Deborah Camp (13 page)

“What about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow you can finish the henhouse walkway and mend the corral fence out by the stables.” She folded her arms across her breasts when he cursed her under his breath. “I’m not letting you ride off with my men. No, sir! There’s other work you can do around here.”

“And the cotton?”

“I’ll plant the stuff myself,” she said, walking briskly past him. “I’m not scared of it.”

“I’m not scared of it,” he called after her. “I’m sick of it!”

Grandy didn’t know what had awakened him, only that it was pitch dark and he was wide awake. He glanced down at himself with a mixture of chagrin and disgust. That part of him he had trouble controlling was doing a grand imitation of a flagpole. What the hell had he been dreaming about? he wondered, and a vague recollection of Suzanna Hathaway touching his scarred back and then
pressing her warm lips to his skin floated past his mind’s eye.

He sat up in bed and wished for a smoke. Pale moonlight seeped through the dusty windowpanes, giving bulk form to the hobby horse and trunk and other things that didn’t belong to him.

After a while, when it became increasingly apparent that he wouldn’t drop off again without help, Grandy got out of bed and pulled on a pair of trousers. The clothes felt scratchy, not at all like the ones he’d worn in his other life. He walked on quiet feet across the noisy floorboards, making his way to the kitchen and its bucket of water: As he passed the windows that afforded views of the stables and barn, he paused to question the light falling in a faint square in front of the barn door. He looked toward Zanna’s bedroom. The door was ajar, which meant the room beyond was empty of her. She’d never leave her door open with him in the house.

A wicked grin spread across his face as he high-stepped across the front parlor toward no-man’s-land—Zanna’s room.

The door opened on silent hinges, giving him access to the treasures beyond. A pencil-post bed of solid pine, its sheet and patchwork quilt of varied blue squares in disarray, beckoned him like cool water had a moment ago. He grabbed one of the pillows and pressed it to his face. Just as he’d thought; her scent, wild roses and talcum powder, was all over it. He stirred below the waist and a knot of longing tightened in his stomach. He smiled into the sack of goose feathers and dropped it back onto the bed. Going around to the other side, he almost tripped over the two steps set against the bed—steps for her to use to climb up and onto the feather mattress. He imagining her doing just that and how her hair would look like flames spreading across the pillowcase. The knot in his belly burned and doused his smile as his thoughts circled like a wolf around a campfire, wanting but wary.

What kind of husband had shared this bed with her? he wondered, running quivering fingertips lightly across the quilt. He’d asked her cowhands about Fayne Hathaway and had received the same pap he’d been fed by every other soul. Fayne Hathaway was a fine man, a gentleman, a fair man. Yes, yes, but was he good in bed? Did Fayne light a fire in her or were the nights as cold as one of Suzanna’s frequent frowns?

The surprising tidbit he’d picked up from Perkins was that Fayne had been old enough to be her father. That had come as a shock. After seeing Duncan—hell, even before that—Grandy had assumed that Fayne had been in his thirties, maybe forties. But sixty-one!

“He hit the payload,” Grandy muttered as he stood before the dresser and looked at his ghostly reflection in the mirror. He recalled Stubby asking about Zanna’s performance in bed. Sweet as molasses under the covers? Stubby had wanted to know, and that had started Grandy to thinking and getting all hot and bothered. Was she?

She was young and fine, that much he knew. She was put together like she’d been mail-ordered by a man with lofty dreams. When she wore breeches that hugged her tight buttocks and long, firm legs, it was all Grandy could do not to fall on her in a fit of deprivation.

That’s what it is, he thought. That’s what it boils down to, boy. You’ve been deprived too long. You need a woman under you before you go stark, raving mad!

“Was she as sweet as molasses, Fayne?” he asked the echoing room. “Were you good to her in the still of the night?” He moaned and propelled himself from the room before he talked himself into doing something foolish.

The light in the barn snagged his attention again and he crossed to the window to stare out. What the hell was she doing at this time of night? He glanced up at the moon’s position. Well after midnight, he thought. Heading fast toward dawn.

He ran a hand down his chest, his fingers questing absently
through the mat of hair there. Maybe she’d hurt herself and couldn’t get back to the …

The thought branded his mind as he flew out the front door and across the ground. Tufts of grass, heavy with dew, wet the cuffs of his pants and made his bare feet slip and slide. He pushed through the side gate, grabbed a post near the barn door, and swung into the square of light. The sound of Zanna’s soft sobs made his heart freeze with fear.

