Weathered Too Young (12 page)

“The minute he’s awake…you boys send him off,” Tom reminded them as they left the house.

“Yes, sir,” Grady said, closing the door behind them.

“Let me see this,” Slater demanded
,
striding to Lark and gently taking her chin in one strong
hand.

Instantly
, she began to tremble—wildly affected not only
by
residual anxiety but
also
by his touch.
He frowned as he studied her.
She could see his strong jaw cl
e
nching as he did so.

“I shoulda killed him,” Slater mumbled as he pressed his fingers against the soreness already beginning to throb at Lark’s cheek.
“I shoulda killed that son of
—”

“No
. N
ow, Slater…no,” Tom said.

Lark was momentarily mesmerized by the emotions apparent in Slater’s smoldering eyes—anger
and
guilt.
She
watched as he quickly licked his thumb, wiping at the blood on her lip.
At this, the entire surface of her body broke into involuntary goose bumps
.
His touch was overpowering to her senses!

“You’re bleedin’ here,” he mumbled, licking the appendage again and stroking her tender lip a second time.
The repeated action caused moisture to flood Lark’s mouth
,
for she knew it was as close as she might ever come to knowing affection from him.

“I-I’m sorry,” Lark heard herself apologize in a whisper.
“I’m sorry for this…for the broken window glass…for the…the mess.”

Slater’s frown deepened.
“You ain’t got nothin’ to apologize for, baby,” he said.
“This ain’t yer fault.
Not a bit of it.
It’s mine.
None but mine.
This is my fault…for hirin’
—”

“Me?” Lark interrupted as pain pierced her heart.
He regretted hiring her—she knew he must.
She was certain nothing the likes of what had just transpired ever happened when Mrs. Simpson had been alive.

“For hirin’ Chet,” Slater said.
“It’s my fault…for hiring that no
-
good cowboy.”

A wave of relief washed over Lark—such a great wave that she began to weep once more.
She tried to restrain her tears
,
for she didn’t want to appear any weak
er
before him than she already did.

“Let me see that,” Tom said, taking her chin in his hand.
Tom clicked his tongue as he shook his head.
“That’s gonna be awful sore and swollen come mornin’.”

“Maybe we oughta let Chet stay a day or two,” Slater suggested.
“You know
,
heal up a bit…so I can horsewhip him before he goes.”

“Come here, darlin’,” Tom said, gathering Lark into the warm protection of his arms.
Instantly, Lark’s emotions were weakened
,
and she clung to him, soaking his shirt with her tears.

“Thank you,” she
whispered, at
once overwhelmed with gratitude.
Yet she was grateful
not only
for the protection afforded by Slater and Tom Evans
but
also
for the fact they’d taken her in at all.
“Thank you.”

“Oh, ain’t that always the way,” she heard Slater grumble.
As Tom held her, she looked to Slater to see the frown on his face had softened a little.
“Seems I always do the fightin’…but Tom’s the one who always gets the sugar.”

Though the thought caused her to tremble—to shiver with anxious delight—Lark knew she must somehow find the courage to thank Slater as well—to thank him as she’d thanked his brother.
Tom had been the one to hire her, it was true.
But Slater had saved her virtue—perhaps her life.

Quivering with trepidation, she stepped out of Tom’s embrace as he released her and looked to Slater.
Still, her courage was spent.
She couldn’t embrace him—she just couldn’t!
Surely if she allowed herself to be enfolded in his strong, capable arms—even for a moment—surely then he’d be able to know the depth of her true feelings for him.
And it was carefully
,
near desperately
,
that she guarded the truth of them.
Slater Evans could never know that his orphaned, penniless cook and housekeeper
was in love with him.

Tentatively, Lark offered her hand to Slater Evans—offered her hand in order to shake his in showing her gratitude.

Slater
smiled, obviously
amused—the enraged fury gone from
him.
“You’re
gonna shake my hand?” he chuckled.

Lark could only
nod, otherwise
frozen with battling her desire to be in his arms.

“Alrighty then,” Slater said, taking her hand in his.

At once the warmth of his grip traveled through her hand enveloping her arm to fan out to her bosom, her stomach
,
and her face.

A low chuckle rumbled in his throat, and Lark gasped as he pulled her to him
,
wrapping her in powerful arms
,
drawing her snuggly against his strong body.

Lark could not resist him—could not keep her wits steady in that moment.
Allowing her arms to travel around him, she fisted the fabric at the back of his shirt in her hands—sobbed against the solid contours of his chest—nearly swooned when she felt him press his face to the top of her head.
He hadn’t really kissed her
;
it was his cheek that pressed against her hair.
Still, she allowed herself to pretend he’d kissed her. She clung to him a moment
longer as
she whispered, “Thank you,” into the soft folds of his shirt.
He smelled like warm sunshine
,
saddle leather
,
and green pasture grass.
She imagined he wanted her there—there in his arms—imagined he wanted her there as desperately as she wanted to linger there—forever.
He was warm, strong—and he would protect her.
For all the horror of Chet’s attacking her
,
Lark could not remember the last time she’d felt so safe.
In that moment, she knew nothing could harm her.
And he was so warm.
She imagined how warm a winter would be spent in Slater Evans’
s
arms.

