Widow Woman (28 page)

"That's my girl, Rachel,” he said, softly kissing her on the forehead. “That's my girl."

An hour later she stood at the upstairs window, watching Gordon and the lead horse dip out of view behind the nearest hill, the other animals slowly following.

A sigh beside her reminded Rachel of Esther's presence.

"Some of the men say you read stories to them at the Circle T. You should read stories now."

"Yes,” Rachel said slowly. “I think you're right. I will begin tonight. Please tell everyone we'll read in the—” the parlor would intimidate some of the men “—dining room?” The final two words rose in question.

"Kitchen."

Rachel nearly smiled. “Yes, the kitchen."

The woman grunted an acknowledgment and left.

Rachel's gaze returned to the window. No living creature was visible, and the horses’ trail was barely discernible in the blaze of white. Her eyes went to the horizon, seeing the folds and hollows and rises in her mind. Beyond these hills to Circle T land, and beyond that, the Wallace spread. Now Nick's.

How were they faring, Nick and Alba and Davis? Had they fixed up that cabin enough to withstand this brutal cold? Was the hay Nick bought enough to feed his cattle the way he'd wanted? Could he get out to feed the animals in this weather?

It wasn't the first time she'd had those questions. It wasn't the first time she'd sent up a prayer as her eyes focused on the northern horizon until they burned.

Nick had emptied the travois rig he used to drag feed to the animals and was starting back through a driving snow when he spotted tracks down a small rise. They looked jagged, drunken.

He reined the sturdy spotted horse toward the odd tracks, then spurred him when he saw what looked to be a bundle of cloth at the base of the rise.

He'd never hated cold the way some from Texas did. Cold or heat, it didn't matter, it was something to fight and conquer. But he could see how a body could drown in this kind of cold. Let it wash over you like water, drag you under and hold you there until you couldn't breathe.

As he swung a cold-stiffened leg over the rump of the spotted horse, he thought the blanket-wrapped figure before him might have gone down for the last time. But when he got a hold of the fabric, the bundle stirred and emitted a groan. Then a mumble.

"Dead. Oh, sweet Lord, gone ... What have I done?"

Nick hoisted the figure to a sitting position and pushed back the blanket. Gordon Wood. But no longer the way Nick had seen him last, holding court at Natchez. From a vigorous, sharp-minded man, he'd become a gray-faced shell with a vacant, unfocused stare.

"All ... dead."

Wood's words struck Nick with the tearing force of a bullet.

"What are you saying?” Grabbing whatever material he could. Nick dragged Wood up, holding the other man's face close to his as he shouted at him. “Is it Rachel? Rachel! Where is she?"

The haze cleared from the faded blue eyes, and Nick saw them focus. A frown pulled at the bushy white brows.

"Dusaq. What...?"

"Where is Rachel?"

"Natchez."

Afraid to believe, Nick didn't loosen his grip. “Is she safe? Is she all right?"

"Of course,” Wood said with an echo of old confidence.

"You said dead. Who? Who's dead?"

The clarity in Wood's eyes disappeared. He sagged in Nick's hold as if he'd suddenly shrunk.

"Everything. All. Gone. Bones and hides all that're left. They're gone. All gone."

The fourth day after Nick dragged Gordon Wood back to the cabin, the snow stopped.

The fifth day, Wood recovered sufficiently to tell them, in bits and pieces, the tale of setting out to see the state of his cattle, only to be caught in a raging storm. Of the death of his horses, one by one. Of the last few hours, struggling on foot. Of a wind that mixed its plaintive whine with the bellows of cattle that had not yet lain down to die.

The ninth day Nick set out to return Gordon Wood to Natchez.

And to Rachel.

"Ma'am! Mrs. Wood! Someone's coming!"

Rachel pulled on a coat and stepped onto the side porch where several men gathered to squint at a smudge of moving figures against the background of white.

"Jim,” she said to the foreman, “get some of the boys to go out and help them in."

"Yes'm."

After another long look that told her nothing, she hurried inside to help Esther prepare bed warmers, stoke fires and heat soup. By the time she returned to the porch, the Natchez hands were guiding in a three-horse string.

