Rekindled (26 page)

Yes, but not this close. He backed up a step.

That put him in the moonlight, so he shifted again. Kathryn opened the door, and for an instant, Larson thought he’d gotten her out of bed.

“Miss Maudie asked me to bring this to you.” His voice came out raspy, and he swallowed.

Slivers of pale light shone through the cottonwoods and fell across the threshold, enabling him to see her face. She looked at him briefly, then glanced away. The cottage behind her was dark, especially through his glasses. Her hair was mussed, beautifully so. Something stirred inside him.

She smiled and pulled open the door. “Thank you for carrying that up here for me. If you’ll just put it over there, please.” She pointed to a space by the cold hearth. “I can carry the clothes to the bedroom later.”

Larson walked inside, keenly aware of his limp. He tried to compensate, but he’d worked especially hard that day and his body ached. Kathryn had swung the door open wide and left it that way, purposefully so, as though suddenly fearing for her virtue. As if she had any left. A metallic taste filled his mouth at the thought.

The curtains were open, and shafts of light gleamed off the polished wood floor in the moonlight. Larson easily made out the path to the bedroom and carried the trunk on back.

“Sir, I said you could—”

The bedroom was nice. Much nicer than the one they’d shared for ten years. Larson set the trunk below a window and slowly turned to look at her from across the bed—a feather mattress at that. Not stuffed with straw like the one they’d shared. He saw the rumpled blanket and the imprint on the bed where she’d been. She had been asleep, or at least lying down.

She stood in the darkened doorway, watching him, her hands gently clasped over her illegitimate child. Larson winced at the harshness of his thoughts. Then he saw the glint of something on her left hand. Her wedding ring. No doubt she thought it lent credibility to her situation.

His boldness to look at her surprised him. But then again, it was dark and the moon was at his back. Did she even recognize him from their brief encounter last week? Part of him hoped she would, while the greater part of him preferred to remain in the background, unnoticed.

She motioned toward the trunk. “Thank you for bringing it in here. That was very kind of you, sir.”

Larson heard the smile in her voice. The same smile he’d seen her give to countless other ranch hands during the course of dinner earlier that night. Though meals were served beneath the stand of cottonwoods behind the main house, he chose to eat closer to the stable, alone. His second day here, he’d worked that out with Miss Maudie, with surprisingly little exchange between them.

Miss Maudie possessed an intuitive nature that encouraged his trust on one hand, while making him wary on the other. Not that he thought she was dishonest. Far from it. But the woman saw into people in ways most others didn’t. And Larson couldn’t afford her doing that with him.

“I’m sorry about . . .” Kathryn’s voice was soft. She glanced away. “About running into you the other day.”

So she did remember. Why should that silly fact matter to him? And why were his hands shaking? In the veil of darkness, Larson looked his wife up and down, rapidly ticking off the reasons why he should walk out that door and never come back. But no matter how many of Kathryn’s sins he piled on the scale, he couldn’t make it tip in his favor. Some unseen hand seemed to stay the balance. The same hand tightening a fist around his heart right now.

He walked out of the bedroom, intentionally breathing in her scent when he passed. “Good night, ma’am.”

He didn’t hear the front door close behind him. Larson felt her watching, but didn’t turn. After a few strides, his right leg gave out. He stumbled and nearly fell. His body went hot thinking that she might have seen. Not looking back, he gathered his right pant leg in his hand and dragged his leg forward with each stride, gritting his teeth.

Back in the stable, he took off his dark glasses, threw a blanket on the straw, and sank down. Wishing for one of Abby’s warm mineral baths, he peeled off his pants and shirt and poured the last of the precious brown liniment into his hands. He rubbed it into the taut muscles of his legs and shoulders, then lay back. His body welcomed the reprieve, but his mind was too full to sleep.

After a while, he picked up his Bible and limped back outside, past the rows of bunkhouses to a spot where lamplight still burned in a window. Voices drifted out to him from the open windows. He sat down beneath the window and leaned against the side of the building, holding the Bible up at an angle. He began reading where he’d left off the previous night, in Peter’s first letter.

