Deborah Camp (10 page)

“I’m sorry for blowing up, Mrs. Hathaway,” the sheriff said.

“You should guard your temper,” Zanna said in that haughty way that made men feel like boys. “Good day, sir.” She moved with a regal stride. “We’ll fetch the buggy and head back home,” she said as Grandy fell into step beside her.

“Can we stop by the doctor’s first?”

“Why?” she asked, stopping to deliver a piercing look even as one delicate hand crept up to touch the smooth pearl poking up from her black bonnet.

“Because …” He sighed, wondering why he hated to admit to her that he was human after all. “I’m not mending like I should. My ribs … and some of the cuts …” He shrugged off the rest of his complaints.

“Why didn’t you say something about this before?” she asked, none too gently.

Grandy didn’t like her tone. It wasn’t
his
fault that he was still suffering. “Why didn’t you ask?” he charged and she had the good grace to blush. Her mouth dropped open, making a pretty “O.” “Don’t look at me like I’m the fifth ace in a poker deck. Shouldn’t come as any surprise. I
was
dragged behind a horse and nearly starved to death. Sorry if I’m not healing up fast enough to suit you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Of course we can stop by Doc Pepperidge’s. He and Theo are the kindest men in town. I’m sure Doc will ease your aches and pains.”

Grandy rolled his eyes. Watching the gentle sway of her hips beneath her dark skirts, he wondered if she knew that her dear lawyer friend would like nothing better than to
bed her. Hell, even Doc Pepperidge thought she was whipped cream on a pie.

A storm was blowing up from the south, banking clouds and pushing them slowly across the sky. The air was heavy with the threat of rain, making Grandy hurry to finish stacking the last of the alfalfa in the field. He fashioned small pyramids and then flat roofs for each so that moisture would roll off instead of wetting them down.

His mind skipped like a pebble across a pond’s smooth surface; back to his childhood spent in the fields and forward to when he would escape this purgatory and get on with the rest of his life. He moved stiffly because of the tape Doc Pepperidge had wrapped around his midsection earlier that day. As he’d suspected, a couple of places on his back had festered. The doctor had lanced them, doused them with antiseptic, and given him a bottle of the stuff to take with him. Doc had assured him that he’d be as fit as a fiddle in a couple of weeks.

That’s when I hit the road, Grandy thought.

Thunder growled in the distance and he picked up his pace. His farmer’s instinct told him he had only another hour to get the rest of the hay stacked before the sky opened up. He glanced around. Another two or three stacks should finish it up. He’d make it … just barely. It was growing late, grinding toward early evening, and Grandy’s stomach groaned. Miss Prim Rose—that’s what he called her in his head—wouldn’t have anything for him to eat, damn her. He’d never met a more useless woman in all his born days. He’d warm up the beans he’d left on the stove. Maybe he’d whip up some cornbread to go with them if he wasn’t too tired. It riled him that she’d made him go to work as soon as they got back from town. No rest for him. No siree! He was her slave, her bought-and-paid-for husband. God, how he hated her snooty looks and starched speech!

He wondered about the man who used to own this
spread. Fayne Hathaway. The name alone won respect in town. People said it with reverence. A fine man, a great man, a generous man, they all said. And you’re not fit to lick his boots, much less fill them, they tacked on with their surly looks and deprecating sneers. Well, he didn’t want to fill them, he thought as he gathered the last of the cut alfalfa. He didn’t want Hathaway’s land or his money or his woman. Definitely not his woman. A man had to be a saint to put up with her and halos had never fit around Grandy’s head.

The ground rumbled beneath him as he fashioned the last stack. Damn, that storm was coming up quicker than—The rest of the thought flew out of his head and Grandy spun around to see the horse and rider bearing down on him. He hopped to one side and the horse went past, so close that Grandy could smell its sweat and feel the rush of air. The rider spun the horse in a tight circle, then kept him under a tight rein. The big palomino danced a jig, sending up clouds of dust. Grandy shot a baleful glare at the rider. He was gaunt, wiry, and about as friendly looking as a rattler. The man made no move to dismount. He crossed his wrists on the saddle horn, keeping the reins wrapped around his gloved hands.

