Daisies In The Wind (6 page)

“I didn’t say it was,” he replied softly, but
his eyes were brimming with gentle amusement. “Unless you want to
give me firsthand evidence ...”

“You ... oh!” She shoved hard against his
massive chest, which only made his grin deepen. Dimples appeared
within his bronzed cheeks.

Rebeccah pushed him again. “You’re the most
vile-minded, insufferable man. I’m damned if I need your help! Set
me down this minute!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He lowered her to the ground, still grinning.
As she straightened her hat and twitched at the hem of her skirt,
he shook his head. “Can’t see what you’re so all-fired upset
about,” he commented mildly, just to irritate her.

“You! And this ... place. I expected this
ranch to he a
bit
more prosperous-looking, that’s all.
It’s a shock.”

He dismounted, then reached into the wagon
for her trunk and lifted it down with ease. He set it beside her in
the darkening yard. Her parcels and hatbox followed. “Maybe you
should think about selling,” he said slowly. “It’ll take a lot of
work and a lot of money to make a go of this place. I’m sure Jed
Turner over at the land office would be glad to put it on the
market for you. You could get a good price.”

So he was still trying to get rid of her.
Rebeccah squared her shoulders and turned toward him. “Let’s get
something straight right now, Sheriff Bodine,” she said quietly.
“I’m not selling this property. I’m not leaving Powder Creek. This
is my home, my ranch, and it’s going to be the biggest, grandest,
most prosperous ranch in the territory before I get through with
it, so you can save your long faces and dire threats for some
stupid little ninny, which you obviously mistake me for, because I
am neither stupid nor a ninny, and nobody tells me what to do.”

Now it was his turn to be angry. Even in the
gathering dusk she could see it. He scowled at her from beneath his
hat, and she sensed the tension in his tall frame. He reached out a
hand, tilted up her chin, forced her to meet his gaze. “Let me give
you a little warning, Miss Rawlings.” He took a step closer, and
leaned down, his face very close to hers. “You’d better not be as
low-down and crooked as your father was because we don’t put up
with lawbreakers in Powder Creek. And being a woman won’t save you
from getting plunked in jail if I get even a hint that you’re mixed
up in any dirty dealings. If anyone shady shows up in town, I’ll be
breathing down your neck so fast, you won’t even see me coming.
I’ll lock you up in that nice little cell in my office and throw
the key in the river, so help me God, I will. You understand?
Because it’s easy to see you’re as stubborn and as bad-tempered as
your father, but if you take after him in any other way—”

“Damn you,” Rebeccah cried. Her fingers
balled into fists. “My father was
not
bad-tempered!”

“What?”

She was quivering with rage. She wanted to
hit him so badly, her fingers smarted at her sides. “Bear was
good-natured
, do you hear me, Sheriff Bodine, as
good-natured as any man you’ll ever meet —unless he was crossed.
Unless someone did something really bad to him or to me—” Her voice
broke, only for a moment, then gained steam again. “You didn’t know
him, so don’t you dare speak to me about him. He may not have been
honest, and he may have been stubborn and full of himself and a few
other things, but he was
kind
, and good-natured, and
gentle deep down, and as true a friend as any man could want to
find, and I won’t stand here and listen to you speak ill of
him!”

Wolf didn’t know what to make of her. She was
obviously loyal to her father, and passionate in his defense, and
it occurred to him suddenly that she must have loved Bear a great
deal. Bodine found it difficult to believe that anyone could love
the huge, barrel-chested, irascible outlaw known for his cunning
and greed, but looking at Rawlings’s daughter, it was impossible to
believe anything else. Those violet eyes shone with it, and beneath
the love and obvious devotion he saw something else: loss. It
seared through her as hot and painful as a branding iron. The girl
was glaring at him, fearless as could be, and quivering with an
unspoken agony. Bear had been dead a little more than four months
now—shot down by a posse outside Laramie after a bank robbery. For
decent, law-abiding citizens of the West it was hardly a loss—it
was cause for celebration. For this strange, proud, unpleasant
girl, Wolf realized grimly, it was hell.

Rebeccah Rawlings was grieving for her
father.

“Fair enough,” he said at last in response to
her tirade. “Guess I should know better than to speak ill of the
dead.”

