Dorothy Garlock - [Wyoming Frontier] (17 page)

“I can see your outline. You’re very tall.”

“I guess so. I’ve not given it much thought.”

“Charlie says I’m about average.”

“I’d say Charlie’s right.”

“It would be nice to be taller. Especially when I want to reach something.” She chided herself for making such inane conversation, but she was afraid he would leave.

“My sister was about your size.”

“What was her name?”

“Rose.”

“My name is Emily Rose. I wish you would call me Emily.”

“I’d be right proud to, Miss Emily.”

“Here’s the tin of salve. Put it on your palms at night. It will soften the skin that was burned.”

He took the tin from her fingers. It was warm from being held in her hand. He slipped it into his breast pocket, trying to think of something else to say. His eyes moved over her. The dress molded her high breasts and slender waist. Little gestures revealed her nervousness; the movement of her hands, her darting tongue as it moistened her lips. Sam had had his share of women, but what he felt now had nothing to do with lust. He feasted his eyes on her face, her pink cheeks, her soft lips and shiny hair. It was her eyes that fascinated him. Large and unblinking, they seemed to be looking straight into his. Emily Rose, sweet Emily Rose. He could only say her name like that in his thoughts.

A small nervous laugh suddenly burst from her lips. “I’m trying so hard to think of something to say.”

The honest confession surprised and pleased him. His chuckle came from deep in his chest.

“So am I. I can’t think of anythin’ either. I feel like a fool jist standin’ here.”

“I’m not usually so tongue-tied.” She laughed again softly, happily this time. Her mouth remained smiling and Sam had an aching desire to kiss it.

“Don’t—” they both said at the same time, then laughed together.

His eyes were on her face, hers were on his, but he didn’t know how clearly she could see him.

“Don’t what?” she asked.

“Don’t go in. What were you going to say?”

“Don’t leave,” she whispered with her lips barely moving.

“I don’t want to, Emily Rose,” he said softly.

“I like you calling me that. Will you be here long?”

“I’m not sure.”

“If you’re over our way, will you stop by?”

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.” The words came out so easily that he was hardly aware he had said them.

Emily’s pounding heart released a flood of happiness that was reflected in a brilliant smile which ended in soft laughter. It was the sweetest sound Sam had ever heard. God! What a wonderful, sweet woman! Just being with her caused years of frustration and pain to drop from his shoulders. For an instant he thought about running away with her to some faraway place so that he would have her all to himself. She was still smiling and was such a pleasure to look at—warm, sparkling and pretty.

Sounds of the horses’ hooves and the creaking wagon reached them.

Emily held out her hand. Sam took it and held it tightly between his two rough palms.

“Good-bye, Sam.”

“Bye, Emily Rose.”

The smile on her face was genuine, unguarded, natural and beautiful. Once Sam had been thrown from his horse, and when he made solid contact with the ground, he had lain there, hearing nothing but a pounding in his head. That was how he felt now. Only this time he had another discomfort: his guts were wrenched with a spasm of longing.

EIGHT

“She can go anytime. Her heart is worn out. I told you that when I was here before. I didn’t think she would live this long.” The doctor turned from Pack and spoke directly to Mara. “All you can do for her is make her as comfortable as possible.”

The day before Mara had written out a detailed description of Brita’s condition, and Trellis had taken it to town. The doctor had arrived in a handsome black buggy with a man riding guard. He was very professional and also very blunt. After spending some time with Brita, he spoke with Mara and Pack on the porch.

Pack held out some bills.

“I’m sorry I can’t do anything for her.” The doctor took the money and put it in his pocket. “I heard you got roughed up a bit, Gallagher. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Not a thing.”

The doctor shrugged. He put his bag in the back of the buggy and climbed up on the seat.

“You know where to find me . . . next time.”

Mara was so upset that the doctor’s words failed to register in her mind. She cried when he left. He had only confirmed what she believed to be true.

