Larkspur (27 page)

Bernie snorted. “Del Gomer came in and killed him. Not because the man was beatin’ the hell outta me, but because he’d put his hands on Bonnie.”

“I didn’t know that you knew that.” Bonnie tilted her head, the better to see her brother’s battered, rugged, almost primitive-looking face.

“I might’a been a bloody mess, Sis, but I heard every word he said,” Bernie retorted.

“It doesn’t surprise me that the coward would hire bullyboys to do his dirty work.” The dislike Dillon felt for the man was reflected in his voice.

“What do the townfolk think of him?” Cleve asked.

“He puts on a good face. Gives to the church and the school.” Bernie rubbed the stump of his leg as he continued. “He’s a shyster. Men have left town with broken arms, legs, heads cracked. None of that is tied to him. There’s been several murders and he has
generously
offered to buy the land from the widows. His hired gunman left on the early west-bound for Bozeman. I’d bet my last dollar that Forsythe sent him to kill someone.”

“You don’t know that, Bernie,” Bonnie chided.

“I know it and you know it. That’s why Mike Bruza was so brave that morning. He’d not have done what he did if Gomer had been in town.” He spoke to the others. “That killer watches Bonnie like a hawk. Between him and Bruza, she’s like a bone being fought over by two wild dogs.”

“Has Gomer a . . . been disrespectful?” Cleve asked.

“Not one time,” Bonnie said firmly. “I liked him before I found out what he was. He helped me with Bernie when he was beat up.”

“—He did it for you, not me,” Bernie added.

“Why didn’t you get on the train and leave? Dillon asked quietly.

“He would have followed,” Bernie said. “I tell you, he’s wild for my sister!”

“Is that his
real
name?” Cleve asked.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you know about Buck Lenning?”

Bernie shook his head. “I’ve never met him. Cletus Fuller trusted him. The old man who owned the biggest part of the Larkspur ranch, Yarby Anderson, was accused of raping and killing a woman. Cletus said he’d known Anderson for years, and it was a put-up job to get old Anderson’s ranch. Anyway, Lenning got Yarby out of the country. A year later they found him dead in the woods. Something was funny about that. Cletus knew and liked him, but he didn’t go to the burial.”

“Where did the Anderson woman go?”

“To the Larkspur. Cletus said she’d be better off with Buck Lenning than here if she refused to sell to Forsythe. I’ve not heard that they’ve hurt a woman yet, but I’d not put it past them.”

“How did she get out there?”

Bonnie spoke up. “Bernie took her out to the freight camp in our buggy. Cletus had made arrangements for her to ride on a freight wagon.”

“The talk in the saloon was that she sold the Larkspur to Forsythe and had gone back East.”

“That’s a lie!” Bernie said harshly. “I was the last to see her and she hadn’t signed nothin’. She was afraid they were going to force her.”

“The best place fer these two is out at the Larkspur, where Miss Anderson went.” Tandy spat in the can again. “I be here to tell ya that Buck Lenning ain’t a man to be messed with. ’Sides he’s in tight with the Sioux. Heard he saved Iron Jaw’s youngun from a grizzly. I’m a-thinkin’ they’d not stand by and see him run out by Forsythe.”

“Miss Anderson said we’d be welcome.” Bernie glanced up at his sister. “What do you think, Bonnie?”

“I’d rather know what Mr. Stark knows about Buck Lenning.” Bonnie’s brown eyes fastened on Cleve. “I know Cletus liked him, but I want to be sure we’re not jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

“I know him pretty well. Stayed with him and Moss—the name he called Yarby—for a few months. It was dead winter. Horse slipped and fell on my leg. Damn near busted it. Buck is a rough man, but pure hickory. He sent me a letter weeks ago telling me about Forsythe. That’s why I’m here.”

“We’d have to go before Del gets back.” Bonnie shook her head. “Bernie can’t ride horseback all that way. He’s just barely able to walk and it’s been a week since the beating.”

“Ya got the buggy,” Tandy said. “Aint’t it and the horse still in Mrs. Gaffney’s shed? I’ll go along an’ ride shotgun. I’m thinkin’ that marshal’ll be ridin’ my tail from now on. I ain’t never learned to keep my mouth shut.”

