Widow Woman (14 page)

He could take her. He knew it. Here in the shadows and the dust, with a houseful of people a room away, he could slide inside her, deep and hot, and they'd both buck and writhe and sweat until they finally completed what had started that day at Jasper Pond.

And when it ended the fire would cool, and he would see among the ashes what was left in her eyes. Disgust

"Don't forget the goddamned tin."

He turned on his heel and walked out. Guided by a brightening moon before him and clawing memories behind, he didn't stop until he reached the shack.

Every rule of politeness learned from her mother, every lesson in survival drilled by her father, every instinct to salve hurts in private born into her came together to carry Rachel through the dragging hours of that long, long night.

Dancing, singing and eating went on all night. Couldn't go home in the dark, could they? reasoned her guests. A rare bit of sociable fun snatched from a long, lonely winter, so make the most of it. Until the sun's rise denied them their excuse. At last, they called farewells, still gay in exhaustion—there'd be time enough to rest up.

Davis helped return furniture to order, but he too left before midmorning. Shag, Henry and Fred did chores, then slipped away. After she and Ruth righted the worst of the damage, Rachel sent the older woman to rest, saying the work would keep until afternoon, or tomorrow.

Then she repaired to her bedroom.

She stepped from the skirt Ruth had helped her fashion from another of her mother's old dresses and laid it carefully on a chair. Her fingers mechanically unfastened the closely set buttons on the matching bodice. As she put that aside, a scent stopped her. Leather and wool, soap-scrubbed skin with a tang of wind. She started to draw the cloth to her face.

What was she doing? Was she losing her mind, imagining that the scent of Nick Dusaq lingered on her clothes? Even if it did, she had no cause to seek after it.

Hastily, she put the bodice down, unhooked the corset's front busk and slid off petticoats, then her stockings. Wearing her chemise, she slipped between the cold sheets, and told herself to sleep.

Behind her closed eyelids arose images and sensations she'd kept at bay all the long hours.

Sitting, she wrapped her arms around her bent knees.

She didn't want Nick to touch her that way, to hold her so tight her breasts pressed against his chest, her hips cradled his. She didn't want to feel that way. Did she?

Edward Terhune's visits to her bed had frightened her at first, and brought pain. She'd resolved to endure the pain, and knowing she could endure soon eased the fright. Though the creaking of her bedroom door in the night had never ceased to drop a weight to the pit of her stomach.

Nick's caresses brought a strange sensation there as well. Not the same, but no less disturbing.

She touched two fingertips to her lower lip. It felt tender. Full and warm. Faintly moist.

Was that how it had felt to him?

Edward had kissed her sometimes, his lips soft and wet. She had been grateful he never kissed her long, proceeding to other intimacies, which also didn't last long.

Nick's lips had not been soft, though his mouth had not been nearly as hard on hers as she might have imagined from the harsh, stem line it usually held. Not that she
had
imagined. Except, perhaps for some mad summer moments beside Jasper Pond.

His kiss had not been wet, either, though she'd felt the trail of moisture left by his tongue on her lips. Top and bottom, and where they met ... until his tongue entered her mouth.

Her lips parted now, and one fingertip slipped inside. She met it with the tip of her tongue, remembering the sensations, imagining new ones.

God help her, she had wanted him to touch her that way, to hold her that way. And more.

Not only by Jasper Pond, but that night at the calf branding. And definitely last night, as he had held her in his arms and kissed her.

Rachel hugged her knees tight and shivered, alone, in her bed.

Not three weeks after Christmas, Nick brought Marley into the shed after a day in the saddle, to find Shag's roan stabled there.

In no mood to mince words, Nick swung open the shack door and demanded, “What are you doing here, Shag?"

Come to fire me? Come to put a hole through me?

Shag might do either—or both—if Rachel Terhune had told her foreman what had happened.

Shag looked around from his whittling. “Thought I'd see how you're doing. You took off sudden at Christmas."

So, she hadn't told him. “It was late. I wanted to get back."

Shag nodded slowly. He looked older. Or maybe he just looked tired. “That's what Chell said. Said you decided it was time to head out. Seemed edgy, Chell did, but when I asked what burr got under her saddle, she said I'd imagined it. My coddling streak acting up, she said. Got to admit, I'd do my best to make sure nothing and nobody hurt her."

