Home by Morning (22 page)

“You're finished.”

“What about dessert?”

“It can wait.”

The boy's gaze moved from Rafe to his mother and back
again. “You're not going to kiss, are you? Kissing is disgusting and terribly unsanitary.”

“Tell me that when you're older.”

“Joe Bill says kissing is just trading spit.”

“For Joe Bill, that will probably be true. But for you, it'll be different.”

“Why?”

Luckily, Josie jumped in to save him. “Because you're kind and polite and quite handsome,” she told her son. “I daresay the girls will be chasing after you all the time.”

“I pray not.” The boy looked at his plate, the tips of his ears turning red.

“Wait and see. Now do as your father asked you.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Your father.
Rafe liked the sound of that, even though he still wasn't used to hearing it.

As soon as the door closed, he pulled Josie into his lap and traded spit with her. “That's not disgusting at all,” he murmured a few minutes later when he came up for air. “Is this, I wonder?” He ran a hand over her breast.

Her breathy laugh sent heat pulsing through him.

But before he could carry her upstairs, she slipped away and back into her chair. “Now tell me what's wrong, dearest. I can see something is troubling you.”

He looked into her mismatched eyes, trying to read the answer to the question he hadn't yet found the courage to ask. A beam of late afternoon sunlight cut across her beautiful face and made the splash of blue in her right eye shimmer like the clear water in a cool crystal pool.

“Do you have regrets, Josie?” he finally asked. Then, afraid of what she might say, he hurried on before she could answer. “I don't want you to be lonely here, honey. Or to feel lost, or homesick for England. If you want to go back, we can leave this week. Just say the word.”

It was a long time before she spoke. So long, Rafe started to sweat.

“Rubbish,” she finally said. “That's the word. That, and no. No, I am not lonely. No, I have no regrets. And no, I do not want to go back.”

Relief left him weak. He grinned at her, his eyes burning.

“Good heavens. You're not going to cry, are you?”

“I think I might. Perhaps if you took off your clothes and sat on my lap, I'd feel better.”

“What good would that do, if you don't take off yours, as well?”

The smartest lady he knew.

*   *   *

“So it's settled then. We have a teacher.” Lucinda smiled in satisfaction at the three other ladies gathered around the corner table in the deserted hotel dining room. “We owe Josephine our complete support.”

Audra Hardesty wrote furiously in her small tablet. She paused to study the pretty Englishwoman, now the town's new teacher, and wondered if it would be forward to ask why she had one brown eye and one that was half blue and half brown. Probably. The longer she worked at the newspaper—
her
newspaper now, a wedding gift from Ethan—the better she came to know the people of Heartbreak Creek, and the more blurred the lines between reportable news and outright gossip became. Especially with these women.

Edwina reached past her to squeeze Josephine's arm. “Bless you, Josephine. You have no idea how grateful I am. The idea of having Joe Bill underfoot all day—” She stammered to a stop as if realizing what she had said. Then, with a flustered smile, she tried to explain. “That's not to say he's actually
bad.
Or troublesome, or . . .”

“Give it up, Edwina.” Lucinda waved away the Southerner's fumbling excuses. “Everyone knows Joe Bill is a handful. But I suspect all that frightful energy will make him famous one day.”

Audra thought it generous of her to say “famous” rather than “notorious.”

“I shan't worry about it,” Josephine said in her proper British accent. “I shall have Joe Bill reciting sonnets by summer.”

That boast made all of them, Josephine included, laugh out loud.

“I just hope you can teach Lillie to speak so we can understand her,” Lucinda said. “Mrs. T. has failed dismally. A few
days ago, I found them going at each other with their sticks. Apparently, my guardian tried to poke the child with her cane, and Lillie retaliated. Not that I blame her.”

Edwina sighed. “She's no better than Joe Bill. Probably because they're near the same age, despite the size difference. Best prepare yourself, Josephine.”

“They're only children. How much trouble can they be?”

Which prompted another burst of laughter.

