Dorothy Garlock - [Wyoming Frontier] (18 page)

Then, sudden silence.

Mara looked down at Pack’s hand. It had closed into a tight, hard fist and did not open again. The silence went on and on with all four pair of eyes on Brita’s face, peaceful now that she no longer had the agonizing task of drawing breath into her lungs. As they watched, color faded from her face.

“She’s gone.” Pack spoke the words that penetrated each of them and sank into their senses with cold finality. No one else spoke. He reached over and gently cupped his mother’s chin in his large hand to close her mouth.

Travor turned and sought the darkness of the kitchen. His twin went with him. Mara stayed beside Pack, her hand gripping his shoulder, her face wet with tears. He reached for her hand and held onto it tightly. He was holding his grief inside, hurting hard with a kind of knotted pain that wouldn’t loosen. Finally tears rolled from the corners of his eyes and down his cheeks to his set jaws.

A sound like none Mara had heard when he had been so badly hurt came from his throat. He turned, leaning his head toward her. Her fingers forked through his hair around to his cheek and pressed his head to her breast like a mother comforting a child. His arm wrapped around her thighs, pulling her close, his shoulders shaking with soundless sobs. She had no thought but to give him comfort. Pack’s tears wet the front of her dress, but she was unaware of it until later. She held him, stroked the crisp blue-black curls at his temple, moved her hand down his nape to his shoulders and back.

“Shhh . . . shhh . . . she’s at peace now,” she crooned.

“But—she suffered—and had so—little.”

“She’s not suffering now, and she had all that she wanted. She had a great and enduring love for your father. She had you, and she had the boys. It gave her pleasure to see the three of you together.”

Mara was conscious of nothing but great sorrow and the need to comfort. She held Pack’s head to her breasts, smoothed his hair back from his brow and cupped his cheek with her palm. When the twins came back into the room, she drew back with no feeling of guilt for having been caught holding and comforting him.

“I’ll take care of her now.” Mara reached over and smoothed the hair back from the still warm face of the woman on the bed.

Pack stood looking down at his mother, feeling deserted and terribly alone.

“Tell us what to do.”

“We wash and dress her. My mother . . . died in the night and that is what my father did.”

“I’ll heat water.” Travor left the room as if grateful to be doing something.

“Ma don’t have many clothes.” This came from Trellis. His lips were still trembling and he was trying desperately not to cry.

Mara knew that only two worn dresses were in the bureau drawer. Brita had spent the last years of her life in loose gowns.

“I have a dress that would be pretty on her. Do either of you mind if I furnish the burial garments?” Mara’s voice thickened as she spoke the final words. Tear-filled eyes went from Pack to Trellis and back again.

“I think Ma would be pleased to wear something of yours. Don’t you, Trell?”

The boy nodded wordlessly.

With Pack’s help, Mara washed and dressed his mother in a rose pink dress with a white lace collar and cuffs. It was one of Mara’s favorite dresses. They made a fold in the back of the dress because it was too big for Brita’s slight body. Mara put a pair of white stockings on her legs and brushed her hair. When she had finished arranging and pinning the soft gray hair to the top of Brita’s head, she went up to her room and brought down her curved ivory comb. With infinite care she placed it in Brita’s hair, lifted her hands, and folded them across her breasts. When she straightened, her eyes, glistening like wet emeralds, met Pack’s.

“The comb was given to me at Christmas a long time ago when I was lonely and homesick. It means a lot to me, and I want her to have it.”

The sun was up by the time they finished laying Brita out on the bed and cleaning the room. While Pack hung blankets over the windows to darken it, Mara carried the teakettle of hot water to her room, washed herself, put on a clean dress and apron, and pinned up her hair.

Pack was shaving at the washstand when Mara returned to the kitchen. She made a pan of biscuits and put them in the oven. When they were done, she set them on the table with butter and syrup. No one ate much, but they all made a show of swallowing a few bites.

“Trav, we’d better go tell Pa.” Trellis spoke as if he were going to choke on the words.

“He might still be drunk.”

“In that case we’ll have to sober him up.”

Pack followed his brothers to the porch. “If you see Sam, ask him to come up.” He watched the two boys go down the path to the bunkhouse, then came back to the kitchen. Mara was massaging her temples with her fingertips. “You’re worn out. Why don’t you sleep awhile?”

