Tall, Dark, and Texan (2 page)

Except for this time. It was well into June, and he hadn’t heard from Chicago.

Teagen walked into the shade of the porch, removed his hat, and wiped his forehead on his sleeve. It would be after noon before he returned, and he had two days of work to finish before nightfall. The splintered post had not only cut his hand, it delayed him. Martha would be so mad about him being late with her provisions, she would probably abandon not speaking to him in favor of nagging him to death.

“Morning.” A pretty little lady in black drew his attention. Her voice held a hint of a northern accent that marked her instantly as an outsider.

For a second, he glanced to his left and right, thinking she must be greeting someone else. Town folk never talked to any McMurray except his sister Sage.

But this stranger, sitting on Anderson’s porch, just looked up at him and smiled.

Three little girls, stacked like leaning dominoes, were sleeping beside her on the bench. “Morning,” he managed, gave her a quick nod, and moved on.

Almost smiling at his newfound friendly attitude, he stepped inside the post.

“Teagen,” Elmo Anderson yelled from across the length of his store. “You got the list?”

Teagen reached in his pocket and tugged out the list of items Martha had dictated to him at breakfast. It was shorter than usual, since both his brothers and their wives were gone. Even Sage had left to visit Travis and Rainey in Austin. For three weeks he’d eaten his meals alone with a book propped against his coffee cup. A few times he’d had to remind himself he preferred the silence while he read. He’d reread several novels and journals and knew he’d be wishing for company if the new shipment didn’t come soon from Barton Books.

Before he could ask, Anderson volunteered, “That letter you’ve been expecting from Chicago finally came in on the stage, along with that widow and three girls on the porch. She’s been waiting for someone all morning.” He flipped Teagen the letter and went back to work.

She was not his worry, Teagen thought, as he opened the envelope. One page tumbled out. Teagen frowned. He’d hoped for a long letter from his friend.

Four lines were boldly written on the page.

Teagen looked up to see if someone was playing a prank. But no one ever played jokes on him. Anderson and a stock boy were the only two in the store, and they seemed busy collecting supplies. If they had any idea what had been in the letter, neither showed any sign of it.

Reading the message again, he frowned. This had to be some kind of trick. It was obviously his friend’s handwriting—he’d know Eli’s signature anywhere after all the years—but when Teagen heard from Barton Books in December, Eli had said he was well. Why was he now sending something that sounded like a will?

Teagen tried to remember what Eli had written at Christmas. Something short and to the point, talking only of books. At the time Teagen had assumed Eli was busy, but now he wondered if he could have already been ill, maybe even dying.

He flipped the envelope over. No postmarks. “How’d you say this letter came in?”

“On the stage,” Elmo answered. “The lady out on the porch handed it to me.”

Not wanting anyone to know his business, Teagen folded the letter, stuffed it in his shirt pocket, and walked outside.

The woman in black and three sleeping little girls hadn’t moved. He took a closer look. They all looked exhausted, their clothes travel-dirty and worn.

Maybe it was coincidence they waited here, he thought as he stepped closer.

The woman stood, using her bag as a pillow for the child who’d been sleeping on her leg. She wasn’t tall, not even to his shoulder. Teagen had the feeling she stood on her tiptoes to face him. He’d seen rabbits braver than her. Dark circles shadowed her huge brown eyes.

Before he could figure out how to ask a total stranger who she was, the little lady said, “You’re Teagen McMurray, aren’t you?”

He nodded slowly, afraid to make any fast moves because the poor woman looked like she might cry. In general, he had no idea how to handle women, and this one in particular seemed even more of a puzzle with her northern accent and big, frightened eyes.

She blinked as if she could push away fear. “You’re bigger than I thought you would be.”

He didn’t know how to respond. Hard work had put two hundred pounds on his six-foot frame, and he saw no need to explain. Better to get things straight right away. “There’s been some mistake, miss.”

“Mrs.,” she whispered. “Mrs. Eli Barton. My husband told me to come to you if something happened to him. He died of pneumonia over three months ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Teagen felt far more sorrow than he let show in his words. “I considered him a good friend.”

