A Restless Wind (12 page)

     “And women don’t have to work in life?”  Her lips compressed for a moment.  “Because, truthfully, Brent, I never saw a wife and mother who could spend a day of uninterrupted leisure.  How many men would be willing to take over a woman’s responsibilities?”

     “Not many,”  Brent admitted.  “But I happen to think that women are more suited to raising children and keeping a home.”

     “And
that
in your opinion is not work?”

     “Granted it’s work.  But can you honestly say that a woman has the nerve or the drive to go out and take on all that is necessary for success in the business world?  Do you really think a woman could compete with a man?”

     Hetty knew that in his business dealings Brent was considered to be shrewd and ambitious.   She had even heard the word ruthless used to describe him.  She also knew that during the time that she was away in Boston, Brent had acquired a great deal of land, in addition to what he already owned.  It seemed he was not content with what he already had.

     “I suppose that depends on one’s definition of success.”

     “Money-making is my definition of success,”  he said.  “I admit it.”

     “Then money-making is the driving force in your life?”

     “It is one of them, yes.  When I take a wife, Hetty, I want to be able to provide her with everything she could want.”

     The intent look in his eyes held a subtle significance as he continued to look straight at her.

     “What if your wife wants more out of life than just wealth?  What if she wants-  equality.  Respect.  Her own interests.  Maybe even her own business.”

     He laughed.  “You mean like one of those suffragettes who lately have become quite-  violent in the pursuit of their cause?”

     “Then you don’t believe women should have the right to vote, either?”  She didn’t wait for his answer.  “Men vote, don’t they?”

     And in Brent’s opinion, there was a good reason for that.  She could see it in the look on his face.  Brent
didn’t care one bit for suffrage, or temperance, or equality, or women and children who suffered immeasurably at the hands of violent, drunken husbands who had the unquestioned right to do whatever they wished to their families and had no one to answer to.

     As her Uncle Zeb would have said, Brent’s opinions were set in stone.  And why should he change his opinions?  As long as he was in the superior role, there wasn’t one single reason on earth for him to want things to be any different.

     She glanced up, distracted for a moment by a deep rumble of thunder that echoed down from the hills.  The dark cloud bank just showing over the tree tops warned of a coming storm.  She kept her thoughts to herself, but she was sincerely hoping that Brent would decide to end his visit before the storm hit.

     “A helluva night,”  Pierce said and reached down to unbuckle his spur straps.  “I’m sure glad you were here. 
I’d have had a terrible time getting those horses back in myself.”  He removed the spurs and dropped them on the floor by his bunk.

     The storm had hit in the late afternoon.  A huge tree had fallen on the corral fence and some of the horses had gotten loose.  Jesse had helped drive the horses back in and then he had stayed to help Pierce remove the tree and repair the downed section of fence.  Both men had been thoroughly drenched by the driving rain.

     “This storm sure spooked the horses.  Spooked me, too.  I never saw such thunder, lightning and rain.  Nor wind,”  Pierce added as he slipped out of his soaked leather chaps.

     During his visits to check on John Forbes, Jesse had taken a liking to the young cowboy.  Pierce was as honest and straightforward a man as he had ever met.

     “Thank you, Hetty,”  Pierce said fervently as he struggled to pull a water-soaked boot off.  He jerked his chin in the direction of a pie setting on the table.  “Hetty’s always sending food to the bunkhouse.  Help yourself.”

     “Surprised she found the time,”  Jesse commented as he removed his hat and raked a hand through his wet hair.  “She had extra company today.”  He pulled a chair up to the small table and sat down.

     Pierce had visibly straightened.  “You mean that snake Marsten was here?”

     At Jesse’s nod, Pierce cursed under his breath.  The wide brim of his hat cast shadows on his unshaven face.  His lean jaw tightened.  The lines about his mouth were rigid with undisguised dislike.

     “I notice he sort of gets your back up,”  Jesse said as Pierce took off his wet hat and tossed it onto his bunk.

     “Oh, he provokes me, all right.  I hate him worse than I hate any sneaking coyote I’ve ever run across.  He’s spent the afternoon sweet talkin’ Hetty, I expect?”  Pierce wanted to know.

     “Appeared so.”

     Jesse didn’t know exactly what it was that Pierce had against the man, but there was unmistakable hostility in Pierce’s voice and in his eyes.  Jealousy was a possibility.  But Jesse didn’t think it was that.  Jesse didn’t like Marsten either.  No, within the young man ran a cold fire of contempt and fury which at the moment he wasn’t bothering to hide.

     “I reckon you have your reasons for not liking the man.”

     “I wouldn’t call him a man,”  Pierce remarked lowly.  “A mean, miserable snake is what he is.”

     Pierce pulled up a chair for himself and sat down across from Jesse as he cut himself a generous piece of pie.

     “There was a dog used to come around,”  Pierce began.  “Starved-looking thing.  And half wild.  He never came close to the ranch.  He would only come as far as the trail over the west ridge.  Well, I got in the
habit of throwing him some scraps, and he’d come and eat them as soon as I backed off far enough.  After a while, he got to the point where he would eat out of my hand.

     “He wasn’t mean, just scared.  One day I was coming back through the trees on the ridge and I saw that Marsten had shot that dog.  There wasn’t any reason for it.”  Pierce paused, frowning for a moment at the recollection.

     “Marsten just sat there watching the dog twitching in the hot sun.  You could see plain enough he enjoyed watching the dog suffer.  I rode down to help the dog or put it out of its misery if it needed doing.  By the time I got there, it was too late.  And Marsten was gone.”

