Jane Bonander (4 page)

Never one for small talk, Susannah demanded, “What do you want this time?”

He gave her a slow, careful perusal before he glanced away, toward the fallen tree. “Why won’t you let me help you with that?”

“And why do you continue to believe I need your help?”

He took off his hat, revealing a thick head of tobacco brown hair capped with sun bleached streaks.
“Because you can’t lift the ax, you’ve been circling the tree like an Indian appraising a wagon train, and you nearly broke your foot.”

She glared at him. “You’ve been spying on me?”

He shrugged. “I saw you struggling as I rode in.” His half smile brought just the slightest warmth to his cold eyes.

His eyes had always frightened her. . . .

As she willed the memory to fade and die, she realized the stranger was still scratching Max’s ears. She continued to feel the bite of anger at the dog’s defection.

“I’ll chop up your tree for nothing, ma’am. You don’t even have to feed me.”

She gave him a skeptical look—the cold eyes, the way his tanned skin was pulled over the sharp ledges of his cheekbones, the mouth she guessed rarely smiled. “I can’t imagine why you’d want to do that.”

Again, the rusty half smile. “I could use the exercise.”

Susannah’s legs and arms still burned from her foolish attempt at physical labor. She stood and took slow, mincing painful steps to the porch and sat on the steps, relieved to be off her feet. She knew she’d never get the tree chopped up by herself. She could really use the help, and he was persistent.

She glanced at Max again. She’d be a fool to trust a dog’s instincts. It was tempting to stick with her resolution to refuse the man under any circumstances. And she wouldn’t feel right unless she paid him, but she had precious little money for that. But he’d only asked for a meal. She continued to vacillate back and forth, then . . .

Is that all he wants from you? A free meal?

She shoved the question aside. She didn’t have to like him or trust him to allow him to chop her tree into firewood.

She stood slowly, swallowing a groan. “All right. You can chop up the tree.” She crossed the porch, then turned and looked at him. “Stop at the door when you’re finished. I’ll give you something to eat.”

He picked up the ax. “You don’t have to do that; I said I’d do it for nothing.”

Again, as before, his height and size made her want to cower, but she forced herself to stand firm. “We have to eat, anyway. You might as well join us.”

Nodding, he went around the side of the cabin and disappeared.

Against her better judgment, Susannah stepped inside and went to the window. She watched him chop, the muscles in his back and his arms bunching into hard bulges beneath his shirt as he worked. She was surprised that watching him didn’t repulse her, hadn’t sent her stomach churning or made the hair on her neck stand on end.

Briefly, a picture of Harlan, sweaty and bare-chested in his baggy overalls, hovered in her mind, but she pushed it away.

She pulled in a deep breath and went to the counter to mix up a batch of biscuits just as Corey came out of his room, dragging his blanket.

“Hello, darling. Did you have a good nap?”

He didn’t answer her. Instead, he pulled his stool to the window, climbed onto it and stared outside. “Why is big man chopping tree, Mama?”

“Because he offered to, sweetheart.”

“Why?”

Susannah repressed a smile.
Why
had become his favorite word. “Because Mama can’t do it by herself.”

“Why?”

“The tree is too big, that’s why.”

Susannah noticed the play of emotions that scampered over her son’s sweet face. He’d never had a good relationship with men. Poor little thing had never had a chance. She didn’t want him to grow up fearing them, though. The only way to prevent that was to hide her own fears.

As she watched Corey rub his eyes, she was struck, as she always was, with the frightening worry of her situation. Despite it all, she had to stop thinking about what was past and concentrate on the future.

“Big man chopping tree good, Mama.”

Susannah slid the biscuits into the old, cast iron oven, then joined Corey at the window. The stranger chopped with ease, swinging the ax as though he were born to it. He’d removed his shirt, the power in his chest and arms evident beneath the fabric of his undershirt.

She shook her head, remembering how hard it was for her to even talk to a man without feeling threatened. And this man hadn’t even done anything threatening Just being within five feet of her was threat enough.

