Debra Holland - [Montana Sky 02] (5 page)

Christine stood on tiptoe, peering over the stall door. “Pa, oh, Pa.” Her words slurred in an excited whisper. “What are they?”

Samantha smiled at the girl, some of her anger draining away. The beautiful, fair-haired child must take after her mother. Samantha buried a strange pang of disappointment at the thought of his having a wife. “They’re miniature horses. That’s as big as they get.”

“Please, ma’am, please, may I touch one?”

She warmed to the child. “Of course you may.”

Footsteps sounded outside the barn. Daniel ran into the stable, his face scrubbed free of candy. When he saw Christine, he slid to a stop, panting. A dazed expression crossed his normally animated face. Until their trip west, Daniel hadn’t seen many blond, blue-eyed children, and Samantha could tell her son was smitten to speechlessness.

She hid a smile, nudging him forward. “This is Daniel.” She waved toward a stall. “Introduce Christine to Chita.”

Stepping forward to lean over the stall door next to Christine, Daniel said, “Chita is my very own horse. Mama gave her to me on my last birthday. She’s my best friend.”

Wyatt slanted a humorous look at Samantha, then looked at his daughter. “Christy, I’m going to help Mrs. Rodriguez and Daniel herd the little horses to ol’ Ezra’s ranch.”

“Little” instead of “midgets.” Samantha heard the word and wanted to smile.

“Please,” said the child, “may we come with you? Pa’s good with horses.”

Wyatt quirked an eyebrow at Samantha as if daring her to refuse. The creases around his eyes deepened, and the sensual threat in his smile shot straight to her heart. His stare challenged her. “That is if she’ll have us.”

Rounding the bend of a tree-shaded hill, Samantha slackened the reins of the harness. Her brown Falabella, Chico, tossed his head, his black mane flying. At the little stallion’s side, gray Mariposa slowed. Tucked between Samantha and Maria on the buggy seat, Daniel bounced up and down. “Look, Mama, I can see the house.”

They’d arrived. Samantha’s arm muscles burned with strain. Driving the buggy on the hilly Montana terrain took a greater toll on them than the flat grassland near the hacienda
.
Not that Don Ricardo had ever allowed her to go very far—another way of keeping her in his control.

She glanced over at Wyatt Thompson. The big man on the brown gelding towered over the two little horses he led. He’d stayed away from her on their ride to the ranch, which suited her just fine. Her annoyance still simmered beneath the surface. She had no desire to have it flare up again. Perhaps he felt the same. His black hat shadowed his features, and the few times he’d looked over at her, his face had remained expressionless. At least now he showed no trace of his earlier disdain.

Christine rode her pony beside the buggy. Underneath her blue wool coat, her kilted-up pink calico skirt exposed mended gray woolen stockings and high-button boots. As the pony trotted, Christine’s blonde braids, tied with matching pink ribbons, bounced against her shoulders. Over the course of their journey, excitement sparkled in the child’s big blue eyes. She’d asked a
thousand eager questions, which Daniel answered, and the children were fast becoming friends.

If it weren’t for Wyatt’s presence, Samantha would have relaxed and enjoyed herself. She tried to focus on the scenery around her: skeleton trees budding with feathery spring leaves, velvety tips of grass poking through the mud, the arching blue sky, but her awareness kept returning to the man.

He was a magnificent male specimen, so much larger than most South American men. On his powerful gelding, Wyatt topped Manuel, riding on a rented Appaloosa, by a foot. Manuel led the other two miniature horses, and, from time to time, the two men exchanged a few words of broken English or Spanish. Thankfully, Wyatt didn’t seem to feel the same prejudice shown by Mrs. Cobb. His bad opinion of her precious Falabellas was enough.

She tore her gaze away from Wyatt, taking stock of her ranch. On the other side of a rushing river, several small outbuildings clustered around a large barn with peeling brown paint. A large corral and a small one circled between the barn and the house.

Samantha knew Ezra had originally built the house for an Eastern bride, but she’d died before their marriage. Samantha had always thought the story of Uncle Ezra’s lost love was so sad. But after Juan Carlos’s death, she had a greater empathy for him. Now Samantha prepared herself to find a bachelor’s neglected house, reflecting the emptiness of his life.

They crossed a rickety wooden bridge. The hooves of the horses and the buggy wheels clattered over each loose board. She held her breath during the short passage. One of her first tasks would be to have the bridge strengthened before it collapsed. Once safely on the other side, she sighed with relief.

Up close, she could see the once-white house had weathered to a dingy gray. The late afternoon sun glinted off two dormer windows. The porch roof sagged across the front. The house looked like the face of an aging giant who winked and smiled in welcome. In spite of its dilapidated appearance, Samantha’s spirits lifted.

Wyatt tried to see Ezra’s ranch through Samantha’s eyes. He knew about its run-down state and for several years had pondered how he’d fix it up. When she caught sight of the house, he hoped she’d turn around that ridiculous excuse for a buggy and head back into town.

Samantha had slackened the reins, allowing her arms to rest on her lap, stopping the buggy. A beatific smile lit up her face, softening the blue eyes that had earlier sparked with anger.

Heat flooded his body. His groin tightened, and he shifted in the saddle. Oh no, he told himself.
Not
her. He had another woman all picked out. He hadn’t started courting Edith yet, but he wasn’t going to allow a temporary attraction to change his plans—especially not for a woman who wanted to take in the Cassidy twins. Yet, despite what he told himself, he couldn’t take his gaze off Samantha.

A tug on the lead ropes nearly unbalanced him. The midget horses, straining to get closer to their mistress, showed an unexpected strength. He settled back in the saddle, firmly gripping their leads. He needed to keep his mind and body where they belonged.

