The Devil's Own Desperado (6 page)

Amelia averted her eyes. Unable to breathe for the sudden constriction of her throat, feeling her heart hammering madly and heat creeping up her face again, she fled the room and the house, dumping the pot in the outhouse.

Dropping the chamber pot to the floor Amelia shoved the door shut and leaned back against the rough wood of the outhouse. What were these things he did to her? She had never struggled to breathe, felt her heart race so, or felt that ache deep inside around any other man. What was the matter with her?

She surveyed the familiar landscape and took a moment to restore her equilibrium. The sun broke over the horizon, flooding the vista with a brilliant, golden glow. Dew glittered on the tall, sun-burnt grasses and the birds sang their melody of welcome for the new day. The Medicine Bow range rose into the rapidly brightening sky. Glaciers cradled by the quartzite peaks caught the early sunlight, glittering and sparkling. Tableau Mesa dominated the nearest horizon. She had been awed by those mountains when she had first seen them, but now they were as familiar as her own reflection. At times she hated them. If Daddy hadn’t come here, hadn’t needed to see mountains like his native Scotland, he and Momma would still be alive.

Her heart stirred again with the memory of her father singing a lullaby to Jenny that was a call to return to the mountains. The recollection of his gentle, hushed voice lulling Jenny to sleep, the words carrying through the house with their soothing melody, brought a smile to her face.

The chickens scurried around her feet and Captain crowed lustily from a fence rail. Amelia smiled at the cock. “You are such a silly bird. Do you know that, Captain?”

The rooster hopped off the fence and strutted over to her. Amelia bent and scooped the black-and-white-speckled bird in her arms. “Such a silly bird,” she crooned. He preened in her arms, cackling deep in his throat. Amelia took a small handful of cracked corn from the pocket of her apron and offered it to him.

Captain daintily ate from her hand. His comb bobbed with the motion of his head as he dipped repeatedly into her palm. When he had finished his treat, Amelia set him on the ground. “I’m going to collect the eggs now. I promise, if any have your babies in them, I’ll give them back.”

The rooster strutted at her side to the small henhouse. Amelia collected the eggs and carried them in the basket made of her gathered apron. Captain paused at the doorway of the cabin, and then strolled with supreme arrogance back to the henhouse. Amelia chuckled. Daddy had been right. Captain was definitely the cock of the walk. Of course, it didn’t hurt he was the only cock of the walk.

Amelia sat at the table, lit a candle, and peered at each egg in the egg candler. Two she set aside to be returned to the henhouse. The rest she placed in a towel-lined basket. They would have eggs for breakfast, and there was still a side of bacon in the smokehouse.

Amelia returned the fertilized eggs to a nesting box in the coop and went to the small barn. Colt’s horse whickered at her as his head emerged over the stall. He shook his head, ears flicking back and forth.

“You are the hungriest horse I have ever met,” she said while pouring a mixture of corn and oats into his trough. The horse shoved his nose into the wooden box and crunched contentedly. “You are also the most beautiful animal I think I have ever seen. You weren’t very happy when Saul and I scrubbed all that dried blood off you, were you?”

He blinked large, black, white-lashed eyes. Amelia patted his neck once more, and then picked up a bucket and a stool and approached the first cow. “Good morning, Buttercup.”

The cow chewed her cud, shuffling a little when Amelia placed the stool next to her. A moment later, the rhythmic swish-swish of milk squirting into the bucket disturbed the quiet of the barn. Finished with Buttercup, Amelia approached the other cow. “Good morning, Dolly.”

Dolly bobbed her head, a trick Amelia had taught her a long time ago. “Are you going to give me a little more milk than you did yesterday?”

Dolly bobbed her head again. A few moments later, Amelia pushed away from the cow. She sighed and peered down into the half-full bucket. “You didn’t tell me the truth. This is less than yesterday. I think you need to have a baby again, Dolly. You’re drying up on me.”

Amelia put the bucket-and-a-half to the side, untied the two cows, and shooed them out the doors. Back in the cabin, she placed the half-bucket from Dolly on the table, and covered it with a clean piece of cloth. Even though Dolly wasn’t giving as much milk as usual, the cow’s milk had more butterfat in it than Buttercup’s ever did. She needed to churn out more butter.