She nodded, her mouth trembling a little.

If she ever discovers the full extent of
what Bear did in Powder Creek and how he was hated here,
Wolf
reflected,
she’ll be devastated
. He had a feeling it was
only a matter of time before she did find out. But somehow he
didn’t think she should have to make that unpleasant discovery
tonight. She looked tired enough, weary enough—he almost hated
leaving her here at this cabin alone—the place was scarcely
habitable.

But she’s not your concern
, he told
himself.
Why are you worrying about her?

“I’m leaving,” he said abruptly, deciding
that the brief contact he’d had with Rebeccah Rawlings was somehow
scrambling his brains. “One last time—you’re sure you want to stay
out here all alone?”

“Sheriff, I can’t
wait
to he here
all alone.”

Wolf’s eyes narrowed at her withering tone.
She sounded so tough. It would serve her right if she got spooked
out here tonight, with only the coyotes, wolves, and snakes for
company. It sure was none of his concern.

He mounted Dusty, turned the horse toward his
own property, which adjoined this one, and gave Rebeccah Rawlings
one last glance. Silhouetted against the cabin that way, with the
darkness settling down about her like a thick cloak over the land,
she looked touchingly alone and vulnerable—yet somehow staunch,
with her head held high and her lovely face set with cold
determination.

“Stay out of trouble, Miss Rawlings,” he
warned by way of farewell. “I’ll be watching.”

“Get me my money!” she shouted after him as
he spurred the gelding into a gallop. She watched, biting her lip,
until he had disappeared over a rise.

Miss Rawlings, may I have the infinite
pleasure of kissing you?

Her own wishful dreams clamored in her head,
mocking her, as the man who had played such a central role in every
one of them rode away without a backward glance.

With a pang that seemed to puncture her
heart, she turned slowly back to study the dilapidated cabin. Her
shoulders drooped. Her temples throbbed. Her new home was nothing
but a dreary eyesore.

And Wolf Bodine hadn’t even been gentleman
enough to carry her bags inside for her.

Well, she didn’t need him, she told herself
coldly. She didn’t need anyone.

A coyote howled nearby. The wind rattled
through the trees. From behind her an animal skittered noisily
through the brush.

Rebeccah glanced around, on edge now, then
quickly hoisted her trunk with an unladylike grunt and dragged it
as swiftly as she could toward the door.

There was a kerosene lamp on a counter in the
kitchen. Thankfully Rebeccah had bought matches and candles, and
she rummaged for them among her store-bought parcels. As she lit
the lamp and turned up the wick, she took comfort in the cozy amber
glow that flooded across the room. Somehow the light seemed a
weapon against the gathering darkness outside. And so were the
sturdy log walls of the cabin, she reminded herself, as she picked
up the lamp and began an inspection of her new home.

The cabin’s interior was no better, but not
much worse, than she had expected after viewing it from
outside.

Dust four inches thick coated everything: the
floor, the crude wooden counters and shelves in the kitchen, the
window ledges, the battered, camel-backed horsehair sofa that was
the only real piece of furniture in the cabin. And a musty odor
pervaded each room. The place had not been aired in ages.

Rebeccah took careful stock, trying not to be
daunted by the tasks looming before her. Grimy, yellowed gingham
curtains drooped at the windows. In the kitchen there was a scarred
wooden bench, several three-legged stools, and a long wooden table.
She was relieved to see the cast-iron stove in the corner. Chipped
and old though it appeared, it was a welcome sight, as was the
large fireplace and chimney. Old Amos Peastone had lived a Spartan
existence, it seemed, for the cabin lacked much in the way of
beauty and comfort, but to Rebeccah’s relief he had possessed at
least the basic kitchen essentials: iron pots and pans, a skillet
and coffeepot, as well as dishes and eating utensils stacked on the
dusty shelves. Rebeccah took a swift inventory and found a
voluminous yellow slicker folded inside a box on the pantry floor,
alongside a bucket, a box of safety matches, and coils of rope. Not
exactly a treasure trove of luxury, but in terms of usefulness they
would certainly do.