Audra studied these women who gathered weekly to share tea, scones, and gossip. She was so grateful to have them as friends, and although she had only arrived in town a few days before Prudence left, she felt she knew her, too. Sometimes, Helen Bradshaw or Mrs. Throckmorton joined them. But today Helen was busy with her housekeeping duties at the hotel, and Mrs. Throckmorton was in the Rylander suite, watching over baby Whit while he napped and feeding Rosie.

Audra was still amazed about that. The feeding part.

Last week, Lucinda Rylander had shown them how such a thing was possible. Without even a blush of embarrassment, she had marched up to the table and plunked down next to the marmalade a device that sucked milk right out of a woman's breast.

Imagine that!

Josephine's mismatched eyes had almost popped loose, and Audra still smiled when she thought of how far Edwina's jaw had dropped. Audra had been shocked, too, but intrigued. The reporter in her, she suspected.

According to Lucinda, the torture device was well worth the humiliation of being pumped like a cow, since it freed her to enjoy her first full night's sleep in almost three months. Freed her to enjoy other things, as well, Audra surmised, noting the beard rash on the blond beauty's neck.

Audra chided herself for noticing such a thing, but being the owner, operator, lead reporter, and editor of the
Heartbreak Creek Herald
, she was obliged to keep abreast of everything around her.

Abreast.

An unfortunate—and amusing—choice of words.
I should be writing a humor column,
she mused. Rather than listing train schedules, calling for volunteers for the garden below the
leaky sluice, or writing death and birth notices. She should be announcing to the world that her own child was on the way.

But not yet. It was too soon. What if she lost this one, too?

The thought bounced through her head, ripping open scars barely healed.

She was only now recovering from . . . what was she to call it? A death? An aborted life? A child that would never be? There were no words for what she felt. Her baby had never taken a breath. Audra had never held it, or even known if it was a boy or a girl. But the grief of losing that tiny life haunted her still.

Physically, she was fine. But emotionally . . .

She longed to tell someone, to share her pain and the irrational fear that gripped her each morning when she awoke, wondering if she was still pregnant . . . or if today would be the day she lost this baby, too.

Dr. Boyce said it happens—to give it time. Her longtime friend and onetime housekeeper, Winnie Abraham, said to put it in the Lord's hands. Ethan said it was okay, they could keep trying.

But it wasn't okay. Her baby had died. That would never be okay.

“Audra? Are you well?”

She looked up to find three faces staring curiously at her. Pulling herself together, she forced a smile. “Woolgathering. What did I miss?”

“We were discussing whether we should tell Helen that Buster Quinn has left.”

“He left? When?”

“On the eastbound, yesterday morning.”

Audra liked Helen. The woman was efficient, friendly, and quite attractive for a lady in her middle years. But reserved. Audra always sensed a touch of sadness beneath her pleasant smile.

Buster Quinn was even harder to get to know. She knew something of his background—he had fought for the North, later worked in New York as a Pinkerton detective, and several years ago went into private security. Tait Rylander had met both Quinn and Mrs. Bradshaw through a business associate—the man Lucinda had almost married. A rather tangled mess. Audra wasn't sure how it was resolved, but when Lucinda's
guardian, Mrs. Throckmorton, moved to Heartbreak Creek last summer, she had brought Buster Quinn and Mrs. Bradshaw with her. Over the ensuing months, Helen had been all smiles whenever Buster was around. Buster had seemed happy, too. So what had gone wrong? “How is Helen taking it?”

“Not well,” Edwina answered. “A few days ago, I found her in here crying. When I asked her what was wrong, she wouldn't talk about it.”

“Tait says Quinn never courted Helen.” Lucinda exchanged a knowing look with Edwina. “But there was something going on between them. You could tell.”

“We should do something,” Edwina said.

Josephine lifted her brows. “Like what? Drag him back by his heels?”

“I don't know yet. But I'm thinking on it.”

“Oh, dear.” Lucinda rolled her eyes. “Poor Quinn.”

Which made them all laugh again.

Audra felt better than she had in days . . . other than that persistent queasiness she refused to think about.

