Without Words (33 page)

Caroline startled Hassie by reaching out as if for a handshake and hugging instead.

The entryway filled with people. Smiling and nodding her way through introductions, Hassie tried not to stare at Mary Lytton Sterling, who put the blonde, blue-eyed beauty Hassie had once imagined as Bret’s wife to shame with paler hair, more perfect features, and lusher figure.

Hassie hadn’t expected Mary to greet Bret with even a subdued version of Caroline’s welcome, but she had expected—something. Instead Mary stayed behind the others in the hall, her expression more reserved than the senior Sterlings, her hands on the shoulders of her two children. Hassie’s long ago idea that Bret’s old love would be haughty in the nicest way changed to just plain haughty.

Before they’d become friends of a sort, the hat lady on the train had made Hassie wish she’d changed her trousers for a dress. Mary and the other Sterling women made her want to run to the barn, throw herself on Brownie, and gallop into the night. What good would changing to a dress do when her newest ones from Colorado would look hopelessly plain?

These women all wore stylish dresses trimmed with ruffles, bows, or lace. Their elaborate polonaises could only drape so smoothly with dress improvers underneath. Not that Hassie wanted to wear a cage around her legs with a lump of horsehair strapped to her rump, but still....

Their age made it easy to distinguish Bret’s mother and father. From the reserve on their faces and the distance they kept, Bret could have been a slight acquaintance here at the invitation of some other family member.

William Sterling looked very much the way Bret had in his suit at the dance months ago, except either William had been ill recently or he didn’t spend much time outside in the sun. Bret’s darker complexion and the little lines around his eyes gave his face more character.

When the introductions and uncomfortable greetings concluded, William gave Bret a pat on the back that looked more like a blow. “You look as good as new.”

Bret tapped the cane against his boot. “Almost.”

“You need something with a gold handle. You can twirl it and look more devilishly handsome than ever.” William’s tone was joking, but as he turned to Hassie, she recognized an intent to cause trouble in the curl of his lip.

“Bret almost lured my wife into marrying him before she came to her senses,” he said. “They were engaged to marry for almost two years.”

Hassie gave him her brightest fake smile. “He is one I do not like already,” she signed.

“Neither do I.” Bret slipped an arm around her and pulled her close. “I should have put it in my letter,” he said, “but since I didn’t—Hassie’s throat was injured as a child. She can’t speak clearly, so she uses sign language. I’m getting pretty good at it, but for the rest of you—she writes.”

“She can’t....” Mrs. Sterling’s hand went to her own throat, her reserved expression changing to one of dismay.

“You two are well matched then,” William drawled. “Crippled legs, arms, throats. You better be careful. There’s not much left.”

Bret ignored his brother. “I’ll show Hassie to our room so she can start settling in while I get the rest of our things, including the slate she writes on.”

“How bad is her voice?” William said. “I think we should be able to hear and judge for ourselves.”

Hassie drew in a deep breath. “No,” she said as forcefully as she could.

“You heard the lady.” Amusement tinged Bret’s voice. He picked up their bags and escorted Hassie up the stairs.

She stopped when they reached the second floor, but Bret urged her on. “Not here. One more floor, first room on the left.”

He had both their bags under his right arm so he could use the cane with his left. His leg must be a throbbing, aching mess by now, the shoulder not much better, and the stairs were so dark only a tight hold on the bannister enabled her to keep going. Yet if she tried to take even one of the bags, he’d resist. Pigheaded. She sighed and continued on.

Their corner room was warmed by a chimney from a downstairs fireplace running along one wall. In spite of that, Hassie shivered as Bret lit a lamp by the bed and another on the bureau. By day, with sunlight pouring in through the large windows, the blues and creams of the room would be lovely. Right now, no matter the temperature, the room left Hassie colder than ever.

A light knock sounded at the door. “It’s me, Caroline.”

Caroline bounced into the room, waving a sheaf of paper in one hand, a pencil in the other. “I brought writing things so we can talk,” she said to Hassie. “Since my sister Vicky married and left, I don’t have a single female person to talk to. Mother and Mary are always too busy, and they’re not interesting anyway.”