“No. There’s too much to be done. Brita would want us to make things as nice as we can. How many will come when they get the word?”

Pack regarded her for a long while, his eyes filled with grief. When he spoke there was deep regret in his voice.

“Not many. Aubrey and Cullen never made neighbors feel very welcome. No one came to see Ma but Charlie and Emily. She hasn’t been to town but a time or two since they came here.”

“It won’t matter. Brita will have her sons,” Mara said firmly. “There will be a good meal for them and anyone who does come.”

Later, Mara saw the twins walking with Aubrey toward the horse tank. As she watched, she saw Travor give him a shove. Aubrey toppled in backward, and it was Trellis who helped him out. Mara shook her head sadly. The boys were trying to sober up their father so he could attend their mother’s wake.

When Sam came up the path to the house, Pack went out onto the porch to meet him.

“I’m shore sorry, Pack,” he said with his hat in his hand. “I’m just plumb sorry. Is there anythin’ a’tall I can do?”

“Yes there is, Sam. I’d be obliged if you’d ride over and tell Charlie and Emily.”

“I’ll be glad to.”

“And Sam, if it isn’t too much to ask, I’d sure thank you to ride on into Laramie. Go to the preacher’s house, the one next to the church with the stained glass window in front. I don’t remember if he’s Methodist or what. Tell him to come out in the morning. Tell him to come and bring the best box he can get, and I’ll cancel the bill he owes me for hauling in that window and his church pews.”

“Did ya think he wouldn’t come?” Sam asked and screwed his hat down tight on his head.

“I’m not exactly a friend of his,” Pack said dryly. “I’m just making sure.”

“I’m thinkin’ yo’re right. Them righteous fellers can be plumb aggravatin’ at times if a man strays from their way a thinkin’.”

“When he wanted the pews for his church hauled in for damn near nothing, he came to me, but when I stepped in the ring to fight Black Bob Mason, I was nothing but pure dee old Irish trash leading his flock to hell.” Pack’s voice was laced with dry amusement. “A hell of a lot of his flock were there too, and more than a few of them won some money.”

“Knuckle fightin’ would raise a lot more money fer the church than box-suppers.” Sam grinned one of his rare grins and stepped off the porch. “I’ll get on over to Rivers’ place ’n tell them the buryin’ will be in the mornin’.”

“Sam, when this is over, I’d like a word with you about another matter.”

“Sure, Pack.”

“You’ll be welcome to come up for the meal . . . after the burying. We can talk then.”

“I’d be proud to come. There’s a thin’ ya’d best be knowin’ ’n it ort a be knowed now. Somebody’s hangin’ round here nights spyin’ on the house. I found his tracks more ’n once up there on the ridge.” Sam jerked his head toward the west. “Keep a sharp eye out, hear?”

Sam went back down the path to the corral, saddled his horse and rode out. Pack watched from the porch, his mind busy with the information Sam had just given him.

The twins came back to say that Aubrey would be up in a little while. He was in the cookshack where Steamboat was forcing him to drink a mixture of raw eggs and buttermilk.

“Phew!” Mara Shannon shuddered. “That sounds terrible.”

“It ain’t no worse than some of that other rotgut he drinks.” Travor’s young face was set rebelliously and not an ounce of sympathy was in his voice.

“Will you boys be here for awhile?” Pack came through the parlor and into the kitchen. “I’d like to go down to the creek and wash, but I don’t want to go off and leave Mara Shannon here by herself.”

“Go ahead. We’ll be here.” Trellis poured coffee for himself and his brother.

“Sam’s gone to tell Charlie and Emily. Emily will be here by this afternoon.” Pack looked at Mara as he spoke. “She’ll be a help to you. She was fond of Ma.” His expression became as bleak as his voice.

“I’ll be glad for her company.”

“Sam will go on into town and tell the preacher to come out in the morning.”

“Pack . . . what’ll we do about a . . . a box?” Trellis could just barely get the words out.

“The preacher will bring one from town.” Pack placed his hand on his young brother’s shoulder. “We’re going to make it just as nice for Ma as we can.” He cleared his throat. “Later this evening the three of us will go up to the place where Mara Shannon’s parents are buried and pick out a spot.”

“Ma liked that place. She used to put flowers up there when she could walk.” Trellis turned his face away. “Is there room inside that fence you built?”

