Desert Angel (21 page)

“I’ll tell you how intelligent I am. Not only am I dumb enough to think that a rich boy would marry me, but — “

Hesitating, she took a deep breath and forced herself to stick it out. “Do you know why I didn’t have a list to give to Walt today? Well, I’ll tell you,” she continued before he could reply, before her confidence fled. “I didn’t have a list, because I can’t read or write! This book is filled with words, and I can’t begin to read one of them.”

Her voice was laced with the pain of her admission. “I’m stupid and ignorant, and if you want to fire me, I’ll understand, I really will. I wouldn’t want someone as stupid as me taking care of my child, that’s for sure!”

Her anguish cut through him like a thousand cactus spines. He saw the fear in her eyes that this final confession added to everything else he had learned about her, would be the one that made him decide to release her from his employ.

Her statement had shocked him, but only because of the many hours she had spent sitting with a book on her lap. Had he given it any thought, he would have known that she had never lived in one place long enough to attend school. But she spoke so well, with a larger vocabulary than normally used by someone illiterate, that he never gave her lack of education a thought.

Unable to resist her need for reassurance, Jim rose slowly and moved toward her. Leaning against the edge of the desk, he picked up the book, flipped through it.

“There is nothing to be ashamed of because you can’t read,” he said softly. “I can read every word in this book, but that doesn’t make me smarter than you or anyone else who can’t read. The only difference between us is that I had the opportunity to go to school, while you were forced to stay at home and help with the other kids.”

He grinned wickedly, “Of course, when I was a boy I thought the worst thing in life was having to go to school. I couldn’t understand what was so important about learning to read or write or cipher. One year, when I was about nine, I played hooky more than I went to school.” He leaned a little closer and lowered his voice, “I had the seat of my pants warmed more times that year than any other two years combined!” He sighed silently when the beginnings of a smile tipped the corners of her mouth. “I have no intention of firing you, angel. I don’t think there is anyone in the world who could love my son more or be a better mother to him, and right now he desperately needs that love.”

“You mean that?” she asked earnestly “Every word.”

Tears of relief filled her eyes, and March tried to turn her head so that he couldn’t see, but his hand on her cheek stopped her. With a gentle thumb he wiped away the moisture, lightly caressing her soft skin.

“You really won’t make me leave?”

“Not until you’re ready to go.” A smile brought a dimple to his cheek. “Besides, you’re finally making decent coffee. If you go, I’ll have to start over with somebody else. You wouldn’t want me to go through that again, would you?”

“Jamie has a dimple just like yours,” she muttered inanely, fascinated as it magically appeared and disappeared.

“Then he’ll grow up to be as handsome as his father,” Jim said smugly.

“Probably.”

“Do you think I’m handsome, angel?” His voice was whisper-soft as he studied her slate- gray eyes.

“Yes.” March was suddenly breathless again, but this time for an entirely different reason.

Jim felt a nearly overwhelming urge to kiss her, to sample her lips and discover for himself if they tasted as sweet as they looked. His hand rested on her shoulder, and he felt a shiver course through her.

It would be so easy to bend slightly, to meld his mouth to hers, to find the answer to his question. With sudden insight, Jim knew that she wouldn’t fight him, that she would allow him to do as he wished … out of gratitude.

He didn’t want her gratitude. If and when he ever kissed her, he wanted her reaction to be one of honest emotion. But lord, it wasn’t easy to turn away when his entire body was aware of her.

“Would you like to learn to read?” His voice was husky as he fought, and won, the desire racing through him with the power of lightning.

“Really? Really read?” she whispered. “You’d be willing to teach me to read?”

“And write.” Tapping her nose, Jim laid the book on the desk and forced himself to cross his arms over his chest. “It’ll take a while, and you’ll probably get pretty frustrated. You may even get mad at me a time or two, since I’ve been told that patience isn’t my greatest virtue. But if you want it badly enough, I’ll teach you.”

“Read and write …” March wanted to dance around the room or throw her arms around him and hug him or both. “I already know some of my letters. Mama started teaching me, but then the babies came, and she was so tired by the end of the day. She wanted to, she really did, but there was so much work to do taking care of them, that there just wasn’t time. I’ll work really hard so that you won’t be ashamed of me, I promise.”

“I’m not ashamed of you, March,” he said softly. “How could I ever be ashamed of someone who works as hard as you do?”

“I’ll work even harder. And I won’t get mad at you, I promise.”

“Don’t make promises that may be impossible to keep,” he chuckled.

“I’ll keep these. And I won’t neglect Jamie. I’ll only work on learning in the evenings when he’s asleep, and after you’ve finished your paperwork. And I’ll be sure all my other chores are finished. And I’ll — “

“Whoa! Slow down or you’ll be too tired to get started.” He pulled a piece of paper and a pencil out of his desk drawer, and ushered her toward the kitchen. “You ready for your first lesson?”

“Now?This minute? You aren’t too tired? It isn’t too late?”

“Now, this minute, I’m not tired, and it isn’t too late. We’ll start by opening that can of peaches Walt sent home for you.”

“That’s going to help?” Her forehead wrinkled in consternation.

“Well, it sure isn’t going to hurt!”

Jim opened the can and sat it on the table. Pulling back a chair, he seated March and then himself. Slowly, with exaggerated care, he wrote a word on the blank piece of paper.

For once the peaches held little interest for March, though she did enjoy the sweet fragrance drifting from the can. She was going to learn to read, to write. Nothing in the world could compare with that. Nothing.

Jim slowly pronounced each letter as he spelled out the word. “P … E … A … C … H … peach.” Reaching inside the can, he pulled out a piece of the fruit and held it to her mouth. “Peach,” he repeated.