“Female chatter will have to wait till later,” Bret said. “Right now Hassie needs a hot bath to warm her up. Why don’t you make yourself useful and see what you can arrange while I bring in the rest of our things.”

Caroline pouted. “You can just tell Leda what you need, and she’ll do it. She’ll be in the kitchen or somewhere downstairs.”

Hassie pulled the paper from Caroline’s hand, took it and the pencil to the table, and wrote,
“Your brother does
NOT
need to go up and down the stairs more times. His leg is barely healed. Please find someone to carry things for him.”
She underscored the NOT a second time when she finished.

Caroline read the words, looked at Hassie, looked at Bret. The lamplight emphasized the whiteness around the tight line of his mouth, the flare of his nostrils.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I never thought. I’m as bad as Will, and I’ll get him and make him help.” She hugged Hassie, hugged Bret. To Hassie she said, “And I’ll come right back and take you for a bath, and I’ll make sure your clothes get pressed so you have a dress to put on afterward.”

Before Caroline left in a flutter of apologies and promises, Bret pulled the paper from her hand and read Hassie’s words.

The door clicked shut, and Bret pulled Hassie into his arms. “Does that concern for my leg mean I’m truly forgiven?”

It wasn’t a matter of forgiveness; she’d given up on making him understand. He kissed her and welcome heat flooded from her head to—about her ankles. If the kiss curled her toes, she’d never know because she couldn’t feel her feet. “You need to sit with your leg up,” she signed.

“As soon as I get the rest of our things up here, I will. Right now I need to get outside before Will uses the excuse to paw through everything we own.”

Hassie waved a hand around the room. “So big. I expected many servants.”

“They probably let half of them go in order to buy another horse,” Bret said, his tone and expression flat.

The way he had looked at the horses with his hands on his hips made it clear he didn’t like something about them, but Hassie decided not to probe that subject, at least not now. And if she had to wear mittens the whole time they were here to keep from doing it, she wasn’t going to say a word about Mary.

Bret kissed her again and headed for the door, limping heavily.

Hassie caught him before he started down the stairs. “I stored willow bark tea in the coffee pot. Be sure to bring that.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She stood there listening until his footsteps faded to nothing.

F
OOLISH THOUGH IT
was, Bret would have preferred going back out to the barn himself, taking time to hang saddles, bridles, and other equipment in the tack room and sort through everything in the packs. Lame or not, he could haul all the clothing and other personal items he and Hassie needed to the house with a lazy man’s load or two trips.

In years past, seeing Mary again after months away left him disturbed, restless, and dwelling on what might have been. This time relief that Hassie was over her uncharacteristic anger overwhelmed every other emotion.

Right now he’d like to be alone a while to reflect on how different everything seemed this year. Instead he had Will dogging his steps and grousing about being treated like a porter. Since the war, Bret had avoided his brother as much as possible, and Will’s snide performance in the entry hall hadn’t recommended him as good company.

In spite of Sam Olson’s earlier words, a tie stall across from the tack room housed nothing except a few tools. Bret forked straw under the manger and made a bed for Gunner. It would do for tonight.

Will hunched in his coat, stamped his feet, and complained about the cold and the dog.

“I can’t believe you’d even bring an ugly mongrel like that here. You know what Father’s going to say when he sees it. One glance at a chicken and he’ll order it shot. He won’t try to make Sam shoot it so that means me or you, and who’s going to dig a hole in this damned frozen ground? Not me.”

Bret gave Gunner a rough caress behind the ears. “You, Father, and Sam all need to get straight on something. I don’t care how you feel about the dog. Tomorrow you’ll get a good look at my wife’s even uglier horse, and I don’t care what you think about that either. They’re staying here, and you can all keep your mouths shut about them around Hassie.”

“So the dog came with the widow. I can’t believe you went from Mary to that.”

Bret’s hand tightened on the pitchfork. “I don’t think a ten-year interval during which I didn’t live in a monastery qualifies as ‘went from’, and since I’m sure you didn’t mean to insult your wife or mine, I’ll put it down to the cold.”