A
few days later, Declan Brodie sat in the dark on the porch of his Sunday house, listening to the frogs by the creek and contemplating the mess he'd have on his hands if Thomas never came back. Not that he would blame him, if what Ed said was true. No man liked being turned away time and again.

It had been almost two weeks since Thomas had left: not much time in male terms, but for a female as prone to worry as Ed was, it was a week and a half too long. Pru was her half sister, after all, and Thomas was family. Southerners doted on their families, and Ed fussed over hers like a mother hen.

Declan was worried, too. The town wouldn't be the same without Thomas. The Cheyenne added a sense of stability to the landscape, like a boulder in the middle of a slope—too big to move, and forcing you to go around it, but so solidly grounded it kept the rest of the slope from sliding away. In a similar fashion, his friends all made allowances for the Dog Soldier—staying clear when he was in a mood, or altering plans to accommodate his Indian ways. But you always knew he was there, rock-solid and immovable, watching your back.

Being his friend had made Declan's life richer. In fact, without Thomas, he might not have gotten through that hard time after his first wife had run off with her gambler and gotten attacked by an Arapaho war party. He trusted the Cheyenne with his life, his wife, and his children. But he needed
him to get his ass back home so Ed would calm down. As soon as Pru returned, Declan wanted to get back to the ranch. Calves would be dropping any day, and he should be there to see that all went well. But if Ed got herself worked up about her sister and Thomas, he might never get home.

“Pa?”

Declan looked over to see his ten-year-old son, Lucas, standing in the doorway. “What are you doing still up?”

“I couldn't sleep.”

Declan wasn't surprised. Lucas had a mind that never stopped. He nodded toward the chair beside his. “Come on, then. But only until Ed catches you.”

The boy let the door close and came forward, looking frail and thin in the faint light of the crescent moon. He wasn't big like fourteen-year-old R.D., or as robust as eleven-year-old Joe Bill. But he made up for it by having such a strong mind it sometimes felt like he could see straight into a person's head.

“Something worrying you, son?”

A shrug.

Declan didn't push him. The boy would talk when he was ready.

Lucas was the easiest of his sons. Never caused trouble, never goaded Ed into a temper like Joe Bill did, and hardly ever raised his voice, especially after his ma left them five years ago. Ed's coming had loosened him up somewhat, but Declan still worried that he was too withdrawn.

“You cold?” he asked, seeing the boy shiver in his nightshirt—something Ed had insisted on right off—“I don't need a passel of naked boys running around like plucked chickens!” She'd also insisted they take baths most nights before they put them on.

“A little.”

“Come here.” Declan patted his knee.

Lucas probably considered himself too old to sit in his father's lap, but Declan was glad he climbed up anyway. The time for holding his sons was passing fast, and he welcomed the chance to do it before it was too late. “Pretty evening,” he said, pulling the boy back against his chest.

Lucas nodded. “The last of the Worm Moon.”

“Worm Moon?”

“That's what Indians call the full moon in March.”

“Why?”

“Because that's when the ground thaws.” Lucas swiveled to face him, his face showing the excitement it always did when he talked about his bugs and reptiles and anything else that crawled, slithered, hopped, or flew. “Worms come up from where they've been sleeping all winter and leave casings on the ground. Some people think casings are poop, but they're mostly dirt.”

“You don't say.”

A vigorous nod. “That's when robins come, too. They see the casings on the ground and start looking for a worm to show up. I saw two of them today.”

“I'll have to watch for them.”

“Look by the creek,” he advised, and settled back against Declan's chest. “They like water. Most birds do.”

Declan smiled, amazed by all the facts the boy carried around in his head. He might not be as sturdy as his brothers, but Lucas had the gift of a curious brain and a fascination with how things worked. He was happiest when he was buried in a book, or drawing up plans for some invention he'd thought up, or tracking the smallest bug across the grass. Declan was never quite sure what was going on in his head, but he loved this quiet, sensitive boy with a fierceness that went beyond what he felt for his other sons.

“The frogs are noisy tonight,” he ventured, hoping to keep him talking.