Mara’s eyes went to Pack’s. “You built a fence?”

“I didn’t exactly build it. I dug a few holes for corner posts and fastened some sections of iron fence around the plot to keep it from being overrun.”

“It was thoughtful of you, Pack.”

Pack shrugged, a gesture he used when he was embarrassed and didn’t know what to say. When he did speak, it was to change the subject.

“Trav, why don’t you talk to Steamboat and see if he’ll cook up a hindquarter of beef? We’ll want to put on a spread and Mara Shannon is worn out from being up all night.”

“I don’t know if he’ll do it, Pack. Cullen’s bein’ a asshole.” Travor looked quickly at Mara to see if she was offended by the word, but her face was turned away. “Cullen says Steamboat works for him.”

“Steamboat works for the owner of this property,” Pack said quietly. “Ask him to cook the meat. I’ll take care of Cullen if he makes trouble.”

Mara and the twins were in the kitchen when Aubrey came up the path to the house. Trellis had filled the firebox of the cookstove, and Mara was stirring up the everyday cake that had been Brita’s favorite. Aubrey had tried to clean himself up. He had shaved with shaking hands as indicated by the small nicks on his face made by the razor. His shirt was wrinkled but clean, and he had combed his hair.

He stood silently in the doorway as if expecting to be turned away. His watery eyes were swimming in tears. Finally he pushed himself away from the doorjamb and went into Brita’s room and closed the door. Mara went about her work. The twins sat in stoney, uncomfortable silence, hunched over their coffee cups. When Travor could stand it no longer, he picked up the water bucket and went outside. Trellis followed.

Mara was pulling the cake from the oven when Pack returned. Her face was flushed from the heat; her auburn hair was damp from sweat and stuck to her cheeks and forehead. Pack’s hair was wet and glistening from being in the creek. His shirt clung to his broad, wet shoulders and deep chest like a second skin. He had a fistful of wildflowers in his hand.

“Oh, Pack! The flowers are beautiful. Where did you find them?”

“Down by the creek. There’s more. We’ll gather them in the morning.”

“Ouch!” The cloth Mara was using to hold the pan slipped and her fingers came in contact with the hot pan. Pack tossed the flowers to the table and was at her side in an instant.

“Here, let me take that.” He grabbed the towel from the wash bench, took the hot pan from her hand and set it on the table.

“That towel’s dirty, Pack,” she chided gently because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Where did you burn yourself?” He grasped her wrist and pulled her up close to him.

“My fingers.”

His big hand held hers in a gentle grip. He turned it and looked closely at the pad of her forefinger, rubbed his thumb across it, then lifted her hand quickly and stuck her finger into his mouth. Shock waves washed over Mara from the top of her head all the way to her toes. Pack’s lips formed a firm cocoon around her second knuckle. His tongue, rough and wet, bathed the pad with gentle strokes. She drew in a gulp of air that came out with a sigh from between unconsciously parted lips. She started to speak but forgot what she was going to say.

He seemed to be completely absorbed in what he was doing. He towered over her, filling her world with his masculine presence. Mara looked up at him. Her green eyes, darkened by confusion, sought his. What she saw in the blue eyes looking into hers was bittersweet and oddly haunting. Then her dark lashes came down, shutting him out lest he see the debilitating weakness that his touch elicited.

“What . . . are you doing?” Her voice was gritty, thick. Her brain was fogged with bewilderment. All that registered was the exotic feeling of her finger in his mouth, his tongue stroking her flesh.

“I’m making it better,” he said calmly when he pulled her wet and glistening finger from between his lips.

They were standing so close that she had to tilt her head to look up at him. His clean, damp scent filled her nose, her head. His brows were drawn together as he examined first the finger and then her thumb. She watched him through a haze of sensuality as he lifted her hand to his mouth again. His eyes, dark and clouded with concern, looked down into hers as his firm lips closed around her thumb. His tongue lathed the pad with a circular motion. Her eyes were eloquent with unspoken questions. Why did his touch leave her defenseless and cause her breath to come out in fragments?

“Feel better?” he asked.

She nodded. “It isn’t a bad burn.”

“Water takes out the fire.”

“I’ll remember.”

“Your fingers taste like spices.”

“It’s from . . . the cake.” She wet her lips and pulled her hand from his. “I should get the flowers in water. I’ve got just the thing to put them in.”