*  *  *

In the days that followed, Mara devoted herself entirely to Brita. She hurried through her housework while Brita slept. During Brita’s waking hours she sat beside her bed, telling her about her life at the school or reading to her from the small collection of books she had managed to accumulate. She finished
Moll Flanders
and started
Robinson Crusoe.
Pack and the twins seemed to enjoy the stories as much as their mother. In the evening they would come quietly into the room, sit on the bunk and listen. Mara could tell that it gave Brita great pleasure to see her boys together. Her eyes would rest lovingly on each of their faces.

Pack spent time alone with his mother each day. He sat beside her, held her crippled hand, and talked to her in low reassuring tones. Mara never intruded on these private talks. It seemed to her that Brita was worrying about something, and he was trying to put her mind to rest. He shared in every phase of his mother’s care, even to emptying the chamber pot and boiling the soiled bed clothes in the big pot in the yard.

Mara found herself watching him more and more, marveling that he was such a big, rough man and yet so gentle with his mother. She admired his constant attention to her needs, his attitude toward his young brothers; but it was more than that. It was something in the man himself, an integrity, an inner strength, and it was also a sexual attraction that was entirely new to her.

*  *  *

Pack’s strength was almost back to normal. With the help of the twins he had snaked logs down out of the hills, and they were sawing them into lengths to be split for firewood. It was something to do that kept him close to the house. He pulled on the saw and tried not to think about the pain in his leg.

On the other end of the two-man saw, Travor’s arms felt as if they were about to fall off. He gritted his teeth and pulled doggedly. He’d be damned if he’d cry quit before they had sawed through the log. The chunk fell, Travor let his end of the saw drop, and straightened his back.

“You done real good, boy!” Pack grinned at his young brother. “I was about to holler uncle.”

“I bet!” Travor returned the grin and painfully flexed his shoulders.

“Keep the blade out of the dirt. It’ll be a hell of a lot harder to saw the next one if it’s dull.”

Travor picked up his end of the saw and they placed it lengthwise on the log. Pack drew an oily rag over the jagged teeth. “We sure as hell don’t want that bastard to rust up on us.”

“You goin’ to stop now?”

“For awhile. I need a rest and a cold drink. How about you?” Pack tried not to limp on the way to the well. He had tied a tight cloth about his leg to keep the skin from stretching and breaking over the wound. He had to work. The inactivity, the
waiting
was even more painful.

Travor drew the water, and they drank from the dipper that hung on the nail beside the well. A change had come over the sullen twin during the past few days. He spent more time at the house and less time with the men at the bunkhouse, although he still slept there. He willingly shared work with Trellis and had been civil to Mara, but it was Pack whose company he wanted. If they were not working together, he sat near him on the porch. During meals or when evening came, he quietly disappeared.

“Ma’s goin’ to die, ain’t she, Pack?” Travor looked off toward the mountains as he spoke.

“Yes, Trav.”

“I see a light at night. You ’n Trell sit up with her.”

“Yeah. Mara Shannon takes a turn too. But either me or Trell have to move her in the bed. Mara Shannon isn’t strong enough for that.”

“I could . . . do that. I’m as strong as Trell.”

Pack made a to-do of wiping the sweat from his face and neck while he blinked away the moistness from his eyes. He wanted to throw his arm about his young brother, but he didn’t dare, fearing that the line holding together this fragile friendship they had forged would snap.

“Ma would like that.”

“What’s goin’ to happen . . . when she’s gone? Mara Shannon won’t let us stay here.”

“I don’t know what will happen,” Pack said honestly. “But you and Trell will have a place with me if you want it.”

“We couldn’t leave Pa. He don’t have anybody but Cullen, and Cullen don’t care nothin’ for him.”

“How old are you and Trell?”

“Fourteen. Fifteen in the fall.”

“I didn’t realize you were that old. Time goes by fast.”

“Do you know how to read, Pack?” They were on the way back to the woodpile.

“Some.”

“Do you read as good as Mara Shannon?”

“No, but I can make out most of the words, given time.”

“When she reads about the man on the island, I feel like I’m right there.” Travor picked up the oily cloth and moved it along the saw blade. “Did the man who wrote the story just make it up in his head and write it down?”