Another week and he’d have read through the entire Bible for the first time. He sighed, thinking of how proud Isaiah and Abby would be of him. For a minute, he wished he were back with them, safe in the cabin, cared for, even loved. Kathryn would have been proud too, but she would never know.

Larson’s eyes tripped over a phrase, and he suddenly realized he hadn’t been paying attention. He backed up and read the verses again. His throat tightened as he mouthed the words silently.

Though now for a season . . . ye are in heaviness through manifold temptations: That the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire. . . .

Tried with fire
.

He ran a finger over the words, unable to feel the smoothness of the page beneath his seared flesh. He’d heard this Scripture somewhere before. Most likely Kathryn had read it to him one night as he’d halfheartedly listened. His heart devoured the words as his eyes moved down the page.

For all flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of grass. The grass withereth . . . but the word of the Lord endureth for ever
.

He didn’t understand everything he read, but some of the verses sounded like God had meant them just for him.

Laying aside all malice, and all guile, and hypocrisies, and envies . . . desire the sincere milk of the word. . . .
He continued to the bottom of the page.
Christ also suffered for us, leaving us an example, that ye should follow his steps . . . Who his own self bare our sins in his own body . . . by whose stripes ye were healed
.

The beginning of chapter three left a bitter taste in his mouth, and Larson knew that during their marriage, he hadn’t treated Kathryn as a fellow heir to the grace of life. And it had hindered his prayers. Hers too, no doubt. He kept reading to chapter five.

Humble yourselves therefore under the mighty hand of God, that he may exalt you . . . Casting all your care on him; for he careth for you
.

When the lamplight in the window above him extinguished some time later, Larson quietly got up and made his way back to the stable. He lay down and, for the first time in months, slept the night without waking.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

H
ANGING LAUNDRY THE next morning, Kathryn saw him again from a distance. The man who had delivered her trunk. She recognized him instantly—the knit cap pulled tight over his head, the scruffy beard. And though his scars had been obscured in the shadowed half light, she could never forget them.

As he led a horse from the stable to the fenced corral, Kathryn watched him, staring at the reason why sleep had eluded her the night before. How did a man communicate so much while speaking so little?

Last night she’d gotten the distinct impression that he didn’t want to be in the same room with her. It still puzzled her. Something about him drew her, as it had that first day. Compassion most likely, or at least that’s what she’d originally thought. But as she’d lain awake considering it, remembering his darkened silhouette against the moonlight, she’d figured out what it was.

He reminded her of Larson.

Not so much physically, she decided. It was more his . . . presence. And the way he looked at her.

The man tethered the buckskin mare to a post, then turned her direction and adjusted his spectacles. He stilled.

Kathryn’s eyes went wide. She felt like he’d caught her spying. She managed a half smile, but he chose that moment to turn. If he’d seen her, he didn’t acknowledge it. She hung another sheet over the line and watched him furtively from behind its folds.

He was shorter and definitely older than Larson had been. At least fifty pounds leaner, his build would never rival Larson’s well-muscled stature. And the poor man’s scars . . .

She cringed, remembering how she’d gasped at first seeing them in the daylight back in town. Kathryn pulled another sheet from the basket. A dull ache throbbed inside her, and she briefly closed her eyes. Would missing Larson always hurt this much? And was she destined to continually see him—or the qualities she’d loved about him—mirrored in other men?

When she looked again, the ranch hand was rubbing the mare’s forehead. The horse nudged closer to him and, though Kathryn couldn’t hear what the man said, his lips moved as though he were cooing to the animal. He bent and ran a hand over each of her legs. When he touched her left hind leg, the horse whinnied and shied away. He stood and came close to her again, looking directly into the mare’s eyes. She calmed and moved back toward him.

Such gentleness. Again, a quality Larson had possessed. But not to this extent. . . . Whatever this man lacked in human civility, he certainly possessed with animals. He walked to the fence and picked up a currycomb, the limp in his right leg less pronounced than it had been the night before.

