Weathered Too Young (6 page)

“I expect it’s
’
cause he’s been livin’ a man’s life for so long,” Tom continued.
“He left home to cowboy when he was fourteen, you know. That there’s sixteen years of man life. That’s about ten years ahead of the rest of us.”

“Fourteen?” Lark
breathed, astonished.
“Why ever did he leave home so early?”

Tom finished
and
placed his fork on his empty plate.
He sighed, leaning back in his chair the way Slater had done earlier—as if he’d eaten to
o
fast and his stomach was too full.

“Slater was restless,” he explained.
“He fought with our pa somethin’ awful. They was too much alike, Ma always said. He couldn’t wait to be his own man. Now, me…I was content to help Pa run the ranch.”
He smile
d
at her and continued, “I didn’t see no reason to make life harder than it had to be before its time.”

Lark nodded.
She understood.
How wonderful it would have been to have a home—linger in comfort, security
,
and routine until she’d been of an age to leave along a more natural course.

“Slater…he came home two years ago after…when he was ready to. He’s content here now, I think
,
but he woulda never been happy if he hadn’ta left first.
Matilda always said he finally run his oats out.
Banged himself up a piece doin’ it too.”

Lark shook her head.
“I would have loved to have grown up here,” she wistfully mumbled.
“I can’t imagine wanting to leave.”

Instantly, she scolded herself for having spoken her though
ts aloud.
She blushed a
little, horrified
that she’
d
revealed so much longing in her intonation.

Still, Tom seemed unaware of
it.
“Where
did you grow up, honey?” he asked.

“East,” she answered.

Slater frowned.
He’d paused on the front
porch and lingered
near the open kitchen window.
Why was it that Tom found it necessary to tell the girl Slater’s personal business?
Why did he find it necessary to spin such a piece of nonsense as telling her Slater made women jittery?
He swore under his breath as he stepped down off the side of the porch.
It seemed Tom’s gums were always flapping about things that were none of his business—and certainly nobody else’s.
Slater didn’t want the girl knowing anything about himself—not his past, his manners, or his ways of thinking.
He’d have it out with Tom about his flapping gums later
,
for there was something else gnawing at his mind—something far more intriguing than the life and times of Slater Evans.
Yep!
Slater found the mystery of little Lark Lawrence far more interesting than his own.

His experience had taught him well
,
and he knew when someone was running.
Oh, maybe his brother had a blind eye to anything unusual or suspicious in nature—but he didn’t.
The pretty little filly his brother had hired on to keep house and cook—she was running.

“East,” he mumbled to himself.
It was all the girl would give them of her origins.
“East,” he mumbled again, frowning as he considered her answer.
It was obvious by her tone, her speech, even her mannerisms that she’d had a proper upbringing.
Why then was she wandering the world on her own?
What was chasing her?
What would drive her to enough desperation that she would seek employment from two unmarried men—two unmarried men who lived on an isolated ranch with four other unmarried men?

Slater frowned.
He wasn’t worried about Tom mistreating her—or himself
. T
hey were both gentlemen of sorts—rough gentlemen maybe, but gentlemen respecting of women all the same.
Still, a rather unsettled sensation rose in him whenever he considered the cowboys working the ranch.
There was
Eldon Pickering
—
even older than Slater and a good man.
Slater’s concerns over whether Eldon would find Lark’s presence a little too distracting to keep his mind where it should be weren’t too awful thick.
Still, Ralston Bell, Grady James
,
and Chet Leigh—the other cowboys working the ranch—they were younger
,
a little more inclined toward occasional bad behavior.
Lark was pretty—very pretty.
Slater knew the cowboys could hardly ignore her.

His frown deepened.
What in tarnation had Tom been thinking?
He was always dragging home some crippled dog or wounded sparrow—literally.
Still, Slater knew Lark was different.
Crippled dogs and wounded sparrows didn’t inspire lustful thoughts in cowhands.
After all, though he was weathered
and
old and possessed an unusual amount of self-control
,
even Slater had been aware of her—allowed his gaze to linger on her soft lips
, to
wonder how her hair would feel slipping between his fingers.
Nope
,
having such a pretty thing on the ranch wasn’t good—or safe—for anybody.

Slater exhaled a heavy sigh.
He shook his head
,
discouraged.
He’d have to protect her—sure enough he would—and he’d grown weary of protecting folks.
Slater Evans simply wanted to run cattle, repair fence, shoe horses
,
and linger under a bright blue sky—that’s all.
He didn’t want to have to worry about his cowboys saying something improper to a young girl—or worse, doing something improper.
Nope.
In that moment, he simply wanted to saddle his horse, ride out to the canyon rim, stretch out in the grass
,
and watch the clouds drift.

Suddenly, he felt tired—as if the small amount of sleep he’d managed to find the night before just hadn’t been enough.
His shoulder ached, and he reached across his broad chest and squeezed it, willing the soreness to go away.
He didn’t have time for a sore shoulder
. T
here was work to be done
and a wounded sparrow to keep an eye on—rather, a fleeing lark.