“What can I do for you?” Grandy asked through clenched teeth. He hated the man on sight. The horse pranced forward a few steps and Grandy tensed. He recalled the last time a horse had trampled him. He could feel the sting of rope around his wrists and the thudding fist of the ground as his body bounced over it. “Mister, you’d better keep that horse in check or I’ll jerk you down from that saddle and beat the living hell out of you.”

The man flung back his head and laughed up at the gunmetal-gray sky. “You sure are cocky,” he said, wiping the back of his glove across his mouth. “You don’t have any right to be, that’s for sure. Guess you’ve got more guts than brains.”

Grandy looked across the flat fields toward the house
and out buildings. There wasn’t another soul in sight. “You looking for me or just looking for trouble?”

“I just come to see the new mule Zanna bought.” He chuckled and the horse shivered all over. “I’m Duncan. Mr. Hathaway to you, boy.”

“That so? I’m Mr. Adams,” Grandy said, faintly amused by the man’s attempt to belittle him.

“This is my brother’s land,” Duncan said, gazing out over the fields, his eyes pausing momentarily on the house.

“I hate to be the bringer of bad tidings, but your brother is dead and buried. This land belongs to his widow and his widow belongs to me.” Grandy grinned, satisfied with himself for making the other man narrow his closely set eyes. His face tightened as the color drained out of it. Murder glinted dimly in his dull eyes.

Duncan released a vicious growl and before Grandy could react, he set his spurs into the horse’s sides. The steed burst forward, its front feet lifting to paw the air. Grandy stumbled back, lost his balance, and fell with a thump. His ribs sent out a howl of pain that Grandy hardly acknowledged. He was too preoccupied with the flailing hooves over his head. He rolled just as the animal descended. He was quick, but not quick enough. One of the flashing feet glanced off his forehead, making him see stars that faded to a suffocating gray.

“Don’t sass me, boy,” Duncan shouted. “I won’t just drag you behind my horse, I’ll run him across you until you’re nothing but blood and bones.”

Grandy lay sprawled on the ground. Bits of alfalfa tickled his nostrils. Raindrops splashed on his face, bringing him around. By the time his senses returned, Duncan and the palomino were dots on the dark horizon. Grandy touched two fingertips to his forehead. They came away bloody.

“Damn it!” He struggled to his feet and pressed his hand against the bloody swelling as he lurched toward the house. “That son-of-a-bitch. I’ll kill him!”

The pain in his head burned into his brain. His hands were wet with blood when he reached the house, bolting through the door and across the front room. He staggered toward the kitchen where a bucket of water sat on the sideboard. Zanna stepped in his path.

“Did one of the mules kick you?”

“No, your brother-in-law tried to run his horse over me.”

“He
what?
” She paled. “You mean, Duncan’s here?” Her gaze bounced to the front door and she grasped his shirtfront in fists of steel.

“No, he’s gone.” Grandy squinted through his own discomfort to see the raw fear in her eyes. “Is he crazy or just deep-down mean?”

“Both, I think.” She jerked his shirt, wrestling for his attention. “Grandville, listen to me. Stay out of his way. Please! He’ll hurt you … or worse.”

“I can take care of myself.” He shook her off. “Get out of the way.” He poured water into a shallow pan and set it on the table, then dropped into one of the chairs and rinsed his hands in the water, turning it pink.

“Here, let me help,” Zanna said, grabbing a rag and wetting it. She sank to her knees beside him and touched the rag to the cut. “It’s not deep. It’s a bad bruise.”

He closed his eyes as weariness seeped into his bones. Lightning cracked outside. “I’m so tired.”

“The bleeding will stop and then you can go to bed.”

“Mostly I’m tired of you. All you’ve done is make my life a living hell.”

“I
saved
your life!”

He opened his eyes at her flash of anger. “And for what? So I can work my butt off for nothing?” His gaze wandered past her to the stove. What he didn’t see made him sit up straight. “Where are the beans?”

“The—what?”

“The pan of beans I left on the stove. What happened to them?”

“Well, I …” She turned guilt-ridden eyes on him as she pressed the damp cloth to his forehead. “I ate them.”

“You … ate … them,” he repeated slowly, numb with aggravation. The woman was testing his patience beyond endurance. Did she
try
to send him into a fit of fury or was she accidentally infuriating?

“I thought you’d cook something else tonight for your supper.”

“That does it,” he said, starting to rise.