“Ah . . . Tandy—” Bonnie reached over to grip his shoulder. “I was so proud of you for standing up to that tub of lard. Now I’m afraid for you. Are you sure you won’t mind taking us out to the Larkspur?”

“Not one dang bit. Buck Lenning just might be glad to have a couple more rifles to stand off that bunch a buzzards. I ain’t braggin, but I ain’t no slouch when it comes to shootin’.” Tandy spat again. “Won a sack a sugar once in a turkey shoot down in Arkansas after the war.”

“Goodness! Do you think it’ll come to that?” Bonnie’s dark eyes questioned Cleve.

“Soon as I get the lay of the land, I’ll send word to Fort Kearny. I know a captain stationed there. I don’t think Forsythe will want to go up against a platoon of soldiers. There’s a judge in Bozeman that’s been told about Forsythe. He might get us some legal help outta Helena.”

Cleve stood. “Dillon and I will try to get you out of here. Let it be business as usual tomorrow. On the sly, gather up what you want to take with you, put it here in the shed and plan to leave out about this time tomorrow night if we can arrange it. If not the next night. Tandy, do you know the way out to the Larkspur?”

“With my eyes shut.”

“Good. Dillon and I will be here for meals tomorrow. I’ll have a message for you to take to Lenning.”

Bonnie blew out the candle. Dillon opened the door a crack and looked out, then silently he and Cleve moved out into the darkness.

“What do you think, Bernie?”

“It’s our only chance of getting away from here. We go openly for the train and Gomer would be behind us in a week.”

“He’ll come to the Larkspur.”

“But we’ll not be alone. We sure as hell can’t expect any help here in town.”

“He’s right, missy.” Tandy’s voice came out of the darkness. “They’ll kill Bernie next time.”

“I guess you’re right. It’s just that I hate taking our troubles to someone who has plenty of his own.”

Chapter Seventeen

T
wo mornings later the tension between Buck and Kristin was even more intense than it had been the day of the encounter with Runs Fast. Buck came to the house shortly after he had seen the light in the window and smoke coming from the chimney.

“Mornin’,” he muttered.

“Morning.” Without looking at him she slid a pan of biscuits into the oven.

He placed an armload of wood in the box beside the stove, picked up the waterbucket and went out again. When he returned, Kristin had warm water in the washpan and a fresh towel waiting for him. His eyes caught hers.

“For me?” he asked.

“Of course.”

He usually washed in cold water—it was a luxury to splash the warm water on his face, and then dry it with the clean, fresh-smelling towel. He had never had anyone do for him what she had done—darn his socks, sew up the holes in his shirts. It was hard to get used to.

Buck stood beside his chair and waited for Kristin to be seated before he took his place at the table. Kristin was impressed. Ferd, even though he’d been taught manners, seldom did that.

The meal was half-finished before either of them spoke. For the life of her, Kristin could not think of anything to say. Each time she glanced at him he was looking down at his plate.

“I’ll not be here for a noon meal.” Buck’s words dropped into the silence.

“But you will for supper?”

“I plan to.”

There was a curious stillness between them—a waiting, uneasy silence that deepened as the meal drew to an end. Although only the quickness of her blue-gray eyes and the faint color that lay across her cheeks betrayed her nervousness, Buck sensed her unease.

“You’ll not be alone. Bowlegs will be here.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” she said in a chiding tone.

“No one will get within five miles of the ranch without him knowing about it. If that should happen, do whatever he tells you to do.”

“I wouldn’t be able to understand him.”

“Just go with him if he wants to get you away from here.”

“I’m not completely helpless. I have Gustaf’s gun.”

Despite the wintry expression on her face, something like a smile crossed his. He studied her thoughtfully.

“You’d best leave the gun where it is until I can teach you how to handle it.”

“Gustaf showed me,” she said defiantly, beginning to be irritated by his attitude.

Buck endured her hostile look with no betrayal of the tension swirling through him.

“Pardon me,” he said as he stood and went to take his hat from the peg beside the door.

Kristin looked up at him. Surely he meant to say, “excuse me.” She got up quickly.

“Do you mind telling me where you’re going?” Her throat was dry. She was embarrassed that her voice cracked, and she couldn’t keep the tremor out of it.

“I’m driving some of my horses into the mountains.”

“Where they’ll be safe?”

“Safer than here.”

“Do you think they’ll come?”