“Zanna!” he breathed, so frightened for her that anger burst through him like a thunderbolt when he saw her sitting on the hay-strewn ground cradling a calf in her lap. She was all right, his mind consoled him. Damn her, she’d scared a year’s growth out of him for nothing! “What in the
hell
do you think you’re doing?”

She was too distraught to be offended by his fury. She sniffed and fresh tears welled up in her eyes. Her hands were sticky with milk residue. Holding a homemade bottle in one hand, she rubbed the back of her other wrist against her red-rimmed eyes and hiccupped.

“I can’t make him take the bottle,” she said, her tone so weary and defeated that Grandy dropped to his knees in front of her. “I’ve tried and tried. H-he’s not going to see morning if he doesn’t take some of this tonight.”

“Zanna, it’s already morning. How long have you been out here?”

“I don’t know,” she said, sobbing and stroking the calf’s white face. “He’s so pretty, isn’t he?” She tried to make it take the crude nipple into its mouth. “Please, baby,” she cooed. “Take some of this. Please, baby, please.”

In her flower-printed nightgown with lace at its throat and cuffs and her auburn hair spilling over her shoulders, she looked about seventeen to Grandy. Tears streamed down her cheeks, leaving her lashes wet and spiky. He’d wondered what she’d look like with her hair down and his mental picture hadn’t done her justice. To his eyes, she
was as beautiful as a nymph and as vulnerable as the calf she cradled in her lap.

A cow was tied off to the side, stomping her hooves in the hay and mooing low in her throat. Grandy looked from the cow to the bucket beside Zanna. About a quarter inch of milk was in it and the rest was in the bottle Zanna was still poking at the half-dead calf.

“Is this the first one you’ve lost?” Grandy asked.

“No, of course not,” she said, irritated by his question. “And I haven’t lost this one—yet.” She leaned over and kissed the blazed face. “Please, baby. Take some of this milk. It’s mother’s milk, honey. Please drink some. Just a little, baby.”

“He’s not going to take that bottle,” Grandy said. “Some of them are like that. They’d rather die than suck on a fake teat.”

“He’s not going to die!” She lifted her tearstained face and her eyes were wide with panic. “Go back to the house if you’re going to sit there and talk of death!”

He waited a minute for her to settle down then asked, “The milk came from that cow?”

“Yes, she lost a calf yesterday and I thought she’d take this one, but she wouldn’t.” She sniffed again and ran her free hand across her nose and mouth. “She p-pushed him away.”

Grandy sighed, caving in. Having been raised on a farm, he didn’t question or flail against the cruelty of nature. But Zanna hadn’t learned that fighting the inevitable was futile and he certainly couldn’t convince her of that now. There was nothing worse than a weeping woman to make a man feel as if he had to
do
something—
anything!
Save the day, lift the world on your shoulders, ride that white steed into the sunset and come back half dead but victorious. He shook his head and picked up the bucket, remembering the old days and his father’s sure cure for getting a stubborn cow to let an orphaned calf suckle.

“Give him to me,” Grandy said, reaching for the poor beast.

“Wh-what are you going to do?” she asked, shielding the calf from him as if he held an ax in one hand and a rifle in the other.

“I’m not going to kill him,” Grandy snapped, angry that she didn’t trust him. “Just let go of him.” He pulled the calf from her arms and tipped the bucket. Milk spilled over the calf’s bony back.

“What are you doing?” Zanna cried out as if he’d thrown boiling water over her baby.

“Zanna,” he said, holding on to a shred of patience. “Trust me.”

The calf was still, too weak to protest. Grandy emptied the bucket over him, then lifted him into his arms and took him over to the cow. She turned her head and eyed the man and the orphan with distaste.

“Here, mama,” Grandy said, setting the calf down in front of her. “Take a smell of this. Recognize it? It’s your milk. That means this is your calf, right?” Grandy ran a hand over the calf’s back, then smeared the milk onto the cow’s nose. She jerked back and snorted at him, but her big, pink tongue slid out to wipe up the mess he’d made. Grandy would have sworn that he saw a flicker of recognition in her soulful brown eyes. “That’s right, mama. Your milk. Your calf. Clean him up and let him have some breakfast. How about it?”