“So the next time me and Tom head to town to watch some red-haired robin singing while wearin’ nothin’ but her drawers…maybe you oughta come along.
Whatcha think?” Slater asked.

Lark was disappointed when she felt his embrace slacken.
Yet she
smiled, even
breathed a
giggle and nodded
as she stepped back away from him.

“Maybe I should,” she whispered, wiping more tears
from
her cheeks.

“Why don’t you find yer bed, darlin’
?
” Tom suggested, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
“It’s late…and them bruises are gonna pain you somethin’ terrible come mornin’.
Just rest in.
We’ll take care of ourselves for breakfast.”

“Oh no!” Lark began to argue.
“No…I’ll be fine.
I’ll be up and ready as usual.”

“No,” Slater said.
“If you’re up before sunrise…I’ll put you back to bed myself.”

Lark tried to ignore the mad fluttering erupting in her stomach as she gazed up at him a moment.
His hair was tousled—windblown—and she wondered if he’d ridden hard to get back to the ranch.
She wanted to reach up—to run her fingers through the brown and tawny layers of his hair.
Instead, she nodded.

“A
l
l
right,” she whispered.
“As long as you’re both going too.”

“We got a few things to finish up…but then we’ll settle in,” Tom assured her.
“Don’t you worry none about us.”

Lark
nodded and felt
tears welling in her eyes once
more.
“Thank
you,” she managed to squeak.
“Thank you both…for everything.”

Slater nodded
,
as did Tom.

“Good night, honey,” Tom said.
“Sleep sound
. A
in’t nothin’ gonna harm you.”

Lark
nodded, knowing
nothing
would.
“Good
night, Slater,” she managed.

He nodded
,
and Lark resisted the urge to run to him—to throw her arms around him and beg him to hold her.

Lark’s body ached as she crawled beneath the covers of her bed.
The house was cool
,
and she knew that, even for the sore throbbing at her cheek, she would sleep deeply.

As she closed her eyes, she thought of Chet Leigh—of what his intentions had been.
She frowned a moment
,
even though it had not been the first time a man had harbored such intentions toward her.
It had, however, been the first time she had not been able to escape.
She inhaled a deep, calming breath
,
thinking that it had also been the first time a man had fought to protect her—and this was both a soothing knowledge and a delightful one.
Of course, it was not so soothing to think on the brutal blows he had delivered to Chet Leigh’s person—or the blood he’d spilled.
But even so
,
it was comforting to know that Slater had come to her rescue.
In truth, Lark was secretly delighted by the fact.

Sometime later she heard heavy footsteps ascending the stairs—heard one boot hit the floor overhead
and
then the other.
The boards in her ceiling (which were likewise the boards in Slater Evans’
s
bedroom floor) creaked as he walked.
Soon all was quiet
,
and she knew both men were
settled
for the night.

Swaddled in the comfort of knowing she was safe, Lark at last drifted into deep slumber.
Her last thought was of warmth
,
of the warm fire she’d enjoyed in the parlor while reading
and of the even better warmth—the warmth of being held in Slater Evans’
s
arms.

Chet Leigh was gone by morning, all right.
Slater had half expected to wake up and find the man still passed out cold somewhere
,
but he hadn’t.
Instead, he awakened to find Chet Leigh had indeed ridden away.
However, Chet had apparently opened the east fences and scattered cattle as he went—the idiot.
Slater nearly rode out after him
,
intent on giving him a beating that would make the one he’d given him the night before look like a waltz.
Still, he hadn’t.
He knew the best thing to do was just to let the dirty dog go.

Slater swore under his breath as he spotted the young Black Angus bull off in the distance.
Sure enough
,
the little cuss had headed straight back to Pete Walker’s place.
He scolded himself for not having branded the bull the day before.
Slater knew Pete Walker well—not the most honest man in the world.
If the young bull made it back to Pete’s herd, no doubt
Walker
would try to pass it off as a different bull entirely.

“Go on, Smoke,” Slater said, spurring his horse.

As Smokey galloped toward the bull, Slater readied his lasso.
It would be easier to herd the bull home once a rope was round him.
He’d rope that bull and haul him back to the ranch—brand him right then and there—before he helped Tom and the other boys to round up the scattered herd.
He wouldn’t have Pete Walker claiming the young bull was still his.

Slater easily roped the little Angus.
He wound the lead around his saddle horn and turned Smokey back toward the
ranch.
“Come
on, you sorry little devil,” he said.
“I got enough to worry about without you causin’ me any trouble.”

Soon the bull was headed back home, and Slater’s mind wandered to other things—things he’d been attempting to keep it from wandering to.