After he’d delivered her trunk, she’d seen him nearly fall on his way back to the stable. But she hadn’t dared approach to help him, certain he would refuse. Was it pride or bitterness, or perhaps both, that kept a person from accepting help from others? Annabelle came to mind, and Kathryn turned back to her work. She could hardly stand in judgment of either Annabelle or this gentle, scarred man. Though she’d faced trials in her own life, she certainly hadn’t endured the same kind of pain. And if she had, who was to say her heart would have been any less embittered than theirs.

That afternoon, Kathryn climbed the stairs leading to the second floor of the main house and looked down the hallway to the closed ornate double doors. The master bedroom was next on her list, but she wasn’t going near that room until she was absolutely certain Donlyn MacGregor was not in it.

She’d overheard a kitchen maid say that Mr. MacGregor had returned home late during the night from his trip. Perhaps today she would have the opportunity to speak with him about his offer to help her keep the ranch.

Placing her bucket of cleaning supplies aside, she polished the marble-topped rosewood table on the landing, then walked down the hallway. She checked inside each of the three unoccupied guestrooms to ensure everything was in proper order.

Miss Maudie had given her a thorough tour of the home the night before. The house was much larger and far more exquisitely furnished than what Kathryn had first imagined. Boasting vintage Chippendale furniture crafted from the finest mahogany with curved cabriole legs and claw-and-ball feet, the pieces rivaled the splendor of those in her parents’ home in Boston. Kathryn wondered if her father even lived in the same house since her mother’s passing.

She ran the dusting cloth along the scrolled edges of a mirror hanging over the table, wishing her mother could have lived to see the child Kathryn carried. The two people most precious to her were gone. She thought of her father and wondered if writing to him now might make a difference. Maybe if William Cummings knew he would soon have a grandchild, he might feel differently toward her. But she’d written him twice shortly after her mother had died and had never received any response. Apparently his interest in her life, or lack of it, remained unchanged.

Kathryn came to the last door on the right and stopped, not remembering this room on Miss Maudie’s tour. She’d already cleaned the servants’ quarters downstairs and the guest bedrooms on this level. Could she have missed one? She tapped on the door.

No answer. She quietly turned the knob, and it gave easily in her hand.

Half-opened shutters diffused the sunshine, sending slanted beams of light across a massive desk and leather chair. Rows of books and ledgers lined the shelves on either side of the desk. Kathryn quickly ran a finger along one of the shelves and blew away the dust. She would earn Miss Maudie’s disapproval for certain if she missed this room. Whoever held this duty before had shirked their employer’s office. From her impression of Donlyn MacGregor, his expectations would stand for nothing less than perfection, and she wanted to stay in his good graces. She closed the door behind her, opened the shutters, and pulled the bottle of lemon wax from her apron pocket.

Nearly an hour later, footsteps sounded from the other side of the office door. Atop a stool cleaning the upper shelves, Kathryn paused and looked behind her, waiting for Miss Maudie to breeze in for an inspection and hoping the woman would be pleased.

But whoever it was didn’t come in. Kathryn went back to cleaning.

Piles of neatly stacked papers layered each other on the left side of the desktop. Kathryn carefully lifted each one to clean beneath it. The embossed name titling one of the pages caught her attention. Something about it tugged at her memory and made her look at the stationery more closely.

Berklyn Stockholders
.

Why did that name sound familiar? Perhaps a company her father used to do business with? But somehow the memory felt closer than that. She ran a finger over the pressed parchment and scanned the body of the missive. Her eyes honed in on the words
Colorado Territory River Commission
.

“‘Regarding your inquisition about First Rights of Appropriation on Fountain Creek,’ ” she read, her voice barely audible. Her focus dropped down the page. “‘Your conditional filing will be reviewed—”’ The closing of a door in the hallway drew her head up.

Kathryn quickly returned the business letters and legal documents to their place, her hands suddenly shaking both at the possibility of being caught reading these documents and for having read them in the first place. She grabbed the dirty cloth and hurried from behind the desk. Reaching the door, she glanced back. Were all the stacks in the right order? And what had possessed her to look at them to begin with? It was none of her business, but . . . why was MacGregor inquiring about Fountain Creek?