A Stockingful of Joy (24 page)

She saw the small shape huddled under a blanket she didn't recognize, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was Zachary; that silver-blond head was unmistakable. So he'd only come as far as this, last night. Perhaps it was just that simple, he couldn't bear to be in his mother's house with her. Faith felt the pain of rejection clutching at her; she wanted so much to help the boy, to reassure him, but she didn't know how. She'd never been around children much, and she supposed she was missing some crucial part of her that made such nurturing second nature to most females; she quite simply didn't know what to do.

He'd had a restless night, it seemed; there was hay tossed all around. And she really didn't know where he'd found that blanket; it wasn't one of the ones from the house. Maybe he—

She stopped in her tracks when she heard a snort and an unfamiliar black equine head came over the stall railing to her left. She should have been worried, should have immediately thought of what trespasser had come in with this animal, but instead all she could do was stare at the finely drawn head, the flared nostrils, and the liquid dark eyes of what was the only horse she'd seen since she'd left St. Louis that could truly match her own little mare, Espe.

"Oh, you're a beauty," she breathed, stepping closer cautiously. But it was a caution born of respect, not fear; if there was one thing in life she was certain of, it was her knack with animals.

Even with his rather shaggy winter coat, the horse gleamed in the faint light. He stretched out an inquiring nose, and Faith held out her hand for a sniff. He was clearly not fearful of a stranger, at least not here and now, and showed every sign of being well and gently treated. And the moment she realized that, her innate fear of whoever had come with the animal faded.

"Good way to lose a finger or two."

The deep, rumbling voice came from so close by, she nearly screamed; only the fear of startling the horse kept her silent. The animal's ears flicked in the direction of the voice, but he kept looking at her.

"He doesn't cotton much to strangers."

The warning came out of the darkness beneath the hayloft, behind where Zachary was sleeping, and it irritated her that he wouldn't show himself.

"And I don't cotton to trespassers," she retorted.

There was a silent moment, then, unexpectedly, a low chuckle. She peered into the shadows, only barely able to make out the shape of a man. A very large, very powerful-looking man.

"Just trying to save your hand."

"He seems perfectly friendly." To prove her point, she took a slow step closer to the horse. "Aren't you, boy? You're not about to bite me, now, are you?" She was crooning in the low, coaxing voice she used with unknown or wounded creatures. It had worked for as long as she could remember, and it worked again. The animal nudged her hand and, certain now, she gently patted the velvety muzzle. Then she slid her hand up under his jaw and rubbed at the spot between the wide bones. The horse let out a whicker of pleasure. "No, of course not, you've the look of a gentleman. And you're not hiding in the shadows, afraid to show your face, now, are you?"

"And you're not one to hide what you're thinking," the rumbling voice came again, making an observation rather than asking a question.

On the words he stepped out of the shadows. Faith's eyes widened; Lord, he was big. Not just tall, although she'd bet he topped six feet easily, but broad and strong, even more powerful-looking in the light than the shadows. His hair was coal dark, and long enough to brush his shoulders, and a jagged scar marked his left temple from hairline to just in front of his ear. His eyes, to her surprise, were light, although she couldn't tell if they were blue or gray in the rather dim light inside the barn.

Not that it mattered; more than anything else his eyes were cold and hard. Flint hard, like some of the men she'd seen come home from the war, looking as if all gentle feeling had been burned out of them. And she suddenly reassessed her dismissal of her fear; it was possible, she supposed, for someone to be kind to his horse while he slaughtered people by the dozen.

"You have a knack," he said, gesturing at the horse. There was nothing of admiration in his voice; he spoke as unemotionally as if he were observing that the snow had stopped.

"Yes," she said, uncertain of what else to say. "I always have had."

He studied her silently, for so long that she felt a nearly overwhelming urge to look away. But in the same way she sensed that the horse wouldn't hurt her, she knew that to betray fear to this man would be foolish. He was the kind who would not miss such a revealing slip. What he would do with the knowledge was something she couldn't guess at. But she didn't wish to find out in an unpleasant way.

