Larkspur (17 page)

Kristin was ever conscious of the danger of Forsythe’s men coming out to the ranch. She had come to depend somewhat on Sam’s giving a warning, but still, she scanned the horizon each time she went past a door or a window. Buck had warned her to be vigilant and fire the gun twice in rapid succession if
anyone
approached the house.

She entertained Moss much as she would have a small child. He had become attached to her and followed her so closely that it was difficult for her to make a trip to the outhouse. Buck showed her the room at the end of the bunkhouse where he had put Moss when he had to be away. One time, when she needed to wash her monthly pads and hang them on the bushes out of sight behind the outhouse, she had put him in there and when she returned, he was sitting on the bunk crying. After that when it became necessary to relieve herself and Buck was not near, she went into her room and hurriedly used the chamber pot.

The days had passed so quickly that Kristin was surprised to discover that a week had gone by. She thought of this as she cooked supper for Buck, Moss and herself. She was adding another dipper of water to the pot on the stove when she heard Sam utter a welcoming bark. She went to the door to see Buck riding in on his big gray and leading a saddled horse. In her relief that Buck had returned once again, the significance of the horse without a rider escaped Kristin.

“Buck is back early today.” She had formed the habit of speaking to Moss as if he understood what she said.

“I like tater dumplin’s.”

“You do?” Kristin turned with a surprised look at the old man sitting in the leather chair. “I like them too. I’ll make you some.”

Every so often Moss blurted out something that was familiar to Kristin. One day he’d said, “Trim and buck the tree first, Sean.” She’d had an Uncle Sean who had died long ago. Another time he’d said, “It ain’t nice to tease Anna.” He pronounced the name
Onyah
the Swedish way. Kristin made a mental note to ask Buck if his father had been born in the Old Country.

Moss was content as long as his hands were busy. It was a challenge to Kristin to think of things for him to do. She had taken a fancy knit coverlet from her trunk and given it to him to unravel and roll the yarn into balls. If she was still here when the weather turned cold, she would use the fine wool to make caps and gloves for herself and Moss. She didn’t dare allow herself to think that Buck might appreciate a pair of knit socks.

Today she had made four loaves of bread. On the first day she had taken over the kitchen, she discovered Buck had put in a good store of provisions, but no yeast. She had made some by mixing flour, brown sugar, and a little salt. After boiling the mixture for two hours, she let it cool to lukewarm, then sealed it. Now three days later she had used some of it to make bread.

Kristin longed for milk and butter and eggs. A cow, chickens and a garden were essential, especially on a farm or a ranch. She understood why there was no garden. Buck simply hadn’t had the time to plant and tend one. He had laid in a good supply of provisions: flour, sugar, cornmeal, rice, raisins, dried apples and beans. There was no shortage of beef or venison in the smokehouse. Tonight she had cut beef into strips, and boiled them until tender, then added potatoes and onions. She was counting on the fresh bread to give the meal some variety.

Moss had become bored with his work and had begun to move about the house. When Moss became restless it was usually because he had to go to the outhouse. He paced the floor then went to stand beside the door rocking back and forth. Kristin was afraid to wait longer for Buck to come in. She took the old man’s hand and walked with him down the path to the necessary. Once there she slipped the galluses holding his britches off his shoulders and opened the door.

Thank goodness he was still able to tend to himself after she got him this far. The first time she’d had to do this, she had felt acute embarrassment for herself and deep pity for him. She still pitied him, but the embarrassment was gone. He was like a child, a very sweet, gentle child.

On the way back up the path toward the house, Moss tugged on her hand, pulling her toward the bunkhouse, where Sam lay beside the open door. The dog had grudgingly accepted Kristin after she had fed him cold biscuits.

“Mr. Lenning, are you in here?” The words had no more than left her mouth when he appeared in the doorway, bare to the waist, his hair wet and wild as if he’d dipped his head in a bucket of water. A wet bloody rag was thrown over his shoulder.

“Something wrong?” he asked curtly.

“No.” She shook her head. “Moss—” She couldn’t draw her eyes away from his bare chest where blood trickled down from the shoulder where the wet cloth lay near the curve of his neck. “You’ve been . . . hurt! Heavens!” She tried to pull her hand loose from Moss’s, but he wouldn’t let go.