After breakfast, she’d given the Evans brothers’ house a good looking over before beginning the daunting task of putting things back in order.
Having been awash with a sense of overwhelming tasks at hand, Lark had decided to start with the front rooms.
Her thinking was that the front rooms were the rooms first viewed by the Evans brothers upon returning home each evening and therefore, once tidied, would offer a good example of how having a housekeeper might benefit.
It was plain they were both satisfied with her cooking.
Yet she felt the need to prove that a tidy house would also be worth paying a wage.
Thus, Lark washed the kitchen windows, dusted furniture
,
and swept.
After she’d tidied the parlor (for clothing, books, hats, socks
,
and even a length of barbed wire w
ere
strewn here and there throughout), she took the parlor rugs out and gave them a good beating.
She hung them over the hitching post to one side of the house to allow them to breathe some fresh air too.
If there was one thing Lark didn’t like, it was the smell of dusty rugs.
She wasn’t sure why
,
but she just didn’t like it.

As she continued to labor, Lark found a great sense of satisfaction and comfort in her work.
It was obvious that the Evans brothers’ house had once even been a family home
,
for there were photographs in frames sitting atop a bookcase in the parlor and near every other surface throughout the residence.
A basket filled with yarn and knitting needles sat next to one worn armchair, and Lark wondered if it had belonged to Slater and Tom’s beloved Matilda—or had it belonged to their mother?
An old desk
,
dusty and cluttered with papers
,
stood in one corner.
Lark had begun to tidy it but paused when she noted that the documents and letters scattered across its surface were dated nearly five years before—and many bearing the signature of “Vernon J. Evans.”
It seemed the Evans brothers had left things just as they had stood when their parents had gone.
She knew both their mother and father must’ve passed
,
for Tom spoke of them both in the past tense.
Thus, as she tidied, she wondered when they had died—and how.



It was nearly noon when Lark finally paused in tidying to quickly make a batch of
cornbread and pan gravy
.
She was not surprised when Slater Evans proved to be as prompt in arriving for his midday meal as he had been for breakfast.
Tom arrived a few minutes later and joined his brother and Lark at the table.

“Mmm!” Tom moaned with satisfaction at the first taste of the
cornbread and gravy.
“Lark…this gravy is good!”

“I’m glad you like it,” Lark said.
She was glad—glad and very relieved.
She wasn’t sure how the men would take to gravy made with bacon drippings after only just having had bacon for breakfast.

“Mighty fine
cornbread
too,” Slater mumbled.
In truth, Slater’s compliment meant more to Lark even than Tom’s. She knew Tom Evans would’ve told her the meal was fine even if it tasted like tree bark.
She wasn’t so certain Slater would’ve offered a compliment had he not sincerely meant it.

“Thank you,” she told him.

“You’ve been busy this mornin’,” Tom said.
“Them rugs in the parlor needed a good shake.”

“Yes, they did,” she admitted.
“And I wanted to make certain…the clothing that was here and there in the parlor…I had planned to wash it all
.
I’m
assuming
it needs washing?”

Tom chuckled, shaking his head.
“I wouldn’t rightly know, honey,” he said.
“I don’t string my shirts and drawers all over creation the way Slater does.”

“Oh, you got yer own bad habits, Tom,” Slater said.

“Matilda nagged him about it
.
I swear she near wore a hole in his head with naggin’ him…but it didn’t do a lick of good,” Tom explained.
“Slater still walks in the house every evenin’ and strips himself down to nothin’ first thing.
Usually there’s a trail of clothes leadin’ up the stairs too.”

Lark looked to Slater—waiting for his retort—but none came.
He simply continued to eat his lunch, pausing only to say, “Them clothes in the parlor was dirty.
Just heap
’
em up in the basket in the back of the house
,
and I’ll get to
’
em eventually.”

“But I’m here now,” Lark reminded him.
She must be allowed to work
,
to prove to the Evans brothers that they needed her now that Matilda had passed—or they might not think they did!
“I’ll take care of the laundry.”

Slater ceased in eating—looked to her scowling.

“The laundry?
You mean the wash?” he asked.

“Yes,” Lark answered.
“Didn’t your Mrs. Simpson take care of that for you?”

“Well…well, yes
,
she did,” Slater
admitted, still
wearing an expression of
concern,
however.
“But I don’t know how I feel about you doin’ it.”

“What do you mean?”
Lark was truly puzzled.
She was their new housekeeper, wasn’t she?
Wasn’t she supposed to take care of the house, the laundry, the cooking—everything Matilda had taken care of for them?

Tom chuckled.
“He don’t want you seein’ what a downright hog he is when it comes to gettin’ dirty.”

“That ain’t true,” Slater defended himself.
“I…I just don’t know if it’s right…expectin’ a young girl to wash my drawers and all.”

“Most times you don’t even wear drawers, Slater,” Tom teased.

Slater pointed a fork at his brother.
“Now, that ain’t true neither.”

Lark couldn’t suppress her giggles.
They erupted suddenly, and she bit her bottom lip as she smiled, trying to stifle them.
Joy—it seemed so unfamiliar suddenly—the joy nurtured by amusement.
In that moment, Lark knew true happiness.
She had shelter, food, protection
,
and companionship of sorts.
Winter did not look so bleak now.