“They're waking up, too. They freeze over the winter, then thaw out when the dirt does.”

Declan looked at him in surprise. “Freeze? Solid?”

Lucas nodded. “That's what Thomas told me.” He fidgeted for a minute, then asked in a worried tone, “When is he coming back?”

“I'm not sure.”

“What if he never does?”

And there it was—the worry that had kept the boy up so late. After losing his ma at an early age, he fretted when people left, fearing that they wouldn't come back. Plus, Lucas near-worshiped the Cheyenne, mainly because the Indian took the time to teach the curious boy all manner of things that
couldn't be found in the pages of his books. Declan's wouldn't be the only life diminished by the Indian's absence. “He'll come back if I have to drag him home by his topknot.”

“He doesn't have a topknot anymore.”

“Then by his temple braids.”

A snicker told Declan the boy was feeling better. “They'd probably break off. Human hair isn't as tough as horse hair. Although an Indian's hair is—”

“That's it. No more lessons. Go to bed.”

As if on cue, Edwina appeared at the door. “There you are, Lucas. I thought your collection of beetles had carried you off.”

“I'm not dung. But if we had enough ants, they might be able to carry me off. Or eat me. Did you know there are ants in Africa that eat everything in their path?”

“Like R.D.?” Ed asked.

“Worse. They could eat him down to bones in only a few minutes.”

“No wonder you can't sleep.” Declan lifted the boy off his numb thighs. “Go dream of pretty girls, instead of ants.”

“Girls are stupid.”

“And dung beetles aren't?” Ed steered the boy into the kitchen, then glanced back with a grin. “I'll be back for you later.”

“I'll be waiting.”

A few minutes later, the house went dark. When she came back out, she wore a gown and robe, her hair falling around her shoulders in a tumble of light brown curls. She looked wild and mysterious in the glow of the moon, and so beautiful she didn't seem real. Declan thought again about how lacking his life would have been if he hadn't posted that ad in
The Matrimonial News.

He patted thighs that were just beginning to wake up. “Have a seat.”

Smiling, she settled crosswise in his lap with the familiarity of many a night spent in his arms. With a sigh of contentment, she tipped her head back to kiss his chin, then squirmed until she got comfortable.

Which made him less comfortable. Pulling her closer, he rested his cheek on hair that smelled like lemons and was so fine it caught in the stubble on his chin.

After a while, his thighs went numb again, but he didn't
mind. He liked holding her. Liked knowing this emotional, courageous, and loving woman was his to hold whenever he wanted. Or whenever she would let him. “You cold?” he asked, sliding a hand along her hip.

“Not really.”

“You feel cold.”

She snuggled closer, twisting to face him, which had the lucky benefit of making her more accessible to his roving hands. “Do I? Where?”

“Here, for one.” He slipped his hand under her robe to stroke her belly through her gown. “And here.” He moved his hand higher. “But especially here.” His fingers grazed the tip of her breast.

“Oh,” she breathed, arching into his hand.

He loved the way she responded to him, loved the sounds she made and how open she was to him. She never made him feel too big, or clumsy, or rough for gentle play. She had once even called him beautiful. But more often, she called him a big lump and punched his shoulder. He loved both.

“You haven't put on a peep show for me in months,” she complained, wiggling her bottom in a way that woke his thighs up fast.

“It's too cold.” He moved his hand to her other breast.

“I'll manage.”

“I meant it's too cold for
me
.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” Lowering her hand between her hip and his belt buckle, she tested the ridge in his trousers. “You feel quite warm to me. But maybe I should check, just to be sure.” She began loosening the buttons on his Levi denims.

His lungs stopped working. “Ed,” he warned when he could breathe again.

“What?” Pushing the fabric aside, she reached into his drawers to give his John Thomas a squeeze that almost brought him out of the chair. And not only because her hand was cold.

“The children are just inside,” he said through clenched teeth.

She kissed his neck, then stretched to whisper in his ear, “I'd like for you to be inside, too.”