The implicit warning hung in the air. Nick left it there, not denying, not taking up the challenge, not pointing out Rachel Terhune did a damned good job of taking care of herself.

Shag nodded, as if silence gave an answer. “'Course, sometimes she's hurting herself. But that's the way with women. My Ruth, bless her, she...” The foreman began an affectionate grumble.

No talk of Christmas intruded as they prepared beans to go with the biscuits Shag had brought from Ruth's morning batch. Shag didn't eat much and rubbed hard at his gut when he thought Nick didn't notice. They finished eating, and sat before the fire, Shag whittling while Nick braided strips of rawhide.

"How's Joe-Max's camp?” Nick asked after a while.

Shag shrugged. “'Bout what we expected. Only a fool don't expect to lose cattle over winter."

"Maybe. Maybe it doesn't need to be so many."

Shag snorted. “How? Trail ‘em to Texas for the winter?"

"The way they drift south, it wouldn't be hard to convince ‘em. But I had in mind something different.” He left it, for Shag to ignore or pick up as he chose.

Guiding the knife with the pad of his thumb, Shag cut out a precise curl of wood. “What'd you have in mind?"

"I was thinking of those breeding horses at the main ranch."

"What about ‘em?"

"Why not treat cattle the same come winter? Pasture them close and feed them."

"This is open range country."

"Not forever."

The older man winced, and Nick guessed Doyle Shagwell had seen that the way of life he knew would end someday. Vast as open range remained, it had dwindled in a few short years. Homesteads, towns, railroads, mining all ate away at it, at the same time more cattlemen put more head on less land.

"Profit in cattle comes of keeping costs low raising ‘em, and that's because they graze the range. It would cost to feed a herd all winter. Either by raising hay, which would need a heap of workers you don't have—"

"Cowhands."

"And wouldn't the boys just love being hay shovelers? And even so, it'd cost in wages. And if you don't raise hay, you put out cash for it. Any way you cut it, it'd cost a good sight more."

"And it'd cut losses."

"Could. Hard to tell if it would make up the expense.” Shag nodded twice. “Something to think of cold winter nights, I suppose. Yessir, something to think of."

Silence enclosed them, with the only sounds rising from the fire and the industry of the two men's hands. A peacefulness Nick seldom experienced in another's company lulled him, so when Shag broke the silence. Nick's careful reserve had relaxed.

"You've had hard going, haven't you, Nick?"

Nick cut his eyes to the foreman. Shag's attention appeared concentrated on the wood taking shape under his knife. Nick said nothing. Shag went on anyway.

"That's why I think you and her should understand each other so you get along better than you been doing. Rachel, I mean,” he said, as if Nick wouldn't have known.

Maybe they understood each other too well, at least understood what each wanted from the other, but couldn't have.

"She's had rough times, too. Her ma died with Chell still a child. Something went out of Oren Phillips when Theresa died. You know, that's where the name came from. Some think it's from Terhune, but Oren Phillips branded Circle T when the home ranch was on the Platte. T's for Theresa, the circle for the 0 in Oren. His way of saying he'd care for her. When he couldn't, he nearly went with her. Only thing that kept him going was dreaming of this place.

"He saw this land in the sixties, wanted to run cattle right off. But it belonged to the Indians. Oren wouldn't cheat Indians like some, and he wouldn't help run ‘em off. But when others did, he wasn't backward. Said not doing it'd hurt the Circle T and didn't help the Indians none. After Theresa, he loved the Circle T. And Rachel knew it.

"Oren was good with cattle and horses. Keeping books and making a good deal, though, he didn't have the knack. Took less care after Theresa died. Got deep in debt. Rachel tried to help. Still a girl when she took on the books, but he didn't listen, not to her, not to me. When Terhune got Oren's notes, Rachel did the best she could for her pa."

Nick felt the ominous weight of sorrow in the older man's words. If he'd thought he could stop Shag, Nick would have tried.