“I guess so. I never heard that he was left on an island.” Pack retied the cloth about his thigh. “Charlie Rivers has a lot of books. If Mara Shannon reads all of hers, maybe we can borrow some from Charlie.”

“I wish I could read like Mara Shannon. I’d read those stories to myself.”

“Well,” Pack said, blowing out a long breath, “I bet Mara Shannon would teach you if you asked her.”

Travor lifted his head to look up at his brother. Unashamed tears blurred his eyes.

“There ain’t no time,” he said hoarsely and picked up his end of the saw.

*  *  *

It was nearly midnight. On the hill behind the house a man sat on his haunches and waited for a light to appear in the upstairs window. He began to feel the same excitement he had felt the night before when he saw Mara move about the room preparing for bed. It had been late. He had waited for several hours just as he had tonight. He lifted the small telescope to his eyes and saw movement in the room downstairs where the light burned all night. Minutes later a light shone from the upstairs window.

The man sat as still as a stone and watched as Mara passed the window and back again. On the next trip her arms were lifted. She was taking down her hair! It fell over her shoulders and down her back. She massaged her scalp with her fingers and then moved into the center of the room. The man almost groaned with fear that she would move out of his sight. She unbuttoned the top of her dress, wiggled her shoulders and arms out of it and let it slide down over her hips. A white chemise with a drawstring covered her breasts. As she reached for the string, she stepped out of his sight.

He drew in a ragged breath and cursed. All too quickly the light was gone. He lowered the glass and stared at the darkened window, waiting for the desire that made him hard and uncomfortable to lessen.

Ace January moved quietly to his horse and led him to another area where he had a view of the bunkhouse, settled himself against a tree, and raised the spyglass. Nothing stirred, yet he waited. He would like nothing more than to lie down and sleep, but the stakes were too high for him to indulge himself. If his hunch was right, he would be sleeping in a featherbed for the rest of his life. It was very possible Mara Shannon McCall would be beside him. As desirable as she was, she was like any other woman. He had no doubt that he could have her once she realized what he could give her.

*  *  *

Mara awakened the instant Pack called her name. It seemed to her that she had just closed her eyes. She had stayed with Brita until midnight while he napped on the bunk. Wide awake, she sat up in bed, clutching the cover up over her breasts, a lump of dread in her throat. Pack stood, a vague shadow, filling the doorway of her room.

“Pack? What is it?”

“Come,” he said simply and backed away.

Mara Shannon pulled her dress on over her nightdress, took a ribbon from her pocket and tied her hair at the nape of her neck. She groped in the dark for her shoes, couldn’t find them, then left the room in her bare feet. At the bottom of the stairs she followed the ribbon of light to Brita’s room.

Pack had moved the lamp to the bureau behind his mother’s bed. He sat on the stool beside her, the light shining down on his dark head, his face haggard. Trellis stood beside him and Travor sat on the bunk, his shoulders hunched, his hands clasped between his knees. Mara moved to the bedside, her eyes anxiously scanning Brita’s face. Her head moved restlessly on the pillow and a froth of bubbles flew in and out of her mouth as the slow, gasping breaths came and went. The only sound in the room was the sobbing, dragging sound of her breathing.

No words were necessary between the four people grouped around the bed, only a silent waiting—a period of suspense that had no relation to reality. Mara drew close to Pack and placed her hand on his shoulder.

“Shouldn’t we call Aubrey?”

“No.” The word came from Travor who moved up beside her. “No,” he said again. “He’s drunk.”

Mara’s other hand inched over and clasped the boy’s cold one. His fingers accepted hers gratefully and tightened. He was holding his grief tight inside him, not even allowing himself the comfort of tears. Trellis, standing at the foot of the bed, was crying silently. Pack sat hunched, his eyes on his mother’s face. He was still except for his large fist which rested on the bed beside her milk-white hand. His fingers opened and closed, opened and closed.

The minutes spun into an hour or more. They waited, each wishing, hoping, but knowing the inevitable. The three sons knew they were spending the last few minutes with the mother who had given them life.

A rooster crowed, announcing a new day. Shortly after that the clock on the mantel in the parlor struck five times.