Debra Holland - [Montana Sky 02] (16 page)

Today, while the boys were still in school, she’d start exploring. Excitement welled up from her toes to her stomach. Over the last weeks, she hadn’t noticed how heavily the burdens of the ranch weighed on her shoulders; all at once she felt lighter. Turning from the window, she glanced around her room. On the big four-poster bed, a double wedding ring quilt pieced by her mother provided splashes of color—each square a window to the past.

Samantha stepped over to the bed and brushed her fingertips over an emerald velvet square taken from an evening gown of her mother’s. Her beautiful mother had looked like a queen in this dress, with her glorious auburn hair elaborately arranged, emerald drops in her ears. Since her parents’ death, Samantha kept the earrings tucked away, never worn. She remembered the bolt of velvet fabric at the mercantile…maybe someday.

Enough time spent in the past.
Samantha walked over to the trunk she used for storage, lifted the lid, and shifted aside some blankets and clean linen. At the bottom lay Juan Carlos’s possessions, saved for Daniel. She fingered a tooled leather belt adorned with silver medallions before pushing it aside and pulling out blue denim pants and a white cotton shirt she’d made for him.
They’d be too big, but she could roll up the pant legs and sleeves and use suspenders. She debated about wearing a blue-and-white gaucho poncho, but decided to wear a jacket instead.

Samantha changed clothes, pulled the pins from her hair, shook it out, then plaited the tresses into a long braid. She wished she had a full-length looking glass to see herself in men’s clothing. The small mirror over the table only showed her face. Not that it mattered. There’d be no one around to see her anyway.

She skipped down the stairs like a child, grabbed Ezra’s old coat and leather hat from the stand, and hurried out the door. She slowed at the corral, tempted to stop and play with her Falabellas. Her babies hadn’t gotten too much attention from her lately, and she missed spending time with them. But as much as she longed to play with the Falabellas, she wanted to explore the ranch even more. She forced herself to continue walking toward the barn.

Once inside the barn, she squinted in the darker interior and strode down the center isle to the last stall. The only horse left in the barn suitable for riding was a Pinto gelding named Windy. When Samantha had first met him, she’d been fascinated by his markings, brown with big white patches. The hands, Mike and Ernie, had both assured her she wouldn’t have any trouble with him.

“Hey, boy.” Samantha rubbed the horse’s velvet nose. “Sorry, no treats. You’ll have to wait until we have a store of carrots and apples.”

She put a bridle on the horse, draped a blanket over Windy’s back, then dragged a heavy saddle from the top of the stall, and hoisted it onto the blanket. She cinched the girth and led the horse outside.

Flipping the reins back, Samantha hesitated a moment. At least with this saddle she wouldn’t need a mounting block or a leg up. And riding astride was easier and safer.

Here goes.

She slid her left foot into the stirrup, pulled herself up by the horn, and swung her right leg over, tipping her boot into the other stirrup. Once settled, she expelled the breath she didn’t even know she’d been holding.

Samantha headed Windy upstream. About eight feet wide, maybe two or three feet deep, the water splashed and gurgled over mossy rocks. Willows and aspens shivered sprouty new leaves amid the darker pines. The color of the sky fascinated her. She played with shades of blue: azure, aqua, and turquoise, trying to identify the precise color.

A rustle in the bushes and a flash of brown feathers, gone too quickly to identify, intrigued her. She’d have to learn all about the fellow creatures that shared her land.

To the rhythm of the horse’s gait, a daydream played into her mind—she and Wyatt riding together while he shared with her his knowledge of the plants and animals. They’d talk about the ranches, their children…She jerked her thoughts back. She could only imagine what he’d have to say about her boys.

She forced herself to concentrate on studying the flora and fauna around her, become familiar with her surroundings. Rounding a strand of pines, she came upon a sight that abruptly ended her daydream, twisting her stomach, and stirring her to immediate action.

Wyatt. About to shoot a child.

“No. No. Stop, Wyatt!” A screaming titian-haired banshee astride a Pinto horse galloped between him and the Indian.

With a muffled oath, Wyatt holstered his Colt. “I wasn’t going to shoot him, Samantha. Although by startlin’ me that way
you
could have gotten shot.” His heart constricted at the thought.

“You were pointing a gun right at him.”

In her eyes, he saw fear warring with anger, and her milkypale face.

“I wouldn’t have shot him.”

Behind her, the boy sidled away. “You hold it right there,” Wyatt yelled, hoping the Indian understood English. He didn’t think his limited knowledge of the Blackfoot language would do much good.

The boy paused, body still tilting forward, ready for flight.

“Leave him alone,” Samantha shouted, backing the Pinto to stand next to the boy. Her ivory complexion stayed pale, but no longer with fear. Instead, she looked spitting mad. Good thing he held the gun.

“Damn it, Samantha, he stole my favorite shirt and one of Mrs. Toffels’s apple pies.” Even as the words left his mouth, he realized how silly they sounded.

“You’re going to shoot a
child
because of a
shirt
?”

He winced, regarding the battle light in her blue eyes. How could he make her understand? “No. But other men might have shot the little thief on sight.”

“I never would have believed it of you, Wyatt, never.”

“Believed what?” He could hear his voice rising.

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Although I should have known from your attitude toward my twins.” Pink trickled back into her cheeks.