She made her way carefully to the bedroom at
the rear of the cabin. It was nearly as large as the parlor and
almost as barren, but it did boast a faded red-and-blue rag rug on
the floor. There was an iron bedstead, a straw mattress, and a worn
blue eiderdown quilt. Across from the bed was a chest of pine
drawers, with another kerosene lamp on top of it, as well as a pair
of brass candlesticks and a cracked enamel pitcher and bowl.

Welcome home, Miss Rawlings.

The walls seemed mockingly to echo the words
around her.

Grimly Rebeccah rolled up her sleeves.

It was several hours later before she felt
the house was habitable for the night. Exhausted, but oddly
satisfied, Rebeccah surveyed her accomplishments. The floors were
now swept and scrubbed, as were the countertops—and the musty odor
in the cabin had been banished by blustery fresh air from the
opened windows, as well as the pungent aroma of lye soap and
vinegar.

Much better. There was still a great deal to
do, but as Rebeccah carried her bucket and rags from the bedroom
into the kitchen, she reminded herself not to be persnickety. She
had slept in far worse places than this when she was on the run
with Bear and the gang. They’d camped under trees in pouring rain,
in open fields beneath blizzarding snow, in abandoned mines and
damp caves. They’d holed up in flea-bitten hotels; burned-out,
rat-infested shacks half the size of this cabin—and twice as
filthy—in smoky backrooms of saloons and brothels.

At least this place is mine,
she
thought, setting down her bucket near the stove and regarding the
scrubbed-down kitchen with satisfaction. All it needed was a little
more elbow grease, some new slipcovers and needlework pillows, her
paintings to brighten up the walls, perhaps some fresh curtains
—white lace ones would be wonderful—and a few feminine touches: a
tea table with a lacy doily tossed across it, her books displayed
on a painted shelf, some pretty china knickknacks set about here
and there, maybe some wildflowers blooming in a vase....

Her mind raced with possibilities. Oh, yes,
this little cabin would be her haven, far preferable to the
anesthetic little room in Miss Wright’s Academy that she’d shared
with two other teachers. Rebeccah shuddered, remembering the
dull-green walls; stiff, dark curtains; and rigid, narrow beds with
their ugly maroon coverlets.

How she’d dreamed of leaving, of having her
own home. When a solicitor had shown up at the Academy more than a
month after she’d been rocked by news of Bear’s death, Rebeccah had
been stunned to learn of how carefully her father had arranged for
her future. He had left her wonderfully provided for, with hefty
bank accounts in her name in both Denver and Tucson. There were
even some shares in railroad stock. And the ranch in Powder
Creek.

She was a very wealthy young woman, the
solicitor had informed her expansively, as if expecting her to clap
her hands in delight. But Rebeccah had received the news in grim
silence. She could not keep the money. Bear had meant the best for
her, but all of it, each green-backed dollar, was tainted. She had
withdrawn the funds from both bank accounts, sold the railroad
stock, and donated the entire amount to the Boston Widows and
Orphans Society. Her conscience had demanded it. Yet she had held
on to the deed for the ranch, remembering clearly how Bear had told
her during one of his visits of winning it fair and square in a
poker game.

So the ranch was not ill-gotten gains. Bear
had not lied or stolen to acquire it. She could keep it if she
wished. Live on it. Realize her dream of escaping Miss Wright’s
Academy and having a home of her own.

Looking around, tired but pleased with the
results of her efforts, Rebeccah felt a trickle of pride. She had
already begun to make this place hers—she had put her mark on it.
She had braved the chilly darkness outside to fetch water from the
stream, set her muscles to aching by scouring the floors on her
hands and knees, worked until her gown was no more than a limp rag
and her face glistened with sweat. But the cabin was cleaner and
more homelike, and she felt as if it belonged to her now.

Fortunately she had discovered towels and
linens in the chest of drawers, and rags, liniment, salve, soap,
and some odd tools in a box under the bed. There had even been a
barrel filled with kindling in a tiny shed she discovered behind
the kitchen, along with another barrel for storing water. All began
to seem like precious treasures. She hummed a little tune as she
rinsed and dried the skillet, plates, and utensils, then prepared
herself a quick supper of hardtack biscuits, beans, and jerky. At
last she popped a penny candy from the general store into her mouth
for dessert. She leaned her elbows on the kitchen table and closed
her eyes, for the first time in hours allowing herself a moment in
which to think.