Larkspur (12 page)

“I’m completely at your mercy. I’ve nowhere to go.” Her eyes were full of tears, and she drew her lips between her teeth to keep them from trembling.

“I suppose that is true. I’ve no way of getting you back to town . . . at least for a few days.”

“I couldn’t go back there if you did. They’ll be furious at me because I didn’t stay to sign their papers. Cletus thought they might do things like twist my arm or break my fingers. After I had signed away my inheritance, they’d have gotten rid of me. It wouldn’t do to let me hang around. People might find out that they had bought my land for two thousand dollars.”

Buck whistled through his teeth.

“That much? Generous of him. It might be best for you to go home and let a lawyer handle your claim.”

“I’ve nothing to go home to.” It was an admission she regretted making the instant the words left her mouth. Lenning’s knowing her circumstances made her more vulnerable.

“Forsythe is determined to get the Larkspur one way or the other. You could find yourself in the middle of a war for possession.”

“I’m aware of that. He’s hired killers.”

“You picked up a lot of information during the time you were in Big Timber.”

“I was lucky.”

“Well . . . luck is a fickle thing.”

“What do you mean?” She hugged the bag tighter to her chest.

“Not what you’re thinking. You’ve nothing to fear from me, Miss Anderson, ma’am.” There was a tinge of sarcasm in his voice. “You’ll not need the pistol. I’m not that desperate for a woman.”

“Especially an . . . old maid.” The words were out before she could stop them.

He laughed . . . before
he
could stop it. Kristin rushed into speech to hide her embarrassment.

“Colonel Forsythe said you were a saddle bum who had drifted in and rustled off Uncle Yarby’s cattle. Cletus said you were an honorable man. So did Mrs. Gaffney. She thought I’d be safer here than in town. I really don’t understand it all. Is there no law here in Montana?” Her throat choked with bitterness. She turned her eyes away from him, only to have them swing back of their own accord.

“You met Rose?” His face changed completely when he smiled. He looked years younger; not so wild and . . . dangerous.

“She’s a dear lady. She helped me at great risk to herself.” Kristin got to her feet.

“You met some of the most decent folks in Big Timber.”

“I met Bonnie and Bernie Gates, too. Bernie has a peg leg. Also at great risk to himself and his sister, he came at two in the morning and took me to the freight wagons.”

“I’m surprised Glazer brought you out.”

“He was very nice. All the men were.”

At the urgent barking of the dog Buck became instantly alert. He stepped away from the doorway.

“Come on,” he called over his shoulder.

He loped through the grove. Although Kristin tried, she could not keep up with him. When he reached the spot where she had dropped the box, he reached down and picked it up, hardly breaking his stride.

Sam continued to bark.

When Buck came out of the grove, he could see the dog fidgeting and looking toward the creek. He hurried across the yard, dropped the box near the back door as he passed it and broke into a run. He cursed himself for lingering to talk to the woman, forgetting to lock the door and allowing Moss to wander away. If Forsythe’s spies were about, they would surely see him.

Moss was heading for the creek through the knee-high grass on the flat land. Knowing that he’d not answer if he was called and that he would reach the creek before he could be reached, Buck shouted for the dog.

“Sam! Go get him.”

The dog bounded away and within a minute or two had grabbed on to the leg of the old man’s britches. Moss hit at Sam, but the dog held on and finally pulled the frail old man down onto the ground. He was still sitting there pulling up tufts of grass when Buck reached him. He looked up at Buck and grinned as innocently as a child.

“Maw give me tater dumplin’s for supper.”

“Sure, old-timer. Come on.” Panting from the run, Buck lifted Moss to his feet.

“A bunch of damn two-bit thieves shot Lars Jensen in the belly.” Moss continued to talk as they made their way back to the homestead.

Kristin waited beside the door and watched as the men approached. Buck was leading the old man by the hand as if he were a child. The dog, Sam, who had frightened her earlier in the day trotted along behind them with his tongue hanging out. Kristin had heard Buck send the dog, and her heart dropped to her stomach when he pulled the old man to the ground. But then, the animal had stood there watching him until Buck arrived.