“It’s only a crease. I’m soaking my shirt in a bucket.”

“It looks to me to be more than a crease, for crying out loud! Come to the house so I can clean it with vinegar water. That rag you’ve got on it looks none too clean.”

“Wait till I wash my shirt.”

“I’ll take care of your shirt later. You have another one,” she added sternly to hide her anxiety. She started for the house, pulling Moss along beside her. She looked back. He was still standing in the doorway. “Come on. I’ve seen a man’s bare chest before. I have a brother, you know.”

“The wolves and the cougars would’ve got him.”

“Got who, Moss?” Kristin asked absently.

“Buck. Had to pull him with the horse on the snow.”

She stopped and looked into the old man’s face. For an instant she saw something there that could have been worry or concern.

“You did that, Moss?”

A twinkle came into his eyes.

“Flies in the buttermilk, skip to my Lou.”

“Yes, of course. For a moment I thought—Well, never mind.”

Inside the house, Kristin urged Moss to the chair and put the coverlet in his hand. Once he was settled, she moved a chair close to the wash bench, then hurried to her trunk to fetch clean cloth for bandages. When she returned, Buck stood in the doorway.

“Sit down,” she said briskly.

“Something smells good.”

“I baked bread today.” She removed the wet cloth on his shoulder and dropped it in the washbasin. When she saw the red strip of open flesh on his shoulder so close to the base of his neck, she took a deep breath that quivered her lips. “An inch closer—”

“I was lucky.”

Kristin turned quickly and tilted the jug of vinegar over the wash dish and soaked a piece of cloth. Without hesitation she placed it on the wound.

“Ohhh . . . That stings!”

“ ’Course it does. Don’t be a baby. Are you going to tell me what happened?” She tilted her head down to look into his face, her large eyes questioning. For a moment her eyes were lost in his intent gaze.

“Someone shot at me.”

“I didn’t think you’d shot yourself.” Kristin fought to still her trembling.

“He was waiting on a shelf above the trail.”

“I hope you shot back!”

“I did.” He grinned a lopsided grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Were you a better shot than he was?”

Buck let her question pass as he watched the expressions flit across her face. She washed the wound again, then smeared it with a yellow salve she brought from her trunk. Her fingers were light and warm on his bare skin. He drew in a deep breath and held it while her hand rested on his shoulder as she patted a small strip of cloth over the salve.

“What’s that?”

“Carbolic petroleum jelly. What do you use?”

“Pine tar.”

“That’s for . . . horses!”

His eyes sparkled with amusement. By jinks damn, she was pretty, soft as a woman should be, but strong. She wasn’t a woman who had to be coddled even if she was used to all the comforts a town provided. He had a powerful urge to pull her down on his lap and bury his face against her breasts.

What would she do? Slap his face? Run to her room and bar the door?

“You killed him, didn’t you?”

She was leaning down, looking into his face with her calm blue-gray eyes. Seconds piled on top of each other to make a minute before he could trust himself to speak.

“Yes.” His throat was so clogged he could hardly utter the word. Would she turn from him now? Be repulsed? Think of him as a gunman? A killer?

She nodded her head ever so slightly and placed her hand on his naked shoulder again.

“You did what you had to do.”

The warmth of her hand seeped into him and he went weak with relief. When she took her hand away, he desperately wanted to grab it and hold it against his chest. When she turned to empty the washbasin, he stood and went quickly to the room he shared with Moss and plucked a faded blue shirt from the peg on the wall. He pulled it on over his head and ran his fingers through his wet hair in an effort to tame it.

Buck Lenning had never been so unsure of himself in his life. He simply didn’t know how to act around a woman like Kristin. He’d not been to town in a year . . . not that he’d have found one like her in town. It wasn’t that he was lonely. He was used to his own company, and he’d had Moss and Gilly and an occasional visitor. It was just that he felt awkward and tongue-tied, although his tongue had been plenty loose the day she arrived. Anger at seeing a strange woman in his house had caused it. But the more he got to know her . . . yes, and to depend on her, the more self-conscious he felt when near her.

