot in a bottle."

"I don't want to." Certain he'd had too much to drink, she offered, "If I made coffee, would you drink it?"

"No. I told you, I'm still stone-cold sober." Holding the bottle within inches of her face, he showed her. "See, most of it's still in there. What made you think I was drunk, anyway?"

"I guess I just sort of expected it."

"He drink?"

"Who?"

The hand that held the bottle gestured toward the piano. "Him—your husband."

"No—not very often, anyway. I never saw him drunk."

" 'Course not. He had you, didn't he?"

"I don't think that had much to do with it."

"Sure it did. Happy men don't drink. Ask me, I can tell you. I used to be a happy man, you know."

"Until you got shot?"

"I don't know—maybe. No, it was before then," he decided. "Here, you want to sleep? Make yourself a toddy."

"I wouldn't know how. Come, on, I'll get a pan and boil some coffee."

"Cookstove's cold. You want me to make a fire for you?"

"I can boil it in here."

"I kinda like the kitchen. There's something nice about sitting at a table in the middle of the night," he said. "I'll make a fire."

"All right. And I'll make coffee."

"Didn't I ever tell you I don't like the stuff?"

"Actually, I think you did," she remembered. "You put three spoons of sugar in it at the Sprengers' house."

"Yeah. Anybody that ever traveled with Clay learned to hate it. He makes it like mud." His eyes traveled over her, taking in the pale hair that fell over her shoulders, the faded flannel wrapper, the high-necked nightgown showing at the top. "You got no business out here with me. You know that, don't you?"

"I don't know where I'd go. It's my house," she reminded him. "All right, since you don't care for coffee, how about tea?"

"Tea," he repeated blankly.

"Well, it's not goat's milk—and it's not coffee."

"Yeah, why not?"

He followed her into the kitchen and set the bottle on the table. While she lit a lantern, he turned his attention to the cookstove. "Still some coals, so it's not dead—just limber."

"Limber?"

"Passed out, but revivable."

She watched him go to work on the fire, thinking he didn't really seem intoxicated, even though his behavior was rather odd. He was in some sort of mood, she decided, and more than likely it had to do with his leg. Men just didn't deal well with their ailments. Unlike most women she knew, they felt having anything wrong with their bodies somehow diminished them. And it had to be even harder for somebody who'd lived the way he had.

It was cold in the kitchen, but he didn't seem to notice. She sat there, rubbing her arms, waiting for the heat. Finally, she got up from the table and moved around, setting out the metal tea container, the pot, the cups, and the sugar bowl. Then she dipped water from the bucket into the kettle.

"Is it going?" she asked hopefully.

"Yeah."

He opened the flue, then fanned the cookstove door. She could see the flames. Using a knife, she pried the lid off the tea, then looked inside. After more than three years, it was so dry it was brittle. Hoping hot water would revive it, she put three spoonfuls into the china pot.

"Would you like bread and jam with this?"

"I don't care." He took the kettle and set it on the top of the stove, then sat down at the table. "I didn't know you could keep jam that long," he said, eying the jar.

"Mary—Mrs. Willett-—brought it over. We threw out everything on the shelves while you were gone."

"Even the meat biscuits?"