"I'll pay for the night I spent here," he said abruptly.

Under his steady gaze it took her a moment to realize he was referring to her calling him a trespasser.

"That's… not necessary. I'd not begrudge anyone shelter on a night like last night."

He lifted a dark brow, but it didn't seem a questioning gesture rather than one of affirmation, as if he'd had something he'd already thought confirmed.

"Thank you… Faith."

She stared at him. The simple sound of her name in that rumbling voice seemed to paralyze her. It was a moment before she was able to think enough to wonder how he had—

"Zachary," she said suddenly, realizing he must have talked to the boy, and learned her name.

He nodded. "I didn't know what went with the 'Miss,' or I'd have been more… polite."

"Brown. I'm Faith Brown."

"Miss Brown," he amended, and inside her a tiny voice bemoaned the loss of the way he'd said "Faith" in that deep, rough voice.

"No sense in going backward," she said, not quite believing she was saying it. "Faith will do."

He looked at her again for a long silent moment, as if he were puzzled about something. Then he glanced over his shoulder, to where Zachary was stirring, perhaps roused at last by the mention of his name. The boy sat up, rubbed at his eyes, looked around in some bewilderment, as if he couldn't recall how he had come to be here Then his gaze fell upon Faith and the stranger, and his eyes rounded to half-dollar size. He scrambled to his feet, bits of hay clinging to him, and to the blanket he let slip away from his small shoulders.

"Zachary," she began, but before she could get out another word, he backed away. He picked up a bundle that she saw was made up of all the things missing from his little space.

"I was leavin'," he said. "I'da been gone, 'cept he"—he nodded toward the big man—"told me not to go while it was still snowin'."

This confirmation of what she'd guessed gave her another heart-deep pang. She had no idea what to say to the boy, so instead she looked at the man.

"In that case, I suppose I must thank you."

"Common sense," the man said with a shrug that could have meant anything from "you're welcome" to a disavowal of any concern over the boy's welfare.

"Which children sometimes lack," she insisted. "So thank you, Mr.…?"

"Just… call me Morgan."

Had he hesitated, or was it her imagination? A dozen reasons, none of them very pleasant, as to why he might be undecided about giving her his name came to her, but she wasn't certain enough to press the issue. Nor was she sure she would even if she was certain; he had the look of a man it was wiser not to question.

She glanced at Zachary, who was staring up at the big man with more than a touch of awe in his face. She could see why; not only was it his size, but in the black pants, shirt, and coat, with a Winchester rifle balanced easily in his right hand, he was an intimidating figure.

"I'm… glad you didn't leave," she said to the boy, haltingly.

"Sure," Zachary muttered, clearly not believing her.

Faith sighed. She wished she knew what she'd done to make the boy dislike her so. He was already looking at the stranger with more feeling than he'd ever given her. Was it simply because he was a man? Or was it that anyone, even a stranger, was better than her?

She shivered. Whether it was because of her nephew's continued coldness, the chilly temperature even here in the barn, or some stab of foreboding brought on by the man before her, she didn't know. She suppressed the urge to run.
Where will you run to?
she chided herself.
All the way back to St. Louis? There's nothing for you there
.

And before she realized the words had formed in her mind, she was saying them. "I was about to put coffee on. Could I… offer you a cup?"

The man called Morgan looked startled, then thoughtful.

"Yes, stay," Zachary said excitedly. His gaze flicked to Faith, and for the first time had a tinge of warmth in them. She knew it wasn't for her, but it was nice to see anyway.

"I thought you were lighting out," Morgan said to the boy, again without emotion, as if it meant nothing.

"I was," the boy said. "But I'll stay if you do. For now," he added with another quick glance at Faith.

"Don't worry," she said wryly, "I won't assume you've changed your mind about me."

To his credit the boy colored slightly. But he looked at Morgan eagerly. "Will you stay?"

Morgan turned that cool, assessing gaze back on her. "I'd be obliged for a cup of fresh coffee… Faith.

She nearly shivered again, but it had nothing to do with cold this time, and everything to do with the sound of her name in that low, rough, rumbling voice.