Amelia measured out oatmeal and set a small pot onto the stovetop to boil. Oatmeal, eggs, bacon, and toast sounded good to her that morning.

Saul wandered into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and parked his bottom in a chair. He propped his elbows on the table, and dropped his chin into his cupped palms. “What’s for breakfast, Amy? I’m hungry.”

“Are you awake enough to eat it?” She smiled at him. “And Saul, lately you’re always hungry.”

“I’m always awake enough to eat too.” He yawned, belatedly covering his mouth when Amelia glared at him. “Sorry, I forgot.”

Amelia tousled his hair. “Why don’t you go wash your face, comb your hair, and put your clothes on? By that time, I should have most of breakfast ready and you can wake Jenny then.”

“Okay.” Saul padded from the kitchen. The tail of his nightshirt dragged the floor, gathering dirt along the hem. She should scold him for wearing another of their father’s nightshirts, but she didn’t have the heart to do it. Too soon, she knew, he would grow into the garment.

Amelia sighed. The floors needed to be mopped again. How had her mother ever managed to do everything that needed done? There was always laundry to do, floors to sweep and mop, dishes to wash, animals to care for. Amelia squared her shoulders. And complaining about it wasn’t going to get any of it done either.

She went out to the smokehouse. The empty hooks were a vivid reminder that they had to find the funds to purchase another hog for butchering and curing in the fall. She returned to the kitchen but halted just inside the door. Colt Evans sat at the table, a bed sheet wrapped around his waist.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“I know,” he admitted with a quick smile, “but the chamber pot was missing, so I need directions to the little house.”

“I’m so sorry.” Heat flashed up her neck and face. “I forgot to bring the chamber pot back into the house. Go on back to bed. I’ll go get it and bring it in to you, Mr. Evans.”

He shook his head, and a shock of that blue-black hair fell over his brow. He shoved it away in a gesture that reminded her of Saul. “I’m up and walking and I’d like to stay that way. Just point me in the right direction.”

Amelia nodded out the door. “To your left.”

“Thank you.” He paused in the doorway. “Where did you hide my clothes? I can’t wander around wrapped in a bed sheet, and I doubt you want me strolling around buck naked.”

“I’ll find you something to wear. My father was a little larger than you, but I think we can manage with his clothes.” Amelia waited until he went out the door, and then went to her bedroom to gather up some clothing for him. Pulling open a drawer of the old bureau, she gave in to the crippling sense of loss for a moment.

All her father’s clothing lay neatly folded in the drawer, as if he would be back at any moment. She pulled out a pair of trousers, a shirt, and a pair of socks. It was probably too warm for a union suit. She lifted her father’s shirt to her face and breathed deeply of the faint, lingering scents of pipe tobacco, talcum powder, and saddle soap.

She turned and found Colt blocking the passageway between the bed and chest of drawers. He held the bed sheet wrapped around his waist, clutching it closed with his wounded arm. “I’d like my own clothes, if you don’t mind.”

He was standing so close to her, she had to look up to see his face. He stood a full head taller, and she had never been accused of being short. “I’m sorry, Mr. Evans, but your shirt was ruined when Dr. Archer cut it from you, and I can’t get the blood stains from your trousers. I tried. I scrubbed them twice with strong lye soap, but the stains are set. They’re ruined.”

His brow lifted with his slight smile and he tipped his head to the clothes in her hand. “Then I guess those will have to do. Where are my boots?”

“They’re drying still. I had to wash your left one out, because so much blood ran into it.” She held the trousers, socks, and shirt out to him. “Do you need some help?”

A predatory grin split his face. The depths of his eyes took on a new, disconcerting heat. “This is a new one on me. Most times, women are asking if I want help getting out of my clothes.” He shook his head and a shock of silver-shot ebony fell over his brow again. With a grimace, he shoved it back. “No, I think I can manage on my own.”

Amelia ducked her head to hide the heated color searing her cheeks. He took the clothes from her and she fled.

She went back to the kitchen and began to fry the bacon. The water boiled for the oatmeal and she started that cooking as well.

“It smells really good, Amelia.”

She whirled. Dressed in her father’s black shirt and trousers, Colt seemed to fill the tiny kitchen. Any vulnerability she might have seen on his face when relaxed in sleep was gone. Even without a gun strapped to his thigh, this man was danger embodied. Uncertain what to say, she smoothed her suddenly damp palms down the front of her apron.