His ears started to burn, and he had to resist the temptation to yank her from the saddle and shake her so she’d listen, or
seeing how anger sparked her eyes and animated her skin, he’d kiss her until her fury exploded into passion.

The boy started to edge away.

“I said stay still,” Wyatt barked, realizing he was taking out his ire on the boy.

“You leave him alone.” Samantha stopped to take a long look at the Indian. “He looks like he’s starving.”

Wyatt could hear the distress in her voice. “He probably is.”

“Then you should feed him, not shoot him.”

He opened his mouth to tell her that the boy would have received food and clothes if he’d asked, and furthermore, in a few minutes, he’d have shared the food Mrs. Toffels had stashed in his saddlebag. But Samantha had stopped paying attention to him. Instead she concentrated on the youth.

“Come back to my house,” she coaxed. “I’ll make sure you have plenty to eat and some warm clothes.”

The Blackfoot boy looked down, his black hair veiling his face. He curled the toes of his worn moccasins into the ground.

“I have fried chicken and bread and strawberry jam. You can come stay at my house if you want.” She shot Wyatt a withering look, then smiled at the boy.

That glance sent the burning from Wyatt’s ears all the way down to his toes, making him lose his temper. “Oh, no you don’t. You’re not adopting this little thief.”

“Oh, yes I am. You can’t stop me.”

“I can turn him in to the sheriff.” He hoped she believed him.

“I heard we don’t have a sheriff in this town.”

So much for that bluff.

She turned back to the boy. “Don’t worry. No one’s going to hurt you.”

The Blackfoot didn’t look up. He probably wanted to escape them.

Wyatt leaned over, loosened the strap on the saddlebag, and pulled out the paper-wrapped sandwiches. He kneed Bill forward, holding the packet in front of the boy. “Take this. It’s food.”

The Indian jerked his head up, black eyes wary, but he accepted the offering.

“And keep the shirt.”

“That’s better.” Samantha’s icy tone thawed a few degrees.

She reached out a hand to the boy. He skittered away from her.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I want you to come home with me.”

“He’s an Indian, Samantha. Let him go back to his people.”

She ignored Wyatt. “Do you have family? Someone to take care of you?”

A brief negative shake of the head was all the answer he gave.

“Then come home with me. You’ll have your own horse.”

The boy tossed his hair out of his eyes and stared at her, obviously not daring to believe her words.

She smiled.

Wyatt knew the power of that smile. He’d lost.

Samantha beckoned to the boy. “Your own horses. A little one to play with and a big one for you to ride.”

She’s doing it again
. Pressure built in his chest.
Who knew what this Indian was capable of? Samantha might not be safe around him. Or Christine.
His concern increased as he thought of his daughter. He had to protect her. “You are not taking in another—”

“Don’t you say another word, Wyatt Thompson. This is my ranch. My land.”

“I’m well aware of that fact, Samantha,” he said sarcastically.

“And I’m well aware that you want this ranch for your own.”

He narrowed his eyes; his jaw tightened. “Yes, I do.” He forced the words to sound cool.

Fire blazed in her eyes. “You won’t get it.”

“Samantha—”

“You’re trespassing. I want you off my land.” Her eyes narrowed. “Now.”

“Fine.” His anger churned hot, but he chilled his tone to match hers. “Don’t expect to see me or my daughter on your land ever again.”

Breathing hard, Samantha watched Wyatt’s retreat.
Abominable man.
She still couldn’t believe he’d pointed a gun at a child. But, slowly, regret seeped through her anger. She hadn’t meant to go so far—order him off her ranch. Her temper had gotten the best of her. She should have given Wyatt a chance to explain. She bit her lip. But he’d already ridden Bill across the stream. Should she go after him?

Pride wouldn’t allow her to.

Put him from your mind, she told herself. The refrain had become familiar. Maybe this time it would work.

Samantha turned toward the boy, who stood wolfing down the food as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Studying his bone-thin frame, stark cheekbones etched in a dark face, she decided he probably hadn’t. Sympathy panged her heart. “Slow down. If you eat too fast, you’ll make yourself sick.”

The boy paused, then took another large bite, but this time his jaw worked slower.

“That’s better.” She waited until he’d swallowed. “What’s your name?”

“Little Feather.”

His words were soft and rusty around the edges, as if he hadn’t used his voice in a while. Poor boy. How long had he been alone? Even now he stood with his weight shifted away from her, prepared to bolt.

Samantha summoned the same calming energy from within her that she’d use to pacify a skittish horse. “Come.” She leaned down and touched him on the shoulder.

Although he stood acquiescent under her hand, muscles rigid, she could feel the silent debate in his body. When his shoulders slumped, she knew he’d come with her. A rush of joy caught her by surprise. Already she felt a fierce attachment to him, born, perhaps, by her rescue of him. “Finish up that last bite.”

He complied, chewing with a ferociousness that tangled maternal feelings within her.

She waited, resisting the temptation to brush the long hair back from his forehead. That kind of gesture might be enough to make him run. This was a wild one. She looked into his dark eyes. A wounded animal not unlike her twins. He’d require even more patience than they had. And freedom. But she would not allow doubt to shake her resolution. Still buoyed up by the answer to her prayer, she knew she’d find the resources within her to give each one of her boys the love he needed.

The woman drove him crazy.
Stubborn. Irrational. Beautiful.
If they’d been alone, Wyatt might have swept her off her horse, kissing her until she was too breathless to argue.