“Oh, come on. We all expected you to stop sulking and marry eventually, but we expected at least a decent try at a proper Sterling bride.”

After exchanging the pitchfork for his cane, Bret glanced in the tack room. Sam Olson had hung the saddles and bridles on pegs and racks along the wall, bless him. All Bret needed to deal with was the contents of the panniers. He began sorting, stuffing what needed to go to the house in the empty cases he’d brought back out. Clothes. Coffee pot. Definitely the coffee pot.

He poured what was left of the small supply of oats he carried for the horses in the grain bin, stuffed the food that remained in a canvas bag. “Here,” he said to Will. “How about you take this in? No use letting mice get into it out here.”

Will made no move to take the sack. “So what happened?” he said. “You decided you couldn’t do me one better and figured you’d embarrass us all by bringing home some Irish tart in dirty trousers?”

Bret forgot barely healed wounds and drove his right fist into Will’s face, pain searing through his shoulder like fire. Will recovered and charged, only to slam into the wall when Bret sidestepped.

Gunner joined the fight, grabbing a mouthful of coat and yanking Will further off balance. Bret shoved the tip of the cane under Will’s chin, pinning him where he’d fallen.

“Let’s give it a day or two before we bloody each other up. I think in spite of everything, Mother likes the illusion her sons are civilized. But you watch you mouth around my wife and about my wife or I’ll shatter Mother’s illusions and your jaw.”

“You and the dog and two or three other helpers,” Will said as he pushed the cane away and rose. “Your mouth was busy enough on my wife once.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Bret said. “A few kisses, and we were engaged. Find another excuse to act like an ass, why don’t you.”

Will fingered the tear Gunner had ripped in his coat. “You’re a damned traitor. How’s that for a reason?”

“Better.”

“Carry your own trash inside. I’m not your servant.”

Glad to be left alone, Bret tied Gunner in the stall and made two trips from barn to house carrying supplies and gear.

Done at last, he dug the coffee pot out and headed for the kitchen. A cup of willow bark tea right now would be like throwing a thimbleful of water on a raging fire, but it would be better than nothing. After that he’d see if Hassie was still in the bath tub, skin flushed rosy, tendrils of hair curling around her face. Now that she was back to her agreeable self....

“Breton. We need to talk. Come have a drink.”

So much for catching Hassie in the bath. Bret nodded at his father. “Yes, sir. Give me a minute to leave this in the kitchen, and I’ll be right there.”

Tea first. Whiskey after. His leg wouldn’t know what hit it.

B
RET ACCEPTED A
glass of whiskey and settled into a chair, smothering a groan. The dark study with its heavy mahogany furniture was a good replica of the one he’d been called to many times as a boy for praise as well as discipline.

His father didn’t look that different than he had then either. His stomach protruded over his belt a little, but not much for a man in his late fifties. Silver streaks in his dark hair only lent a more distinguished air. Bret hoped to age as well. His father was still a handsome, vigorous man. And determined to live his life as if the war had never happened or as if it hadn’t changed anything.

“I’m glad you’re home. We were beginning to wonder.”

Admitting they were beginning to worry would be a step too far. Bret took a swallow of whiskey, enjoying the way it burned a path to his stomach.

“It’s all come at a bad time,” his father said. “I shouldn’t have counted unhatched chickens, I suppose, but you’ve sent more each year than the year before, and I did count on it. You saw the horses.” The last was said with pride and a self-satisfied smile.

“I saw the stallion and half a dozen in foal mares. They look like they must have cost every penny I sent and then some.”

His father waved his glass, enthusiasm animating his features. “That they did, and I was lucky to get them. Those Kentucky breeders don’t want to sell stock that fine, especially one like Augustus Caesar. He won dozens of races before proving himself as a sire, important races, and he’s only eight now. A stallion like that would never be available if the owner wasn’t desperate.”

“So the farm is producing enough to live on again, and you used my money to buy horses.”

“Oh, no, with grain prices where they are, the farm would feed us, but that’s about all, and you didn’t send enough.... What I mean is everything together wouldn’t have been enough. I took out a loan.”