"All right," she said, striving to keep her own voice from shaking. "Come on to the house."

She darted out of the barn without waiting for an answer.

Well, now
, Morgan thought as he watched her scamper away.
So that was old, weepy, spinster Aunt Faith
.

The spinster was fact, he guessed; she had the look and the nervousness of a woman not used to being around a man. And true, she was perhaps not a girl any longer, but if she was old, he wasn't at all sure what that made him; he had to have a few years on her. And he believed the crying part; her eyes were swollen, her nose reddened.

But it was a cute nose. Little and tilted slightly upward. And even the puffiness of eyes that had probably spent the night weeping couldn't disguise the warm, cinnamon color of them. He wondered if her hair, when—if, he amended silently—she took it down, had the same cinnamon tones.

His mind shied away from that image, just as curiosity about just how long her hair might be struck him. He purposely thought instead that she'd covered her nervousness well, with quick retorts that had made him grin inwardly, and even chuckle out loud a couple of times. Maybe it was that sassy mouth that had resulted in spinsterhood; it would take a brave man to take on a woman with a wit that lively. Although the female shape beneath the plain dress might make one think it worth the price, if one were of a mind to settle down. Fortunately he'd never been of that mind in his life, and wasn't going to begin now.

"Are you comin'?"

The boy's question was urgent, as if he were afraid Morgan would change his mind. "I'll be along," he said. "Why don't you go on ahead and help."

The boy looked taken aback. "Help? I can't make coffee."

"I reckon you could stoke the cooking fire or some such."

Zach grimaced. "With what? We're 'most out of firewood, and she can't chop worth a row of beans. About cut off her own foot the other day."

The scorn in the boy's voice was plain, and Morgan felt an unwanted pang of sympathy for the apparently beleaguered Faith Brown. "So you're better at chopping, I suppose."

The boy shook his head, and Morgan guessed the point had been beyond the child. "Mama wouldn't let me handle an ax. She said I had to be tall as her rocker 'fore I could do it."

"So she chopped the wood, then, after your father died?"

Zach looked startled. "Mama? 'Course not. She had a man in to do it, Mr. Talley from town, usually, he'd do it if she fed him. Lots of the menfolk from town would help with chores and fixin' things for that. She was a real good cook. Not like my aunt," he finished with that same note of scorn.

"So it was okay that your mama couldn't chop wood, or do other hard work, but not your aunt," Morgan said musingly, wondering why he was bothering to try to point out the unfairness of his view to a child who probably couldn't comprehend it anyway. But to his surprise, Zach looked a bit chagrined. He pressed the advantage, still not sure why.

"What
can
she do?" he asked.

The pale blond brows furrowed. "I dunno. She sews some, I guess. Mama said that's what she did back in St. Louis."

He said the town's name as if it were as foreign as France or China, and Morgan bit back a smile. But then what the boy had said registered. She'd had on a plain, simply cut gray dress, the only other color on it a touch of some white frilly stuff at the neck, but it had fit her like a glove, and set him to wondering if he really could span her waist with his hands.

If she'd made that dress, she did more than "sew some"; that dress had had none of the potato-sack-like fit he associated with most clothing sewn by the wearer. When she'd reached up to pat his horse's nose, he'd been able to picture exactly what she would look like beneath the gray wool, and he'd been a little startled when he'd realized just how modest the dress actually was, revealing nothing compared to the fashions he'd seen in Denver and San Francisco.

"And," he said thoughtfully, remembering, "she charms horses."

"I guess," the boy said. "Mama always said she had a way with them, when they used to ride together back in St. Louis, when they were little. That's why she gave her that mare."

The boy pointed toward the far end of the barn, where a horse and a pony he assumed was the child's occupied the end box stalls. He'd purposely kept his own animal here at this end in a straight stall, away from the other two; the stallion was very well mannered, but no sense in taking chances, although the little sorrel mare had clearly not been in season. He'd liked the trim lines and intelligent look of the flaxen-maned mare, and she looked fit and strong.