Just then, in response to something her son said, the widow’s eyes lit up with laughter, and a mischievous smile danced across her face.

He’d just set himself one heck of a task.

As soon as Samantha drew the buggy up before the house, Daniel jumped out. “Come on, Christine.”

The girl slid off her pony and looped the reins over the porch rail.

Wyatt reached in the pocket of his coat. “Wait, Daniel.” He pulled a key out of his coat pocket. With a quirk of his brows he asked Samantha’s permission to give her son the key. When she nodded, he tossed the key to Daniel, who deftly caught it.

The two children hustled up the wooden stairs. Daniel unlocked the door, pushed it open, and they disappeared inside.

Samantha shook her head in amusement. Daniel had found a kindred spirit. Her gaze met Wyatt’s, and, in his eyes, she saw humorous bemusement. For a few seconds, they shared the silent communication possible between parents about their children, and she warmed to him. Then he seemed to catch himself, and his eyes frosted over, dampening the brief connection.

She hoped he wouldn’t discourage the children’s friendship. On the estancia, Daniel’s numerous older cousins hadn’t been inclined to pay attention to a child not favored by Don Ricardo. So he’d turned to the companionship of the miniature horses. She glanced over at Chita, frisking at the end of Manuel’s lead. Samantha could tell the little black horse wanted to follow Daniel inside.

“Perhaps you can take the horses and buggy to the barn,” she told Manuel in Spanish. “I’ll check out the house.” She climbed down from the buggy, handing the reins to Manuel. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Thompson.”

He nodded and touched his hat. “I’ll just collect my daughter, and we’ll be on our way.”

Good riddance, she thought, suppressing an unexpected pang of disappointment. “Your wife must be wondering where you are.”

An old sorrow shadowed his gray eyes. “Christine’s mother died giving birth to her.”

Her heart wrenched in a familiar grief. “I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to lose the one you love.”

“You learn to live with it.”

“I know.” The brief moment of shared sympathy lingered between them.

Then Wyatt cleared his throat. “I’ll be by tomorrow with your livestock.”

“Thank you,” she said, heading over to the house. “I’ll go find the children.” When she stepped onto the porch, the wood dipped under her feet. Rotten boards, she thought. She trod gingerly, hoping the floors of the house wouldn’t be in a similar condition.

The heavy wooden door pushed open with a squeak of protesting hinges.
Oil can.
She started a mental list of things she’d need. Hopefully there’d be one around somewhere. Then the wave of excitement building up in her for weeks crested, washing her over the threshold and into the house.

A hallway with a door on either side led to a flight of steps. To her relief, the dusty, wide-plank floorboards appeared solid. Overhead, the sounds of boots pounding against the floor and excited voices indicated the location of the children.

She stopped to examine the unconventional hall tree, standing against the right wall. Instead of the usual wooden or metal hooks for holding coats, hats, and umbrellas, the antlers of some animal, perhaps a deer, held a motley collection.

A ragged fur coat hung on one side, with a battered leather hat next to it. A jacket made of wool blanket material, originally bright with reds and greens, had faded into rust and dead-leaf colors. A glance at the dim mirror in the center of the hall tree showed Samantha her own face, skin pale, blue eyes shadowed with fatigue from weeks of travel.

Careful footsteps sounded on the porch, telling her Wyatt tread lightly. An image of the wood splintering beneath him made her wince. But if the porch held his weight, maybe she wouldn’t have to rush on the repairs.

Almost hidden behind the fur coat hung a blue scarf, the tight-knit yarn holed in places from moths. Nostalgia rose in her. She reached out and fingered the scarf. Samantha could remember her mother knitting it in the parlor of their house in Spain. A Christmas present for Uncle Ezra.

Sudden tears blurred her vision. She lifted down the scarf. Somewhere near the bottom should be some uneven stitches. Hers. In her memory, she could feel her mother’s arm around her—the slow click of the needles as Samantha struggled to repeat her mother’s smooth motions. She heard again the gentle tone of instruction, felt the soft hands guiding hers.

Even as a part of her mind heard the squeak of the front door, she lingered in a dream state. Samantha’s searching fingers found the place, just south of a small moth hole. A smile played about her lips, while the tears gathered in her eyes and slipped down her cheek.

Behind her, Wyatt spoke, his voice gentle. “Ezra wore that scarf every winter. Refused to get a new one.”

Embarrassed to be caught crying, Samantha dabbed at her eyes with the scarf. The dust in the wool tickled her nose, and she
sneezed. She fished around in her sleeve for a handkerchief, only to realize that she’d given it to Daniel.

“Here.” Wyatt reached into his pocket and pulled out a large white square.

“Thank you. It’s the dust.” She wiped her eyes, then blew her nose. Staring down at the handkerchief, she realized she couldn’t hand it back to him in a used condition. It wasn’t the same as borrowing her husband’s personal linen. She could feel heat creeping into her cheeks.

“I’ll wash it and return it at the first opportunity. And if you bring me back your shirt…” She nodded in the direction of the stain.

He grinned. “It’s no problem. I have plenty more.”

She replaced the scarf, then removed her bonnet and hung it on the rack.

Wyatt waved at a doorway. “Do you want to check the rest of the house to see if there are any major problems you’ll need help with?”

She chose the left-hand door, opened it, and stepped into the parlor. Her nose crinkled at the musty smell, and she fought another sneeze. She crossed to the window and pulled open the dusty curtains, velvet by the feel of them. In the dim light from the dirty window, she could see the tatters in the green material. “A good cleaning would probably cause them to disintegrate,” she murmured to herself.