“I’m not going to bite you.” Amusement danced with bright glitters in his eyes and tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Amelia’s mouth went dry and her heart hammered. “Breakfast isn’t ready yet,” she finally stammered.

“Is it all right with you if I sit?” He gestured at a chair behind him. “You seem very uncomfortable with me being in the same room with you.”

“Please, sit down,” she managed, forcing away the desire to run from him.

“I know there isn’t any coffee so I won’t ask for any.” He pulled a chair from the table, wincing when he moved his bandaged shoulder. He lowered himself into the chair and cradled his left arm to his stomach. His breath hissed in through clenched teeth and his tanned face blanched.

When he sat, he didn’t look quite so imposing and his obvious pain stilled her fear. “I think if we put your arm in a sling, it would keep your shoulder from moving quite so much and you’d be more comfortable.”

“That’s probably a good idea.” He scratched his cheeks and chin, his fingernails rasping on the stubble. “I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to shave with only one arm.”

Without thinking, Amelia said, “I can give you a shave after breakfast.” She clamped her hand over her mouth for a second. “You probably don’t want me to shave you. You might be cut.”

His smile revealed white, even teeth that contrasted starkly with the dark stubble. “I’ll take my chances, la—Amelia.” He scratched his chin again. “Worst that can happen is I’ll get my throat slit. But if you don’t give me a shave, I’m not going to get rid of this face hair, and it’s itching like the devil.”

“Mr. Evans!” Saul plunked himself across the table from Colt.

Amelia winced. If Saul had brushed his hair that morning, it had been with a rake. His idea of being dressed seemed to mean the tail of his shirt hung out from the waist of his trousers. He looked more like an urchin without any supervision or guidance than the young man her parents would have wanted him to be. She wondered if he had even wet a washcloth to try to fool her into thinking he had washed his face.

“You’re walking,” Saul said in a bright voice. “Maybe Amy will give you your gun and you can show me how to shoot it.”

“No.” Amelia was startled to hear her denial echoed by Colt Evans.

“Come on, Amy.” Saul’s mouth twisted down into a pout. “I can’t even go hunting if I don’t know how to shoot.”

“Absolutely not,” Amelia said through clenched teeth. “I forbid it.”

Colt glanced down at the table and then up at Saul. “Kid, you don’t hunt anything edible with a revolver. You use a rifle for that. You want me to show you how to shoot a rifle, I’ll be glad to do that. But my gun ain’t ever going to find its way into your hand.”

A motion at the doorway caught Amelia’s attention. She smiled and held her hand out to her sister. “It’s okay, Jenny. You can come in here.”

Colt twisted on the chair, a grimace of pain flashing over his chiseled features. Without turning from Jenny’s thin frame and downcast eyes, he locked his intense gaze onto Amelia. Aware of his scrutiny, and that most people considered Jenny simple-minded because of her perpetual silence, Amelia crossed the kitchen and took Jenny’s hand into hers. She waited until Jenny lifted her gaze before she led the child to Colt. “Jenny, this is Mr. Evans. He is our guest.”

Jenny studied his face, and then with solemn dignity rounded the table and sat down. Amelia quelled her shock. Colt Evans was the first stranger Jenny hadn’t backed away from.

Saul asked, “When do you think you’ll feel up to showing me how to shoot, Mr. Evans?”

Amelia whirled. “Saul, that is enough! You do not pester a guest like that.”

Colt dragged his hand through his hair. “Let’s see if I feel up to it tomorrow. Okay, Saul?”

Saul nodded. He lifted his angry, glum face to Amelia. “You’re not my mother, you know. I’m getting old enough to decide what I want to do. You’re only my sister.”

A new stab of pain lanced into Amelia. She was only his sister, and she would give anything in the world not to be in the role of his parent.

Before she could respond, Colt leaned across the table and grabbed the boy’s arm. “You want me to teach you how to shoot a rifle, son, you apologize right now to your sister.”

Saul’s eyes widened. Amelia took a step back from the icy gaze Colt leveled on Saul. Jenny blanched white, her eyes wider than wagon wheels.

Colt added in a low growl, “I mean it. Apologize now, or all deals are off. You don’t talk like that to any lady, but especially not to your own sister.”

Saul dropped his head. “I’m sorry, Amy,” he mumbled.