She stared. Grief wasn’t new to her, he guessed, so it no longer held a sting.

The letter scratched against his chest, but he didn’t pull it out. Teagen was not a man who could be talked or bullied into anything. Not even by a friend’s dying words. “How can I be of service, Mrs. Barton?” he said coldly, already drawing lines in his mind as to how far he would go to help Eli’s widow. Teagen had seen far too many con men in his life to trust anyone except family. Money for the stage back to Austin and the fee for a few nights in the hotel seemed appropriate. Maybe, if she needed respectable work, he could ask around. Mrs. Dickerson might help her find employment.

For a second he thought he saw pain flicker in her brown eyes, and he almost wished he’d asked more softly. But a gentle tone would die from lack of use in his mouth.

“If it wouldn’t be too much to ask, could we stay a few days with you, Mr. McMurray?” She hesitated as if she’d practiced her speech and wanted to remember it exactly. “We’ve been traveling for weeks and need somewhere to rest until my relatives from California can reach us.”

A weight lifted from his shoulders. If all she wanted was a way station, he could provide that, even if it wasn’t something he’d ever done. This was a special circumstance. This was the widow of his friend. “When will they be coming?” he asked before committing.

She looked at him again with those sad eyes. “Soon,” she whispered. “I’m sure they are already on their way. A week or two at the most.”

“I could see you to the hotel. You’d be comfortable there.”

She reached out and touched his arm so quickly he didn’t have time to step back. “Please, if you’ve room, may we stay at your ranch? The girls have been boxed up on smoky trains, airless hotels, and stagecoaches for so long. We’ve found most places on the way here to be noisy and not always friendly to children.”

Teagen couldn’t argue. He’d rather camp outside a town than go into a hotel and sleep where the air smelled of sweaty bodies, and arguments drifted through paper-thin walls. He glanced at the three sleeping girls, then back at their shy little mother. How much trouble could they be? “Of course. If you like. I’ve got the room.”

She collected her things while Teagen loaded up her two small trunks. It crossed his mind that Whispering Mountain wasn’t on the way to anything, certainly not California. She should have traveled with wagons to Santa Fe and waited there or taken a train from Chicago to the East Coast and then a ship to California. But, he reasoned, a ship around the horn might have been too expensive and, with three children, a hotel in Santa Fe would not be easy to find.

The letter scratched through the cotton of his shirt. It had almost sounded as if Eli had given Teagen his family to keep, not just to watch over for a few days. Teagen told himself it was not too much of a favor to ask. After all, if the truth be told, Eli was his only friend. To everyone around, he’d always had to be solid as a rock, but there had been a few times over the years when Teagen had written out all his thoughts and problems in letters to a man he’d thought he would never meet.

Anderson shoved the last box of supplies into the buckboard and turned to stare. “You taking the lady home, Teagen?” If gossip had a crusader, it would be bald-headed, round-bodied Elmo Anderson. He was worse than a two-headed magpie.

“Yes,” Teagen answered. He shoved the widow’s box deep into the bed of the buckboard.

“To Whispering Mountain?”

The petite widow straightened as she carried the oldest of her three sleeping children in her arms. Her glance told Teagen she also waited to make sure he wouldn’t change his mind.

“Yes,” Teagen echoed. “Appears I’m going to have company for a few days.”

Anderson’s stare reminded Teagen of an openmouthed catfish.

Mrs. Barton stepped forward. “If you could move a few of those boxes, I think my Emily can sleep next to the supplies. She’s very tired.”

For the first time Teagen really looked at the child. She was thin with skin as pale as milk and hair so blonde it was almost white. Nothing about her appeared healthy. Teagen didn’t look away as he spoke to the store owner. “Bring out a few new blankets. We’re running short at the house anyway. She can sleep on them for the ride back.”

Anderson, always happy for the sale, hurried toward the store. “Any particular kind?”

“Blue,” a tiny voice shouted. “Em loves blue.”

Teagen looked around at the other two children. The one closest to him must be the youngest. She had a round face with her mother’s eyes and auburn hair so curly it looked like a bush.