Her first word, what a pretty word with its swirling circles and lines. Accepting the fruit, March knew she’d never forget the wonder of the moment.

Or the man who watched her so intently, his body tingling from the innocent touch of her lips against his fingers.

As the days became weeks, March’s ability to read and write simple words grew at an amazing rate. Unaware of the new maturity and pride this accomplishment gave her, she glowed with satisfaction, catching the notice of anyone around her.

Always ready with a smile and a gentle word, she was nonetheless a fiery adversary when challenged. It sometimes seemed to her that the men on the ranch — practical jokers one and all — strove to find ways to antagonize her, just to see her temper ignite! They had come to like and respect the gentle woman who always asked about their families or girlfriends, who baked cakes for birthdays and bear-claw donuts for an unexpected treat.

Their teasing reflected their feelings for her, always good-natured, without any form of malice. March knew their goal and promised herself that next time she wouldn’t be caught off guard, but always failed.

Aware of their teasing, she was unobservant of the constant protection they quietly provided.

Jim had spoken to Breed, Hank, and Woods, giving them details of her treatment at the hands of Fred Hamner. The look in Breed’s silver eyes promised a swift and sure retribution, while Hank and Woods both swore that the varmint wouldn’t get near their little missy again as long as they were alive to draw breath.

As word spread, in greatly abbreviated versions, the other men on the ranch became as protective. Women in the West were still in a minority, and ladies even scarcer. None doubted that March was a lady. The few who mentioned that she lived alone with Jim were politely escorted off the ranch and told not to return.

March wiped the sweat from her brow, as she stirred the pot of beans gently bubbling on the stove. She had mastered the iron monster and knew that it was cooler than cooking over an open fire, but summer had arrived, and with it came the heat of the desert.

Jim came in each evening so hungry that a stranger could be forgiven for thinking that he hadn’t eaten in days. She was amazed at the massive quantities of food he consumed, while never adding an inch of fat to his lean frame.

Jamie slept contentedly in a baby bed by the open kitchen window. Nearly four months old and active enough to squirm around, March never left him without the protection of the slatted bed when he slept. Every day he seemed to do something new. Earlier that morning he had discovered his feet and had been fascinated with them, growing frustrated when first one and then the other would slip out of his grasp.

The kitchen door opened, and March turned with a ready smile to greet her unexpected guest. It wasn’t unusual for her day to be interrupted by a hungry wrangler or cowhand who had come in too late to eat at the bunkhouse, or someone with a sweet tooth searching out a cookie or piece of cake. They had learned that her generosity was endless, and she was always willing to provide a meal for someone who was hungry.

There was an unnatural alertness to the man as he surveyed the room, carefully noting that it was empty of people except for the woman and infant. His rifle was held at his side, but anyone who doubted that he could shoulder it and fire in the blink of an eye was a fool.

March stared at her intruder and felt a momentary urge to panic. He was an Indian, probably a renegade, possibly escaped from the reservation and now on the run.

His slate black hair, silvered with dust, hung to his shoulders, a wide band of dirty fabric was tied at his forehead. Tan-colored pants and shirt, both as dusty as his hair, were thin from wear and covered a body that had gone without proper nourishment for a long time.

Panic fled when she noticed that his eyes strayed constantly to the pot bubbling on the stove. He was just another man, admittedly one who could be dangerous, but obviously one who had come to her in a desperate search for food.

March had been hungry enough times in her life that she couldn’t turn someone away, simply because she was frightened by him.

“Come in,” she said quietly, but firmly. “You’re hungry?”

Moving slowly, careful to keep her hands in view at all times, she got a bowl from the cabinet. Filling it to the brim with the beans, she reached into the warming compartment of the stove for several biscuits.

“Come sit down and eat.” She placed the bowl on the table, feeling ridiculous as she added a fork, spoon, and napkin. Did Indians use silverware? With a shrug, she decided that it didn’t matter whether he used them or not.

The Indian glided silently to the table and slid the bowl to the side, so that he could keep careful watch on the door, the window, and the white woman.

Dipping the bread into the beans, he kept a constant watch as he rapidly consumed the meal. When the bowl was empty, March refilled it, adding several more biscuits and a large glass of cool water.

“Would you like to try some jelly on one of those biscuits?” March split one open and spooned a generous amount of jelly on it. She held it out to him, smiling when he hesitated.

“Go ahead, give it a try. I bet you’ll like it.”

The Indian took the biscuit and bit hesitantly into it. A look of surprised delight flickered across his face, before his countenance resumed its former suspicious expression. Smiling, March fixed him several more of the sweet treats and moved away from the table.

He was finishing his third bowl when the back door was jerked open, and March found herself facing a rifle aimed in the direction of her stomach.

“Step aside, angel,” Jim ordered in a voice that brooked no argument.

She flinched as a chair crashed behind her, and she couldn’t help but wonder if a rifle was also pointed at her back. If it hadn’t been so frightening, the idea would be funny. March was sandwiched between the powerful weapons, making both useless as weapons against the real opponents.

“Put down your gun,” March said quietly. “Get out of the way, before you’re in danger,” Jim demanded again.

“Before
I’m in danger! God have mercy, I have a rifle pointed at my belly and another one I suspect is pointed at my back, and you say
before
I’m in danger!”

“Angel — “ The affectionate name was muttered through gritted teeth.

“Put down your gun, Jim Travis,” she demanded before turning toward the Indian. As she had suspected, his rifle was pointed directly at her. “And you put yours down, too. No man sits at my table and then has to fight his way out of my kitchen.”

Without thought to her own safety, or lack of, she approached him and pushed the barrel of the rifle toward the floor. “Sit down and finish your meal. Do you want more biscuits? I think there are a few left.”