In the kitchen, Kristin was talking to Moss and gently tugging on a soft bundle of something that Moss was hugging to his chest.

“Who’er you?”

“Kristin. Supper’s ready, Moss. You can work on this later.”

“Are you my ma?”

“No. I’m your friend.”

“I left my wagon and my mules.”

“I was hoping this would keep you busy for a day or so. At this rate you’ll have it all unraveled in another hour or two.” She pulled the bundle from his arms, rolled it up and placed it on a chair.

“He’s happy as a drunk hoot owl,” Moss said, and looked at her expectantly.

“Then he must be very happy.” Kristin took the old man’s hand and led him to the washstand, where she dipped water from the bucket into the basin.

“Wash up, Moss.”

Kristin threw a towel over his shoulder. Although he seemed to understand what he was to do when she led him to the privy or the washstand, he sometimes would continue to wash his hands until she pulled him away and handed him the towel.

“Milkin’ cows is woman’s work.” Moss dried his hands and dropped the towel on the floor.

“It is, and if we had one, I’d welcome the chore.” Kristin picked up the towel and hung it on the end of the wash bench. She reached for Buck’s comb and ran it through Moss’s hair.

“I’ll get you one.” Buck spoke from behind her. She turned quickly, and made an impatient motion with her hand.

“Oh, no. I was just talking to Moss. Besides, I may not be here long, and you’d be stuck with having to milk it. I doubt you’d like that. Men usually don’t.”

“Are you leaving?” Buck asked quietly.

“Not . . . immediately, unless you want me to.”

“I thought we had an agreement.”

“We do. I’ll stay . . . until we get borders set for what’s my land and what’s yours.”

“That may be hard to do. This house could be sitting right on the line.”

To Buck’s utter surprise and amazement, peals of Kristin’s laughter filled every corner of the room. To him the sound was more beautiful than a church bell, more beautiful than the chimes on the clock. His smiling eyes narrowed and clung to her face. She was a wonder, tall and straight and shining. And when she laughed, the sound was like music, her eyes like stars.

“I’m putting in my bid for the back part of the house if we have to divide it,” Kristin said pertly, still smiling broadly. “You have a cozy comfortable home here, but I like the kitchen the best, especially the stove. You can have the woodpile!”

Buck’s mouth twitched, broke into a slow, uneven smile that sent creases fanning out from his shining green eyes and made indentions in his cheeks.

“You’ll need firewood from
my
woodpile to burn in
your
stove.”

“Maybe we can strike a deal. I’ll bake biscuits if you furnish the stove wood.”

“Fair enough.”

“I guess we’re stuck with each other for a while.” She stepped around the table to take the coverlet from Moss’s hands again. “After you eat.” She gently pushed him into a chair.

“What’s he wanting to do?”

“I gave him a coverlet to unravel. He seems to love pulling the yarn and rolling it into balls.”

“There’s a place where the trail twists around a boulder.” Moss looked from Kristin to Buck and back again.

“What’s a coverlet?” Buck’s hand dropped to the bundle and felt the soft wool and raised his brows in question.

“A fancy cover to go on a bed.”

“Did you make it?”

“A couple winters ago.”

“It’s . . . pretty.”

“I’ve no use for it now. I can find a better use for good wool yarn.”

“What will you make?”

“Mittens, caps, stockings, scarves.”

“Who for?” He was desperate to keep her talking.

“I might even knit you a pair of sky blue stockings and a sky blue cap.” A giggle that Kristin couldn’t hold back came bubbling up.

“I’d be a sight in a sky blue cap, that’s sure.” He smiled. Lately it didn’t take much to make him smile.

“I danced with a gal with a hole in her stocking.”

Buck moved around the table to take his chair. As he passed Moss, he put his hand on his shoulder.

“I just bet you did, old-timer.”

Kristin saw the gentle touch and wished that Moss knew how fortunate he was to have a son like Buck. Ferd would never have been so caring of their father. He would have shut him away somewhere out of sight, ashamed that he had lost his reason.

“I wish I’d known your father before.” Kristin placed a stack of bread slices on the table.

“He was a very smart man. I guess I told you that.”

“No, but you said Uncle Yarby was. Did Moss know him?”