"It's Mr. Wood!” shouted Bob Chapman.

Taking their cue from the human excitement, or perhaps sensing the end of their journey, the horses crossed the yard of packed snow and churned mud frozen solid at a smart rate. Before Rachel could take it all in, hands had helped down one rider—Gordon. She was stunned by the gray, flaccid wrinkles of his face.

"Best get him inside,” said a voice at her elbow.

She looked up into the dark eyes of Nick Dusaq.

"You...?"

"He wanted to come back to Natchez. I brought him,” Nick said, as if that explained everything.

Esther threw open the door. “Inside,” she barked, and all obeyed.

During the next hour, Rachel barely had time to think about what circumstances could have put Nick in the role of guide for her husband. After settling Gordon into his warmed bed, she fed him hot broth, then waited until he fell asleep. He barely moved, but low moans escaped him now and then, like the mournful wind outside.

With no excuse to linger upstairs, Rachel returned to the kitchen to find Olive alone, peeling potatoes.

"Mama said to tell you the gentleman's waiting in the study, Mrs. Wood,” Olive announced. Her wide, solemn eyes showed she knew something was going on, though she didn't understand it.

Rachel drew a deep breath before opening the study door.

Nick stood staring out the window to the north. She waited until he turned his head toward her, slowly, as if reluctant.

"Thank you, Nick.” She said that much before her throat closed with emotion. Too many emotions.

"I hope the trip wasn't too hard on him."

"He's resting. Please, sit down.” She gestured, feeling caught in some odd play of manners, unable to break out of the role. The feeling deepened when Nick politely waited for her to be seated before he took a chair opposite. “I hope you will stay as long as required for you and your horses to recover."

He sent her a look she couldn't decipher. “I'll spend the night in the bunkhouse and leave in the morning."

"No, really there's plenty of room in the house and—"

"It's best.” Sharp and cold, he cut through her protests, as well as the facade of polite niceties. She felt a double relief, that this barrier of false manners was no longer between them, and that the barrier of many walls would be. “I only waited in the house now because I figured you'd want an account of what all happened—least as much as I know."

"Has he been very ill?"

Nick frowned slightly. “I'm not sure you'd say he's ill, rightly. Alba said she didn't know what ails him, but with him so set on getting to Natchez, she figured that was best."

Rachel nodded. “What happened, Nick?"

In as few words as possible he told her. He didn't try to soften the words. She appreciated that. He gave her spare, solid facts. Like the land around them the truth, to some eyes, could appear desolate. But Rachel knew how to deal with the truth. She didn't have to hunt through flowery phrases or prettified explanations. Nick told her how he'd been out feeding cattle and spotted Gordon nearly frozen and half-starved. He also told her what he'd seen on this trip from his cabin to Natchez.

Conditions on the range were even worse than Gordon had feared when he left.

"I am so grateful he found shelter with you. You and Davis and Alba have been so kind. I don't know how to thank you."

"There's no need of thanks between us, Rachel."

His raspy voice touched her like a shiver in her soul. Drawing in a long breath, she met his look.

There was so much between them that connected them, but also so much between them that separated them. She knew in that moment that neither of them would ever be completely free of the shadow of the other, not as long as they lived. Maybe not beyond that. And she thought that in his eyes she saw the same recognition.

"Nick..."

A sound cut across Rachel's jumbled emotions as she tried to order them into words.

It took a repetition of the sound for her to realize it was a knock. She needed a deep breath before she produced a strained, “Come in."

"Mrs. Wood, ma'am?” Olive's narrow face peeked around the partially opened door.

Rachel's pulse fluttered. Then she realized that for all her emotional intensity, she yet sat at a proper distance from Nick, with not the slightest indication of anything untoward.

"Yes, Olive, Come in."

"Excuse me, ma'am, but Baby John's fussing something fierce, and Mama thinks he's likely hungry."

Without waiting for an answer, the girl backed out of the room, drawing the door closed.

Silence pressed between them. She should thank Nick again, politely end the conversation and go to her son. But she sat there, eyes trained on her hands resting on her lap, unable to think of anything to say.