They were a strange threesome: the shaggy vicious dog, big, wild-looking Mr. Lenning, and the little gray-haired man, smiling and talking up to him. As they neared, the old man’s bright blue eyes fastened on Kristin.

“And when he has a punkin pie, he shares it with the others.” He dipped his head and spoke in a singsong voice.

Buck looked at Kristin for her reaction to the strange greeting. Their eyes locked for an instant before she smiled at Moss.

“That’s from the song ‘Yankee Doodle.’ ”

“This is Moss. My . . . pa.”

“Hello.” Kristin held out her hand. Moss grabbed it and held on tightly.

“Kitter’s farm was on the side of a hill.”

“I bet he had a hard time plowing.” Kristin’s eyes went to Buck and then back to the gentle little man.

“Moss was the smartest man I ever knew. Lately his mind has gone backward.”

“I understand. One of our neighbors back home suffered the same. She was past sixty but acted like a three- or four-year-old child.”

“Moss is harmless.”

“You don’t need to explain.”

Moss was still holding to Kristin with one hand. With the other he reached up and gently stroked her hair. Buck watched him closely.

“Are you my maw?” A fleeting look of longing crossed Moss’s face, then it was gone. Buck was sure Kristin hadn’t noticed, but he’d not be able to keep her in the dark for long.

“No. I’m your friend.”

Moss’s eyes rested on her face for a long time without movement, without any discernible emotion, then he grinned.

“Let’s get inside.” Buck looked down at the dog and patted his head. “You did good, Sam. Watch and let me know if you see anything.”

Moss tugged on Kristin’s hand, and she followed him into the kitchen. She tried to free it from his grasp so that she could put down her bag, but he held it tightly. Buck gently pried his fingers loose, and Moss turned to go back out the door. Buck hurried to shut it and drop a bar in place.

“As soon as I have time I’m going to make a door with a screen in it. One I can fasten at the top so that he can’t reach it.”

“What do you do with him when you have to be away?” Kristin hung her bag on the back of one of the big chairs.

“This past week, I’ve locked him in the room next to the bunkhouse.”

“Locked him in! That’s terrible.”

“More terrible than letting him walk off and get lost in the mountains, or fall in the creek and drown?” he answered testily.

“You’re right. I apologize. I can, at least, help you with your father while we’re getting this mess straightened out.”

Like a curious child, Moss was looking in her bag. Kristin remembered the pistol and hurried to pull the bag gently from his hands. She reached in and brought out her hairbrush. With a smile she drew the stiff bristles through the gray hair that came down over his ears. Then she put the brush in his hand.

“Can you brush your hair?”

“He ate blueberries till he got hives,” Moss said.

“He’ll follow simple orders like when you hand him his shirt, and tell him to put it on, or take him to the washpan to wash his hands,” Buck said.

“Granny Dows did that, too.” Kristin held out the gun. “Where can I put this?”

“Keep it locked in your trunk.” Buck unbarred the front door and went out onto the porch. He carried the trunk to the small room off the kitchen, then went to the back step for the box. “It’s not the Grand Hotel in Big Timber—”

“—Well . . . thank goodness for that. If you’ll bring in some wood for the cookstove, I’ll make supper. You do eat, don’t you?”

“When I get the chance. Cooking is not one of the things I do best. Now, Moss could stir up a decent meal out of almost nothing.”

“Why do you call your father Moss?”

“Habit,” he said testily. “What did you call yours?”

“Papa.” Kristin shook down the firebox on the stove and lifted the two round lids on the top.

Buck returned with an armful of cut wood and a pail of chips.

“Can you make biscuits?”

“Of course.”

“There’s been times when I’d have given a dollar for a decent biscuit.” He started the fire in the cookstove and replaced the iron lids.

“If I had a penny for every biscuit I’ve made, I’d be rich. I don’t know much about ranching and roundups and things like that, but I can cook and clean and milk cows.”

“Things are not too clean—”

“Do you have dishes other than the ones in the dishpan?”

“Whole set under the curtain. They’ve been there a while. Moss and I usually use the two granite plates you see in the dishpan. Help yourself to whatever you need.” Buck gave her a quizzical look and picked up the waterbucket. “If you’ll keep your eye on Moss, I’ll get a bucket of water, and some meat from the smokehouse.”