The memory of Harlan intruded again, and she knew that it was a man’s size that bothered her. She knew only too well the power behind a fist or an open hand. But sometimes it was his smell. That smell often stayed in her nostrils until she thought she would choke. Men smelled so different. So . . . bold, or something. It was hard to describe. When she’d been just a girl, she hadn’t minded the smell. In fact, at first she’d equated it with safety. Then everything had changed—

No!
She wouldn’t let herself remember.

She and Corey stood and watched the stranger work until Corey started tugging at his clothes. Susannah noticed that he’d soaked through his flannel diaper, for the flour sack overalls she’d made him were wet.

As she lifted him off the chair, she said, not really expecting an answer, “When are you going to learn to go pee like a big boy?”

Having just turned three before they left Missouri, Corey was still a baby, but Susannah was aware that other children his age already knew about not soiling their underclothes. She remembered one of the ranchers’ wives telling her to let Corey run around outside during the summer with only a shirt on, leaving his privates naked. “That way,” the woman had said, clearly feeling superior, “he can do his little business anywhere he pleases, and you won’t have any of that awful laundry to do.”

While Susannah cleaned Corey up, she shook her head with disgust at such a notion. Why, that would teach the child nothing. He’d be no better than the dog.

But as she rinsed the diaper in the pail she kept under the porch, she wondered how old Corey would be before he finally decided he was too big to wear what babies wore.

She finished making lunch, relieved that Corey hadn’t found it necessary to go outside and watch the man work. With sudden clarity, she realized she didn’t have to worry about Corey absorbing her fears; unfortunately, he had a few of his own. Hopefully, over time, he’d forget about them. But as she watched him, his expression grave as he studied the stranger, she knew he hadn’t forgotten them yet.

Nate washed up at the pump before going to the door. He was tempted to tell the woman to forget the meal, but damn it, he could smell meat and cabbage, and his mouth watered. He was hungry, and he didn’t want to leave. Not yet.

She came to the door before he got to the porch. “Oh,” she said, sounding surprised. “I was just coming to get you.”

He studied her again as he moved toward her. She had dark russet hair that wasn’t quite red, yet much more than brown. He remembered her eyes that first day he’d seen her in town. Big and brown . . . He’d always been a sucker for big brown eyes.

He swore to himself. No wonder Walker wanted her. No man in his right mind would let a woman like this leave, no matter what she’d done.

He followed her into the cabin. Gaily patterned curtains covered the windows and hand-stitched pillows were casually strewn across the threadbare sofa and chair.

A serviceable cast iron stove stood in one corner, flanked by low cupboards and a dry sink. A dressmaker’s form with a dress pinned to it stood by the window, appearing every bit like a matronly chaperone. On a window ledge beneath the sheer yellow curtains sat a row of tiny plants. A small, round table set for three stood nearby. Though it was a plain room, feminine touches were evident everywhere.

“Please,” she offered, “have a seat. Supper is ready.”

Nate nodded, continuing his scrutiny as he crossed to the table. Fluffy, golden biscuits were heaped in a basket. There was a bowl of steaming cabbage and carrots with chunks of beef. He took a seat across from her.

The woman lowered her head and gave a quiet prayer of thanks, then told him to help himself.

As he ate, he watched her cut up the boy’s meat and cabbage. Only when the boy was eating quietly did she put anything on her own plate.

She was a beauty. And even though she was generously curved, there was a frailty about her. Or a sadness. Even the boy was too quiet. It had been a while, but he still knew children, and unless they were frightened or being punished, they were at least wiggly at the supper table. His own had been.

A brief, painful vision of his son, Jackson, flashed before him. Jackson squirming in his high chair . . . squishing his potatoes between his fingers . . . building a fortress with his green beans . . . dropping them, one by one, onto the floor . . .

Nate closed his eyes, willing away the memory. He brought his hand to his face and sucked in a breath, noting that his fingers shook.

“Are you all right?” Her voice was soft, as if she were afraid of interrupting him.

Nate cleared his throat. “I’m fine.” But he studied the boy again. A child that age wasn’t so quiet by nature.

He glanced over at the woman, and their gazes met. Briefly he caught the haunted, wary expression in her eyes, and he felt a pull so strong, he looked away.
Don’t delve too deep
. He forced himself to remember why he was there.

“Bread, Mama,” the boy said, reaching toward the basket. His arm hit his cup and it went over on the table, milk spreading like a sea of white, tunneling straight for Nate.