“What’s this one’s name?” He indicated with his head as he began moving boxes in the wagon.

“That’s Bethie.” The middle child stepped forward. “And I’m Rose. She likes red.”

The wee one waddled toward him. “Red, red, red.”

Teagen frowned down at the one who said she was Rose. She was thin, like her sleeping sister Emily, but her hair hung in long black braids. As he watched, she caught the back of her baby sister’s dress and tugged, keeping Bethie from toppling off the porch.

“Why don’t you both go with Mr. Anderson and pick out a few colors you like? It doesn’t matter to me.”

Rose’s dark eyes danced with excitement. “Really?”

“Really.” He fought down a smile. The baby reminded him of a cherub, but in the middle girl he saw a hint of himself in the way she watched out for her siblings. She hadn’t told him her favorite color, only Emily’s and Bethie’s.

Rose glanced at her mother for approval. When a slight nod came, the children ran into the store.

Teagen waited, trying to think of something to say, trying not to stare at how Mrs. Barton looked in the sun. She had fair skin as though she spent little time in the open air, and her hair was tied back beneath her bonnet. The wisp of a strand he could see looked brown. Not pretty or shiny, but just a dull medium brown.

He turned his attention to the sleeping child. “Emily, Rose, and Bethie,” he mumbled.

Mrs. Barton smiled. “And I’m Jessica, but everyone calls me Jessie.”

Teagen nodded silently, accepting her offer to allow them to be less formal. “You’re welcome to stay and rest,” he said. Judging from their clothes, she could use a few days to wash as well. “But we’re not used to company.” That had to be the biggest understatement he’d ever managed. “Whispering Mountain is a working ranch.”

“I can pay you—” she began.

“No.” He felt insulted at the offer. “Martha always cooks far too much anyway, and we’ve got empty rooms.”

Anderson returned with Bethie on one arm and three blankets tucked under the other. Rose followed, tying her bonnet as she walked. She looked quite the proper little lady, having finished her shopping. Like a well-trained lady, she hid a yawn behind her hand.

As Elmo Anderson spread the blankets out, he shook his head. “In all my days I ain’t never seen you have company out to your place. None ’cept a Ranger now and then. Times are sure changing when the McMurrays welcome strangers on their land.”

Teagen didn’t comment. He took the sleeping child from the widow’s arms and placed her gently atop the blankets. Then, without asking, he lifted the one called Rose from the porch and carried her to the wagon. She didn’t make a sound as he lowered her in beside her big sister. She was already asleep by the time he pulled a blanket over her shoulder.

When he glanced back at the chubby one circling round the porch like a wobbly top, the widow said, “She better ride between us on the bench, or she’ll either fall out of the wagon or wake the others.”

Teagen agreed and offered his hand to the widow. When she hesitated, he said, “I’ll help you up, Jessie.”

Awkwardly, she gathered her skirts. “Thank you, Teagen.”

He rested his free hand at her waist to steady her and was surprised at how thin she felt. Even through the layers of her traveling jacket, he swore he could feel her bones.

When she was seated, he turned to catch the cherub bumping into things as she now circled round and round like a drunk.

Bethie rocked in his arms, laughing as he lifted her. He carried her to the wagon. Just as he set her on the bench, she patted his cheek with a sticky palm covered in the remains of a piece of rock candy.

Teagen frowned and tried to rub off the sugar, but it seemed permanently tangled in his three-day-old beard. When he frowned down at her, the child smiled at him.

He growled.

Bethie giggled and reached for him again.

Only her mother’s grip kept her from tumbling off the bench and landing on the floor at their feet.

JESSIE LEANED BACK AGAINST THE HARD WOOD OF THE wagon bench and tried to breathe. She’d made it to Teagen. After almost three months of struggling to hold on to three children and be alert to danger and try to find food and sleep with one eye open, she’d finally made it to Whispering Mountain.

That predawn morning when she’d left the bookstore, she convinced herself Teagen McMurray would be her sanctuary from harm. Now in this wild country, she wasn’t so sure.