“Yeah, I do. When Forsythe gets all the cards stacked in his favor, he’ll come to take over.”

“With men and guns?”

“That’s the size of it.”

“I’ll fix some meat and biscuits for you to take for a noon meal.”

She met his downbearing gaze with the same air of resignation she had maintained during the night Moss died and later at the burial.

“Don’t go to any . . . trouble—”

“It’s no trouble.” Her hand fluttered toward the pan on the stove.

With tension drawing his nerves tight, he could only think that her voice was sweet and low like the music of a brook. Her eyes had come from the sky and looked into his, clouded with uncertainty. Her skin, golden from the sun, and her hair, bright, shiny and thick, was heavy with small tendrils dancing around her face. She was soft, pretty as a mountain lily, calm, sensible and compassionate.

Buck had no name for the feelings that flooded him as he looked into her face. She was the total sum of everything he’d ever dreamed of having, and without her life would have little meaning.
The thought scared the hell out of him.

Unaware that his feet had moved or that he’d taken a step toward her, he dropped his hat, placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her to him. Before she had time for more than an indrawn breath, he had bent his head and placed his lips gently on hers in the sweetest of caresses.

He lifted his head, looked at her mouth, then covered it again with his. The kiss was hard, hungry and frantic. For an endless time he held her clamped to him, hurting her with his desperate hunger to feel every inch of her and to kiss her as he had wanted to when they were riding the horse. Just this one time, he told himself. When he released her, he stooped and picked up his hat. Then shook his head as if to clear it.

“I’m . . . sorry,” he whispered miserably, and hurried out the door.

Kristin’s heart throbbed under her ribs in a strange and urgent way that alarmed her. Almost unconsciously, she raised the back of her hand to her lips still warm and tingling from his kiss. She knew now why her eyes had constantly sought him, why she felt so terribly alive when she was with him. How had she fallen in love so quickly with this wild-haired man? It was incredible. She had simply handed her heart over to him, and he had not even asked for it.

Merciful heavens! Had her longing for him been so evident on her face that he had felt sorry for her and decided to give the “old maid” a thrill? She groaned aloud at the humiliating thought.
She had stood there like a dunce while he kissed her.
He had said he was sorry and hurried out as if he was ashamed of what he had done.

Afraid that she would be tempted to stand like a lovesick calf and watch him leave, she went through the house to the porch that stretched across the front. She leaned against a peeled-pine post that supported the roof, looked out over the grassland and listened to the silence. Now that she knew the sweet touch of his lips, she would forever long to feel them again.

Kristin relived the kiss over and over in her mind while she went through the house like a whirlwind, cleaning, cleaning, until not a speck of dirt could be found anywhere. She swept down the walls, cleaned the ashes from the fireplace and emptied the ash box on the cookstove, then rubbed the surface of the iron range with a greased cloth until it shone.

The tall oak clock on the mantel was one of Buck’s prized possessions—she could tell by the way he carefully wound the spring and set the pendulum in motion. The tick-tock was a friendly sound in the silence. If this were
her
house, she thought as she wiped it with a soft cloth, she would place pictures of her mother and father on the mantel and perhaps someday there would be a . . . wedding picture to display beside the clock. She shook her head at the foolish notion and moved on to dust the desk.

It was a beautiful piece of furniture. The top displayed a pair of butterfly hinges, and was finished with thumbnail molding. A four-inch drawer ran the width of the desk and had a brass pull knob. She ran the soft cloth lovingly over the polished surface. She had never lifted the lid or opened the drawer beneath it. Feeling a pang of guilt, she did that now.

With the top leaning against the back wall, she looked down at the few papers and account books stacked neatly to one side and at the pigeonholes. They were nearly all empty, but a few of them held envelopes.

Kristin was about to close the lid when she saw a small clipping which appeared to be cut from a newspaper. She picked it up and carried it to the window so that she could see to read the small print.

Manners of a gentleman.

1. Remove your hat when entering a house although you may leave it on if in a place of business.
   
2. Never sit while a lady is standing.
   
3. Allow a lady to go through a doorway first.
   
4. Say EXCUSE ME when leaving her presence.
   
5. Say PARDON ME when bumping into her or treading on her feet.
   
6. Grasp her elbow to help her into a carriage. Never, ever touch her derriere to give her a boost or you will invite a slap.