He looked over at Zanna. She’d risen to her feet, but was swaying a little as if she were on the verge of a fainting spell. Her face was ghastly white, making her emerald eyes glow like jewels set in ivory satin.

“It’s not going to work,” she whispered in a little girl’s voice. “She’s so mean! Why can’t she be thankful she’s got another calf after losing hers yesterday?”

“What happened to this one’s mother?”

“She died giving birth to him. Isn’t that sad? Now if
he dies …” Her eyes widened and the next word was sucked in with her breath. “Look!”

Grandy whipped his gaze back to the mother and orphan. Mama Cow was taking a tentative lick down Little Orphan’s back.

“That’s right,” Grandy said, retreating to give them more space and privacy. “He’s cute, isn’t he, mama? You’ve got a bagful of milk, so let him have a little.”

Mama Cow gave another lick, this one so rough that it tipped Little Orphan over onto his nose. He stirred and sat up again, only to be toppled by another tongue swipe. Grandy grinned and folded his arms across his chest as Mama Cow bathed the weak offspring.

“Never fails,” he said, feeling like a hero out of a dime novel. “She’s adopted him.”

“Do you really think so?” Zanna asked, coming to stand beside him. Mama Cow nudged the baby with her flat nose. “What’s she doing?”

“Trying to rouse him; make him stand so that he can get to her udder,” Grandy explained. When Zanna started forward, he held her back. “No, let them alone. Let nature take its course. The more you interfere, the more Mama Cow will think Little Orphan is yours instead of hers.”

“But the baby’s too weak to stand and suckle. If I hold him up, he can get to her.”

“Once he sees that milk bag, he’ll find a way to get at it. Don’t you worry about it.”

Mama Cow moved to stand over her new responsibility, her udder practically hitting his nose. Little Orphan got a whiff, looked up, and saw heaven, then lifted his writhing lips until they fastened on one distended teat. His sucking sounds filled the barn.

Zanna laughed, partly in relief and partly in joy. “He’s ravenous!”

“I know just how he feels,” Grandy drawled, grinning as bright color climbed up Zanna’s neck and into her cheeks.

She ducked her head, throwing her face in shadow. “I … that is, thank you. How did you know to do that?”

“Learned it on the farm.”

“You know so much!” Her chin lifted to reveal eyes bright with admiration. “How could you turn your back on a world that you’re so obviously cut out for?”

“I’m not cut out for it,” he said, losing his grin. “Knowing isn’t the same as enjoying. I know how to live like a monk, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy it.”

She turned away to pick up the bucket. “We’re back to that again, are we? Don’t you get tired of the subject?”

“Don’t you get tired of pretending to be made out of spit and sawdust?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she murmured as she hung the bucket on a peg.

“You act as if you’ve no womanly feelings. You try to make people think you don’t have yearnings.”

“I have them,” she said, picking up the lantern and holding it aloft so that it threw brighter light on the cow and sucking calf. “I yearn for peace and prosperity. I yearned for that calf to live.”

“Those aren’t yearnings, Zanna Those are hopes. Yearnings are those things that writhe in your gut and tingle along the insides of your thighs and make you wet down between—”

“Hush your mouth!” Her eyes widened with indignation and horror. “How dare you speak to me as if I’m a common whore!”

“Is that how I was speaking to you?”

“Most certainly!”

He tucked his hands up high under his arms and came closer, knowing she’d let him while his hands were captive. “I thought I was speaking to you as a man speaks to a woman … as a husband to a wife. You’ve had more experience at that than I have. You’ve been a wife before, but this is my first time at being a husband. I might be all wrong, but don’t husbands and wives sleep in the same
bed? Did old Fayne sleep with you, Zanna? Was he a lion or a mouse under the covers?”

“I’m not listening to you.” To prove it, she spun around and started for the house, but he jogged forward and walked right beside her. “If you’re coming back to the house with me, then close the barn door behind you,” she instructed crisply.

He obeyed, hanging back a few moments to make sure the cow and calf had truly bonded before closing up the barn. His feet were wet with dew as he sprang onto the front porch and into the house. Zanna had set the lantern on the low table and was sitting in the strange long-horned chair, her hair streaming over the back of it, her lashes dusting her cheeks. She looked worn out and Grandy lost some of his impish desire to make her squirm. He didn’t think she knew he was in the room until she spoke, keeping her eyes tightly shut.