“Oh, Corey!” The woman sprang to her feet, pulled off her apron and stemmed the flow just before it reached the edge of the table. “Oh, you must try to be more careful, darling.” She sponged up the milk, nervously glancing at Nate. “He didn’t mean it. It was an accident—”

He reached out to tell her it didn’t matter. Before he got the words out, she cringed and rushed toward the boy, shielding him, her eyes filled with terror.

Nate frowned at her exaggerated reaction. While she stood in front of the child, apparently unable to move, Nate rose from the table and finished cleaning up the mess.

“You know, son,” he said as he went to the dishpan and rinsed out the milk soaked apron, “when I was a little boy, I was always spilling my milk. And when I had a little boy of my own, he spilled his milk, too. I think it’s just one of those things little boys do.”

Nate returned to the table and righted the cup. The woman stood behind her son’s stool, her hands protectively on his shoulders. The boy shivered uncontrollably, his eyes wide with fear.

“How about if we pour just a little bit into the bottom?” Nate splashed a bit of milk into the boy’s cup. “Now, you wanted some bread?” At the boy’s shy nod, Nate lifted a biscuit from the basket, slathered it with jelly and handed it to him.

He sat and continued with his meal. “Sit down, ma’am.”

The woman sat, but Nate noticed that she ate very little.

When they’d finished their meal, she brought him a cup of coffee and a piece of pie.

“Dried apple,” she said. “Pies aren’t my speciality. I hope it’s all right.”

Nate felt a brief pain in his gut. Dried apple pie had been his wife’s favorite. Another pang of guilt, another reminder of a life gone awry.

The child went out on the porch to play with the dog. His laughter brought Nate memories of Jackson again. Jackson’s laugh as Nate tossed him high in the air . . . Jackson’s giggle as his mother fought to put on his pajamas . . .

The memories dug at the scab that had formed over Nate’s buried feelings. Even though he was sure the pie was delicious, he forced it down, unable to taste anything but the bitterness of his own loss.

When he’d finished, he stepped out onto the porch and lit a cigarette. He could hear the woman talking softly to the boy as she called him in for his nap. It wasn’t long before she joined him on the porch.

“You thought I would hit your boy. Why?”

The woman gasped quietly, but said nothing.

“Why would you think I’d hit him?” He flicked his cigarette away, then turned and studied her. “Or you, for that matter?”

She turned away from his searching gaze. “I . . . I didn’t think that.”

“The hell you didn’t.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she answered. “It doesn’t concern you.”

He reached in to pull out another cigarette, then changed his mind. He was smoking too much these days. Out of frustration, no doubt.

“You’re right about that. I’m sorry I interfered.” The quiet hung heavily between them. He thought briefly of his meeting with the sheriff earlier. Nate had asked a few innocent questions and discovered she was Susannah Walker, all right, even though she called herself Susannah Quinn. Sonny Walker had warned him that she might use her maiden name. She professed to be still waiting for her husband to return from the war. A handy little lie, but a smart one. She obviously knew Walker was after her.

He pushed himself away from the porch railing. “Well, I guess I’ll be leaving. Thanks for supper, ma’am.”

“Thank you for cutting and stacking my wood.”

Actually, he was anxious to leave. But as he rode toward Angel’s Valley, he knew he had to come back to her cabin and further earn her confidence.

He remembered the first day, after he’d offered to cut up her tree and she’d refused him, he’d retreated to the bluff above her cabin and watched her through the telescope. He’d seen her pretty face as she’d smiled and laughed with the boy. She hadn’t been all trussed up like most women he knew. Soft curves had pressed through the fabric of her plain cotton dress, and he’d suspected that she wasn’t wearing a corset.

Then, he’d been pretty certain she was the woman he’d been searching for; he could feel it. His visit to the sheriff had just solidified his own gut feeling. Yet, she wasn’t what he’d been led to expect. “A vicious, murdering bitch,” which had been Sonny’s words exactly, was not how Nate would describe her. When she didn’t know he was watching, she was a mixture of sweetness and fire. She had a quick tongue, but she was also vulnerable and sad. And beneath it all, he detected a woman strong enough to do whatever was necessary to protect herself and her child.