"Edward Terhune said he'd throw her and her pa off the place and burn the house Oren had built for Theresa and everything in it. He would have, the sorry son of a bitch. When he wanted something, it wasn't enough for him to have it, nobody else could. So Rachel gave Terhune what he demanded—herself."

A scalding churn set up in Nick's gut. The padres had taught he'd go to hell for hating, but Hades would be worth it to get his hands around Terhune's throat, even in the afterlife. It didn't help any that the image of Rachel's stricken face when he'd lashed out about Wood wanting her land and body rose up to reproach him.

"Rachel insisted Terhune marry her. She's always had heart, that girl, and she figured as Mrs. Terhune she might could help folks on the Circle T, starting with her pa. She insisted Terhune leave Oren to run the place. Terhune didn't mind, but Oren'd taken to drink and wasn't the man he'd been. Then Terhune did the first good thing in his entire life and got his neck broke trying to ride Warrior before Chell finished gentling him. He called her training nonsense, said the animal needed a firm hand, just like a woman. Guess they both showed him."

Shag's obvious satisfaction reminded Nick that the old foreman could be a formidable enemy.

"This area was opening, and Rachel dived in to move the Circle T. Oren rallied some. He couldn't live in the saddle, but he clear delighted in adding rooms to the house—different plan for each. Five months he lasted. Then he died happy, the parlor near done, second story started, his Circle T where he'd always wanted it. Rachel ... Well, it took a while, but she came round. Soon as she saw her pa's dream hadn't died, not with her running the Circle T."

Nick sat back, extending his legs, itching to walk away from the swirling emotions the old man dispensed. “Don't suppose she had any help from you seeing that?” he asked with thick irony.

Shag looked surprised, then suspiciously bland. “I mighta said a word or two—when I got a chance around Ruth putting her cent's worth in."

"Never known either of you to hold to a cent.” Shag's smile grew. Nick's tone sharpened. “Look at all the words you expended telling me Rachel Terhune's life. For no reason I see."

"You might think I'm feeding off my range with all this talk, but you never know when a bit of knowing might come in handylike."

Nick was saved searching for an answer by Shag's weary announcement that he was turning in.

With dawn trying to push aside leaden clouds sullenly spitting snow, they mounted, with Shag unsuccessfully stifling a grimace. They prepared to head separate ways—Shag east toward the home ranch, Nick north.

"If the weather holds, I'll be round next month."

Nick raised an eyebrow. “I've got enough to get through to fall. No need for more."

"A man needs all sorts of things. Not just rib-stickers and dried apples. Needs a bit of talking, another body by his fire.” Shag maneuvered his horse beside Brujo. “Man needs a bit of music now and then, too."

Automatically, Nick's hand closed around the simple pipe Shag held out. So that was what the man had been working on.

He mumbled a thanks, but Shag waved it off. “A man needs music in his life, and if he won't take the music a woman can give him, he'd best learn to make his own.” The foreman grinned as he rode away.

Shag didn't return in a month, but Nick didn't think much of that. The foreman knew he had supplies to last. Besides, Nick was busy, freeing cattle mired in deepening drifts, breaking through ice on drinking holes, using his rifle to hold off wolves drifting in from high ground. He'd spotted tracks of two horses, riding through Circle T land, but near enough to the wagon road between Chelico and Miles City to make him wonder why they hadn't followed it.

When he found trace of a fire, plenty of animals churning the snow, but not of men bedding down, he figured he could stop wondering. Someone had been branding. In dead of winter. On Circle T land.

He spent more of each day looking for horse tracks off the road without finding them.

But come evenings, after supper, when he sat by the fire trying his hand at whittling or tooting on that silly pipe. Nick sometimes acknowledged to himself he did miss the bit of company the old foreman provided.

"He's no better?"

Rachel kept her voice low, though the man in the bed across the room hadn't stirred.

Ruth shook her head. Bluish marks cupped her eyes, set off by her paleness. “He's sleeping and that's good, but ... He was coughing up blood again last night."

The two women's eyes met in a sharing of worry.

"He's had bad spells before,” Ruth added, “but not like this."

"Damn that doctor."

"Can't blame him, Rachel. If he comes out, he could get snowed in for a month or more, then what would all the other folks do? Makes sense he stays in town."