Debra Holland - [Montana Sky 02] (15 page)

“Mr. Thompson,” Mrs. Grayson said. “Wyatt.” Her voice softened to a velvet purr. She placed her hand on his arm.

Like a hooked fish, his attention reeled back to her.

“My brother wanted me to invite you to dine with us next Sunday after the service.”

He paused before responding. If he accepted, everyone at church would know.
Samantha would know.
Somehow he didn’t like that thought. Besides, he’d have to make special arrangements for Christine and Mrs. Toffels to get home. It felt like a larger commitment than he wanted to make. “Sounds like a mighty fine invitation, Mrs. Grayson—”

“Call me Edith.”

“Edith. It’s just that I’ll have my daughter and Mrs. Toffels with me.”

Her brows arched in a question.

“Your housekeeper? Couldn’t she stay home with Christine next Sunday?”

He laughed. “Not Mrs. Toffels. To her it’s a sacrilege when there’s too much snow to get to church. She insists we hold prayers anyway. She wouldn’t cotton to missing Sunday service.”

“Oh.”

“And I don’t want Christine to miss. Her mother wouldn’t be pleased with me.”

“Her mother?”

“I’m sure she still watches out for her daughter. Don’t you ever have that feeling with your husband?”

“No.” She said the word with a flat intonation. “My husband…” Her lashes lowered.

Wyatt shifted in discomfort. He wasn’t sure if she thought he was being ridiculous, or perhaps he’d stirred up old grief. That thought brought remorse. He knew only too well how unexpectedly a memory could strike, causing old pain. He’d have to make amends.

“If you and your brother wouldn’t mind company some evening, I’d be glad to drop by.”

Her lips curved into a sultry smile. “How about Wednesday? Come for dinner.”

“This week, I’m busy with ranch work. How ’bout the end of the month? The moon should be full. Make the ride home easy.”

“That would be delightful.”

“It will indeed.” He bowed slightly. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find my daughter and get her home.”

“I’ll see you next Wednesday.” She turned, gliding away.

He watched her go, following the slow swish of her small bustle, and wondered why he didn’t feel more excitement about next Wednesday.

Two weeks later, her dress kilted up to the tops of her boots to allow freedom of movement, Samantha stomped her foot on the top edge of the shovel, feeling satisfaction when the blade slid deep into the earth. The afternoon sun beat down on her back.

A long brownish-pink worm slithered back into the uncovered dirt, a sign of the richness of the soil. After several hours of digging, she’d almost managed to turn the dirt in the area of the garden she’d marked for potatoes. In another corner, Maria planted beans, while Manuel worked on the rows of corn.

In the next few days they’d plant squash, pumpkins, tomatoes, carrots, peas, cucumbers, and beets. Samantha eventually intended to set out an herb garden and expand the small orchard.

Propping the shovel against her leg, she rolled her shoulders trying to relax the cramp in her shoulder blades. Her body longed to stop and rest, but stubbornness kept her going. She had a goal to reach and a family to feed.

Working within the confines of Ezra’s garden patch had been relatively easy, the ground soft from many years of tilling. But Samantha had visions of a much larger plot—one big enough to feed them throughout the year, and maybe bring in some much needed cash. But breaking the unworked soil was a much harder job. She needed to enlist the help of the boys when they came home from school.

With a sigh, she straightened, rubbing her back. Underneath her leather work gloves, the skin of her palms burned; she could feel blisters forming. On the estancia, Don Ricardo wouldn’t allow her to work, and she’d lost the calluses she’d happily acquired during her marriage from hours of digging in her garden. The skin of her hands had become soft. So had her muscles. Or was it that she was getting older…?

No. Thirty-one wasn’t old. She pushed a tendril of hair out of her eyes, tucking it under the straw hat she wore, hoping she hadn’t left a muddy streak on her face. Sometimes she still felt like a young woman, although not now when her whole body ached from hard labor.

The overturned earth lay dark and rich beneath her feet. She inhaled the loamy scent rising from the ground and looked toward the mountain, where purple rocky ridges gave way to green treeshaded sides. The mountain marked the edge of her property, and she wondered if she’d ever find time to explore its wonders.

The month of April was flying by, and she’d been so busy getting the house, barn, and garden in order, not to mention dealing with the chickens, goats, horses, and boys, she hadn’t even ridden the entire boundaries of the ranch.

She’d entrusted the two hands, Mike and Ernie, with handling the small herd of cattle. As soon as calving season had begun, they’d camped out with the cows. Every few days, one of them would ride in for supplies and report their progress to her. So far they hadn’t lost one single calf. She felt confident in their abilities. Still, once she completed the garden, she intended to explore her land.

She glanced over at the large corral where the Falabellas frisked. Mariposa had slowed down over the last week. Her foaling time drew near. Bonita also looked like she’d foal soon, although it would be a while before Pampita’s or Bella’s babies
arrived. Young Chita was the only mare that hadn’t been bred in Argentina. Next year, she’d be put to Chico, Samantha’s only stallion.

In Argentina, Samantha had varied the studs, having planned on expanding the herd, before she knew she’d be coming to America. She was glad she had. There were no other Falabellas here to breed to.

She leaned on the handle of the shovel. Now that she’d stopped working, the dream she’d had last night—the one she’d tried to avoid all day—caught up with her. It had been a sensual dream, unlike anything she’d ever experienced.

Wyatt kissing her—no, not just kissing her, ravaging her mouth, trailing kisses down her neck and shoulders, making her body weak with need for him. She’d so wanted to give in to him, feeling her resistance melt with every touch of his lips, yet something inside had held her back. She wasn’t quite ready to surrender herself to him. Oh, but how she had wanted to.