Kristin glanced at Moss and nodded. He was sitting in one of the big chairs contentedly holding her hairbrush. He was surprisingly clean—both his clothes and his person, and she began to feel a grudging respect for Buck Lenning.

She washed her hands and opened the big tin containing the flour. Although she still smarted from the humiliation of mistaking
his
house for
hers,
the tension between them had eased . . . for the moment.

Chapter Eight

C
olonel Kyle Forsythe made no attempt to conceal his anger as he paced the length of his study. It had been a mighty blow to his self-esteem that the woman whom he had bragged about as being in the palm of his hand had failed to show up to sell him her land, and now he was told that she had skipped out in the night.

Mark Lee had been smart enough not to remind him that he had allowed her to walk away from the office without signing the power of attorney. But the young lawyer had been cool and aloof since the meeting began a half hour ago. He wanted this land deal completed, so that he could collect his money and leave this two-bit town.

Del Gomer, on the other hand, appeared not only to be unconcerned but uncaring that Forsythe’s plans had gone awry. When he had arrived a half hour ago, neat as a pin as usual, he had greeted Mrs. DeVary politely, and then had gone into the study where he now sat holding his drink in his long slim fingers, his silver-colored eyes never settling long on any one person or thing.

The bastard wouldn’t bat an eye if his mother were being burned at the stake.
The thought passed through Lee’s mind even as he spoke of other things.

“I had Cam Spencer watch Mrs. Gaffney’s house last night after the drayman told me she’d gone there.” Lee wiped his brow with his handkerchief and returned it to his pocket. “She stayed at the house while the old lady went to church. When she returned, they went up to bed.”

“Then I suppose Spencer left his post and went back to the saloon,” Forsythe said sarcastically.

“Around midnight . . . he said.”

Forsythe paced back and forth for a full five minutes. The only sound in the room was the clink made by Lee lifting the stopper on the whiskey decanter and the soft thud of the colonel’s highly polished shoes on the thick carpet. Abruptly, he spun on his heel and went to the door.

“Ruth!” he bellowed.

Almost immediately Mrs. DeVary came into the room with her usual pleasant smile.

“Afternoon, gentlemen.”

“You know Mrs. Gaffney, don’t you?” Forsythe’s voice was gruff, impatient.

“Not very well. She’s very hard of hearing and it’s difficult to visit with her.”

“Get over there and see if you can find out where the girl went.”

“What girl?”

“Kristin Anderson, old Yarby Anderson’s kin. The one that came in on the train yesterday. Who did you think I was talking about—Lily from the Red Dog Saloon?”

A puzzled frown came over Mrs. DeVary’s face. “I’ve never called on Mrs. Gaffney, Kyle. What excuse can I give?”

“How the hell should I know?” he shouted. “Take her some of those damn cookies you bake for the church bazaar or ask her advice on something. Earn your keep for a change!”

Ruth DeVary’s face turned white and then red as she looked down at the floor.

“Very well,” she said quietly, and left the room.

Mark Lee was embarrassed for the woman. He had discovered long ago that Forsythe had a mean streak, but he had not seen him use it against Mrs. DeVary.

“Somebody helped her, by damn! She didn’t get on the train. Bruza checked. At least
he
can do something right.” Forsythe paced back and forth across the room. He stopped in front of Mark. “She ate breakfast at that hole in the wall run by the cripple and his sister. If I find out they had anything to do with getting her out of town, I’ll string him up by his balls and put her to work flat on her back out at Flo’s.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” The words fell calmly into the silence after Forsythe spoke.

“What did you say?” His mind fogged by a heavy cloud of rage, Forsythe spun around to face the cold-eyed man.

“You heard me. Leave Miss Gates alone.” Del never raised his voice. His colorless, unblinking eyes fastened on the colonel.

“Who the hell is running things here?”

“Run things any way you want but leave Bonnie Gates out of it. I won’t tell you again.”

“Are you horny for that woman?” Forsythe stood before Del with his hands on his waist, his feet spread in a cocksure stance meant to intimidate. It had no effect at all on Del.

“That is none of your business,” he said quietly.

“Christ!” Forsythe threw up his hands. “If you’re hot for the bitch, go screw her and get it out of your system.”