     Pierce shook his head.  “I never could abide a man who will wantonly kill something like that.  He’s brutal with his horses, too.  I’ve seen their mouths and their sides bloody.  He’s not shy about using a whip on them, either.

     “And yesterday,”  Pierce went on between bites of pie.  “Emma told me Will got his fingers slammed in the barn door.  She was up in the loft playing with the cat.  Will was in the barn looking at Marsten’s saddle.  You know that fancy saddle of his with all the silver on it?

     “Marsten comes along aimin’ to bite the kid’s head off and tells him that if he ever caught him messing with his saddle again, he’d give him a lesson he
wouldn’t forget.  That’s when Will slammed the barn door on his fingers.  He was scared and in a hurry to get away from Marsten.

     “Marsten didn’t see Emma up there in the loft.  She said he just stood there with a mean, ugly smirk on his face, watching while Will ran to the house.

     “Oh, yeah,”  Pierce breathed.  “Marsten can be one cold-hearted bastard.  It’s right amazin’ how much of a polecat a man can be when he’s got it in him.  Hetty doesn’t know because Marsten has never let her see that side of him.

     “I’m not saying all I know,”  Pierce said low-voiced as his chin went outward in a sudden thrust.  “But before long I reckon I’ll be blabbing the truth all over the county,”  he said with a mysterious air.  “And then see if Hetty gives him the time of day.”

     The worst of the storm was over, but rain was still falling softly while thunder and lightning moved off towards the distant hills.  Pierce and Jesse had had a long night of it, rounding up frightened horses and repairing a section of fence in the driving rain.

     Hetty walked into the kitchen and called Will, who, for the last two hours, had been playing quietly on the back porch.  She stopped in the doorway of the porch and called him again.  Will did not immediately get up, which perplexed Hetty because he was usually such an obedient child.  She got the distinct impression that he was afraid to come off the porch.

     Hetty stepped down into the room and kneeled beside him.  “Didn’t you hear me calling, Will?”

     “Yes,”  he replied, looking up at her.

     “Are you afraid of storms?”  she asked.

     “Sometimes,”  was his reply.

     “Here, Will.  I brought you a molasses cookie.”

     He reached for the cookie but then drew his hand back sharply and winced.

     “Let me see your hand, Will.”

     He held it out.  There was a painful-looking mark across the joints of four fingers.  The wound was purple and swollen and it had bled some.

     “What happened?”  Hetty asked.

     Hetty turned to Emma who had just come up behind her.  Emma explained that he had gotten his fingers slammed in the barn door.

     Hetty gently picked up the injured hand.  “I imagine it hurts pretty badly, doesn’t it?”

     Will shook his head and grimaced with pain as Hetty examined it.

     “Come into the kitchen,”  she told him as she got to her feet.  “I’ll bandage it for you.  That should make it feel much better.”

     Emma sat with them at the table while Hetty carefully bandaged the hand.

     “How did you get hurt, Will?”  Hetty asked, wondering why the boy, usually so talkative, remained silent.

     It was Emma who spoke up.  “I was in the loft with the cat and Will was playing in the barn.  I don’t know where he came from, but Mr. Marsten was suddenly standing over Will.  He yelled at him to stay away from his horse and to leave his saddle alone.  Will shouldn’t have touched his saddle, I know, but I don’t think Mr. Marsten needed to be quite so disagreeable.”

     Hetty’s brows lifted as Emma recounted the rest of what she had seen.

     “What did Mr. Marsten do when he saw that Will was hurt and crying?”  Hetty asked with a frown.

     “He smiled.”

     Hetty’s hands stilled for a moment and she straightened in her chair.  After she finished with the bandage, she said gently,  “Both of you go upstairs and put on your nightclothes.  After I clean up here, Emma, I’ll brush your hair for you and then I’ll read you both a story.  Would you like that?”

     Enthusiastic nods and happy smiles were her reply.  On her way upstairs, Emma stopped and turned in the kitchen doorway.

     “Hetty?”

     Hetty looked up.

     “Mr. Marsten won’t be going with us when we go to the new house, will he?”

     “No,”  Hetty assured her.  “He won’t be going.”

     An hour later, after not one, but three, stories had been read, the children were snuggled peacefully in their beds.  Both were sleeping soundly.  The day had been a long one and both of them were exhausted.

     In the dimness of her candlelit room, Hetty sat on the edge of her bed and undid the buttons at her throat.  She pulled the pins from her hair and let the heavy curls fall loose. 

     With a sigh, she went to the window and propped one knee on the window seat.  The rain, which had let up for a while, was again pounding steadily on the roof.

     She frowned as she recalled all that Emma had told her.  It had only reinforced her opinion of Brent Marsten.  Hetty had discerned certain things about the man a long time ago, even before she had left for Boston.

     She might have entertained a school girl’s fancy for Brent Marsten a long time ago, but she did not think of him as a possible husband.  She didn’t admire him and she didn’t love him.  She never had.  She never would.

     He had a reputation for being aggressive in business which earned him approval in certain circles.  Perhaps other people found that trait admirable, but Hetty had decided long ago that under the outward veneer of sophistication and success, Brent Marsten was domineering, callous and insensitive to others. 

     She knew that other women were attracted to Brent and that there were even women who envied her because of his attention to her.  The truth was, however, that she found Brent too bold.  Arrogant, perhaps, was the word.  She sensed that behind the unshakable air of self-confidence was egotism.  She had known from the beginning that he anticipated an easy conquest over her.