Something had awoken her, and she’d almost cried out from frustration and disappointment. She’d tried to return to sleep, find her way back into the dream, but slumber had eluded her. When full consciousness had returned, she’d felt ashamed of the cravings of her body—longings she’d thought dead and buried with Juan Carlos. Yet, they’d sprung forth, perhaps stronger from having been dormant, and for a man she wasn’t sure she even liked.

A man who seemed interested in Edith Grayson.

She changed her grip on the shovel and sent it deeply into the ground. Work was the answer. Labor until she’d rendered her mind and body too tired to think, much less dream.

The late April day had warmed enough for Wyatt to remove his jacket. He leaned against Bill’s hindquarters, examining the underside of the hoof he supported in his hand to see if it needed cleaning. Harry had mucked out the stall, and while Wyatt worked, he inhaled the fresh scent of the straw blanketing the floor.

“Wyatt. Wyatt,” Mrs. Toffels called from outside the barn.

He heard the anger lacing her tone; his thoughts flew to the whereabouts and safety of his daughter. It took a lot to rile his placid housekeeper—usually when something brought out her mother bear instincts regarding Christine.

“In here.” He slid his hand out from under the horse’s leg and stood up so his stout housekeeper could see him over the top of the stall.

Mrs. Toffels tottered into the barn, carrying a wicker laundry basket almost as wide as she was, overflowing with folded clothes. Seeing the basket, relief washed over him, and he relaxed. She wouldn’t be lugging laundry around if anything were seriously wrong.

Spotting him over the top of the clothes, she changed her direction, making a beeline toward him. She plopped down the basket and straightened, arms akimbo. Under a green gingham dress covered by a spotless white cotton apron, her ample bosom heaved. “Wyatt, someone’s stolen your shirt.”

“My shirt?”

“Your favorite blue-and-gray-striped flannel one. I didn’t notice until I had taken down most of the wash. I had hung that shirt on the end.”

“Sure it didn’t just blow away?”

As if he’d offended her, Mrs. Toffels drew herself up. “I peg
every
piece of laundry I hang out. That shirt had
three
pins on it.”

“Of course.” He stopped to think. The men had been out at the south pasture for the entire day, and he’d been about to join them. He’d seen Mrs. Toffels hanging out the wash after they’d left. None of them would have borrowed his shirt. But someone did. Three weeks ago, somebody absconded with the pie. Last week a loaf of bread, cooling on the kitchen windowsill, had vanished. Now his shirt…his
favorite
shirt.

He changed his mind about riding after the men. The varmint would probably head for the mountains, and Wyatt intended to be right behind him. “I’ll take care of it, Mrs. Toffels. You go into the house. I’m goin’ to ride on out and take a look. I might be late for supper.”

“I’ll pack something up quick that you can take with you.”

“Send Harry into town for Christine, will you? I don’t want her going to the Rodriguez ranch to play with those midget horses today. Until I catch the thief, I don’t want her riding home alone.”

Wyatt busied himself bridling and saddling Bill. Picking up his gun belt from a peg near the stall, he hefted it thoughtfully before strapping it around his hips. He led the horse outside and tied the reins to the fence. He’d fetch his Winchester from the house. In addition to catching a varmint, he might do some hunting.

Hoisting himself into the saddle, he set out for the river, marking the boundary between his ranch and Samantha’s. He had a hunch the culprit might be one of the Cassidy twins. He hoped so. An outlaw would probably have stolen a horse. Dealing with the boys would be easier than confronting a renegade. Although facing Samantha about those twins might be worse than cornering a dangerous man.

Wyatt rode with all his senses alert. Although aware of the beauty of the early spring afternoon, he ignored the budding trees and bushes, instead looking through them for signs of life. He studied a hawk, flying overhead to see if its flight seemed relaxed or startled and scrutinized the new green grass for signs of human passage.

Passing near the ford of the river, he caught a glimpse of movement across the water on Samantha’s property. A flash of blue and gray disappeared behind a tree.

Ha. He’d been right about those Cassidy twins. He’d bet it was Jack.

“Got ya.” He urged Bill into the water, and the horse splashed across the stream. As a precaution, Wyatt pulled out his Colt. Not that he’d hurt the boy—just frighten him. But when he caught up with him and brought Jack home, Samantha would have to admit she’d been wrong about taking in those twins.

He rounded the last tree; the youngster took off running. Wyatt urged Bill after him, but even from one hundred feet away, he could see he wasn’t chasing Jack Cassidy. Flying black hair, blue-and-gray-striped shirt, buckskin leggings. An Indian boy.

It only took a few minutes for Bill to overtake him. Wyatt turned the horse, cutting the boy off. He reined in, pointing his gun at the young Indian. “Hold it right there.”

The youth looked to be about thirteen. His long black hair floated loose down his back. His scrawny body swam inside the oversized striped shirt, the tail of which hung down to the boy’s buckskin-clad knees. His black eyes sparked with defiance, but in their angry depths, Wyatt could also detect a hint of fear.

He’d caught the thief all right. Now what in the hell was he going to do with him?

Samantha stood at the window of her bedroom, looking past her newly planted garden to the broad range beyond.
Now I can get to know my ranch.
Her feet wiggled in anticipation. Finally, with the press of immediate chores lessened—the garden planted, the house clean and livable, the barn, outbuildings, and corrals serviceable—she could take time for herself. She still had a long list of fix-up changes she wanted to make, but they’d have to wait until the ranch started making a profit.