"Your son ... You named him John?” Relief that Nick had broken the silence drowned as the import of his words sank in.
Your son,
he said.
Our son,
they both knew.

"Yes."

Rachel had looked up at Nick's first word, and now she couldn't break the look that tied them. Not even when she saw reflected in his eyes a vision of their child quieting his hungry fussing by nursing at her breast. Not even when his expression changed to something pained, angry and perhaps a little wild.

But something else in his face forced her to speak; it was the old, dark loneliness she'd seen in him.

"Nick, you could see him."

He surged to his feet, his hands clenched at his sides.

"No."

Two long strides took him to the door.

Alba and Davis had eaten supper mostly in companionable silence. She'd washed the dishes and straightened up, while he spliced the leather in a halter. She'd poured a final cup of coffee for each of them and sat down with a sigh, when he suddenly spoke.

"Your hip pains you, doesn't it?"

"Some."

"More than some,” he said as sternly as she'd ever heard him. “I see you favoring it. You've been working hard, what with Wood to tend extra and—"

"You've helped,” she interrupted. “And Nick."

"Haven't done as much as you. Neither of us."

She smiled. “Maybe not."

"Are you using that liniment I gave you?"

"The bottle is empty, but—"

"I mixed more.” He set aside the halter. “I'll fetch it."

"No, Davis.” She put a hand out to stop him from rising, but hadn't expected to bring such an abrupt halt.

"Doesn't it help the aching?"

"It does help.” Embarrassment warred against the questioning, nonjudgmental blue eyes that studied her. “It is difficult to, uh, reach to rub it in so it won't stain my ... my clothing. Come summer, there is time when I, uh, bathe to let it ... But with the cold..."

When she bathed, she never felt comfortable, with them waiting in the cold, to do any more than the fastest job possible. Certainly not to wait for liniment to soak into her skin. And having the pungent oil stain her few articles of clothing was not an option.

"Then I'll rub it in."

"What?” Her lips formed the word, but gave it no volume. “You?"

"Yes'm. You put on your, uh, your nightclothes, and get under the blankets. I'll keep my head turned, while I rub the liniment on, rub it in good so's nothing left to stain."

"I ... I can't.” Her words came out strangled.

"Are you afraid of me, Miss Alba?” he asked in a voice that gentled calves, won over cows and seduced horses to his bidding.

As if under a spell, she shook her head.

"Okay, then. I'll get the liniment and you get ready."

And she did. Sitting on the bed, she disposed the wide skirt of her nightdress so that even drawn up to expose the side of her hip, material covered every other inch of her. To this she added the protection of her sheet, two heavy blankets and quilt.

But sitting there, covered by all those layers, her trancelike state began to melt. What was she thinking? She couldn't—

"You ready. Miss Alba?"

She must have gotten out some sound, because the door pushed open and Davis advanced, his motions jerky but determined. He sat on the edge of the bed near her left hip, with his back toward her.

"Uncover the area to be treated."

Responding to that note of detachment, she obeyed.

He poured liniment into his hand, then set the bottle on the side-turned crate she used as a chest. With his face raised to stare off to a dim corner of the ceiling, he reached back, so his hand hovered two feet above her.

"You'll have to guide my hand, ma'am."

"I ... This isn't proper."

"No such thing,” he said staunchly. “I set a man's leg good as a real doctor, and he didn't say it wasn't proper. I've rubbed liniment or balm on every portion of anatomy of a cow or horse or pup or...” His voice wound down, and she saw a column of color rising up his neck. “Not that I'm comparing you to a pup, Miss Alba, or a horse."

Suddenly, her reluctance seemed silly. She knew the gentleness of this man. She knew the kindness that had him reverting to addressing her formally, all to make her comfortable. She had nothing to fear from him.

Supporting herself with one arm, she used the other to lift a bit of the covers, then to wrap around his wrist and draw his hand to her ailing hip.

The touch was heated and smooth. He'd warmed the liniment and the slick oil skimmed across her skin. She fastened her eyes on his face, drawing assurance that she was doing no wrong from the concentrated quality of his stare into nothing. She knew somehow that he truly saw with his hand, with fingers that pressed and kneaded.