The little hussy.
His pulse hammered. His mind started to spiral. “You really want to do this . . . now . . . out here?”

“Do what?”

Before he could summon an answer, she gently raked her fingernails up his length, sending John Thomas into bobbing delight. “I'm about ten seconds,” he said hoarsely, “from tossing that gown over your head.”

She gave a squeeze.

Lights flashed behind Declan's closed eyes.

“I want my peep show first.” A gentle stroke. “And one teensy, weensy other little thing.”

“You trying to manipulate me, wife?” Not that he minded her attempts. But he wanted her to know that he knew what she was up to, so that when he gave in, which he always did, she'd know it was because he wanted to, and not because she'd manipulated him into doing it. Mostly.

“I might have been softening you up to ask a favor, but it seems to have had the opposite effect.”

“As you knew it would.”

She pulled her hand out of his trousers. Her saucy smile crumpled, and tears glistened in the moonlight. “I know you're anxious to get back to the ranch.” She swiped a hand over her eyes and tilted her head back to see him better. “But could you do one thing before you go?”

When she looked at him like that, he would do anything for her, whether her hand was in his trousers or not. This woman had brought such joy, and laughter, and love back into his and his children's lives, he would give her the moon if he could reach it. Dipping his head down, he kissed her forehead. “Sure, Ed. What do you need me to do?”

“Find Thomas and bring him home.”

“Done.” Gathering her in his arms, he headed for the door, grateful he didn't have to agree to anything he hadn't already decided to do. Other than putting on a peep show. Which he didn't mind at all.

*   *   *

Thomas was sitting on a scrap of elk hide in front of his tipi, carving a length of antler into a flute for
Katse'e
, when Declan Brodie finished the long climb up from the sacred pool.

“What took you so long?” he asked, without looking up.

“Jesus.” The big rancher plopped onto the ground beside him, his chest heaving. “You could have at least hidden out somewhere my horse could go.”

“I do not hide.”

“Like hell.” Muttering under his breath, Declan shrugged off his duster and tossed it aside. “I'm sweating like a butcher pig.”

“Sweating is good for you. It draws bad spirits from the body.”

“Bunkum. You got any water around here that doesn't smell like rotten eggs?” Brodie had such an aversion to the smell of the water in the sacred pool, he had never even waded in.

Thomas nodded toward a swollen elk bladder hanging on a peg. “That holds water.”

Brodie eyed it in disgust. “Never mind. But I wouldn't mind a bite of that elk jerky.” Without waiting for Thomas to offer it, he pulled a strip of dried meat from the drying rack and bit off a chunk. “What have you been doing up here all this time?” he mumbled while he chewed.

“Building this fine tipi.”

“That took you two weeks?”

Thomas held up the piece of antler. “I am also carving this flute for my daughter.”

“You ought not leave her so long. She could get herself into trouble.”

Thomas shrugged. He knew Declan would come get him if
Katse'e
needed him. Setting aside his knife and the flute, he rested his hands on his folded knees and looked at his friend. “Why are you here, Declan Brodie?”

“Ed is worried.”

“Ho. So it is your wife who sends you up here. Not your concern for my daughter.”

“Your daughter can take care of herself. She proved that last week.”

Thomas felt tension rise in his chest. “What did she do?”

“You mean after she and Joe Bill threatened a man for hitting Tombo Welks? Or after she went at Mrs. Throckmorton with her blind stick?”

Thomas waited.

“Nothing real bad so far,” Declan finally admitted. “But she's due. You need to come home.”

Home.
Was there such a thing for him? Was Heartbreak Creek truly where he belonged? Sometimes it felt like it. But still, there was something missing. And he knew what it was.

“So when are you coming down off your mountain here?”

“Soon.” Thomas let the tension bleed away. He picked up the knife and flute again. “I am glad you came,
nesene.
”

While Brodie worked on his strip of jerky, Thomas scraped the rough edges off the knife cuts on the antler. The sun dipped toward the western peaks, casting an orange wash over the high, snow-covered slopes and turning the wispy clouds above them into bands of red and gold and purple.