She pushed the rag against his forehead, setting off a flare of pain that kept him in place. “Grandy, listen. You’re right. I’ve treated you badly, but I’ll change. Trust isn’t something I give; it’s earned and you’ve earned a measure from me. Tomorrow we’ll go to church and then we’ll come back home so you can rest.” She lifted the rag and examined the purple and red bump. The blood was beginning to clot and she released a sigh of relief. “You’re going to be fine. Just stay out of Duncan’s way. Don’t look for trouble with him or you’ll regret it.”

“Is that so?” Grandy stood up, swayed a little, fought for balance, then forced one boot in front of the other. “I’m going to bed.”

“Grandville, do we have an understanding?”

He paused to look back at her. “Sure. I understand that Duncan Hathaway’s got you scared spitless. But, mark my words, the next time I see that bastard, I’m going to unravel him down to his spurs.”

The two things she’d remember about that rainy Sunday in the Good Shepherd Church of Scyene were Grandville’s voice rising with the others to sing “How Great Thou Art” and how handsome he looked in his store-bought suit of clothes.

Zanna hadn’t needed her imagination that morning. There had been no doubt that everyone—man, woman, and child—was staring at her and Grandville Adams. They must have made quite a picture, she thought now as she rocked on the front porch where she’d settled after they’d returned from church services.

She in her dove-gray dress—her first public departure from her widow’s black since Fayne’s death—and he in his city-slicker vested suit had turned every head as they’d made their way down the center aisle to the third pew from the front. Perkins and the boys had saved them two spaces at the end of the polished pine bench, and they’d had to sit shoulder-to-shoulder and hip-to-hip to fit. Grandy had held his hat, Zanna her Bible, as Preacher Timmons sermonized on the sin of harboring outlaws. Texas was getting a reputation for such practices, he’d shouted from the pulpit, and his eyes had fastened on Grandville when he’d spoken of the “debris blowing onto our beautiful land and trying to pass itself off as something other than common, ordinary trash.”

She’d felt Grandville grow tense beside her, but his
expression had remained taciturn, which had pleased her immensely. She liked a man who could control his base emotions.

Then the singing had started—her favorite part of every church service—and Zanna had stood tall and released her fine soprano. She’d sung a full stanza before she’d noticed the new voice in the crowd, a powerful, tuneful bass, providing a much needed bottom register for the congregation’s choir. It was Grandy, of course, singing without modesty or self-consciousness. Singing grandly!

Recalling the pride and pleasure she’d felt, Zanna smiled now and closed her eyes against the gray day. He was inside the house, having taken off his fancy clothes before climbing into bed for a nap.

Guilt shook its finger and Zanna winced. Had she expected too much of him? Had she driven him too hard? Yes, yes. Of course she had. In her quest to keep him busy—too busy to run away or interfere with her—she’d impaired his recovery. Doc Pepperidge had told her so.

“Let him rest a day or two, dear,” he’d said yesterday while Grandy was still in the other room. “He’s tough, but he’s not made of barbwire and rusty nails.”

Zanna reached into the pocket of her apron for the handkerchief she always kept there. She twisted it absentmindedly as she always did when she worried with a problem. Grandville Adams was a riddle, but one she was certain she could solve—at least temporarily. She’d told him he’d earned a measure of trust from her, and that was true to a point, but she couldn’t completely trust him because of who he was and what he’d done and where she’d found him. She didn’t like to think of him as “debris,” but he wasn’t an heirloom either. How did a woman handle a man like Grandville? With kid gloves or an iron fist? Which would make the bigger impression on him?

She’d let him rest today and perhaps tomorrow before she sent him out to the other field waiting for cotton seeds. He was a good farmer, whether he admitted it or not.
Secretly, she loved to listen to him speak to the mules and to watch them respond so faithfully, so trustingly. He had a pleasant voice, deep and raspy, holding a boyish lift that did curious things to her heart.

But she could sense a change in him as surely as she could sense a coming rain or an early freeze. He was healing inside faster than outside. She’d felt his inner strength of character returning. It was reflected in his eyes, no longer a cloudy green but showing more gold around the irises. When his physical strength returned, he would be a handful. She’d need every bit of courage and tenacity to keep him in line and on her land. She might even need to enlist help. Perkins or Sheriff Warwick. Someone. Someone bigger and meaner than she was.