Prairie Wife (11 page)

"I just worry about you becoming too attached to the boy,
Jesse."

"For heaven's sake, why?"

"Your mother told you he was already making trouble. I'm
afraid he'll only cause us problems and then run off at the first
opportunity."

"Well, he hasn't made any trouble yet. His mother ran off and
left him when he was little more than a baby. He's had a sickly woman motherin'
him and no father. You'd see the need for us—for a family if you'd let
yourself."

She raised a palm to stop Jesse's ire. "I'll help teach
him."

He stood. "I don't know what you have against the boy. You're
hangin' back when it comes to helping 'im, but you risked your neck to save a
bunch of strangers."

He was right, and the fact that he'd pointed it out shamed her.
"I said I'll help."

"Nobody wants to feel like they're not wanted." His
voice was low and filled with emotion. "Don't make that boy feel like he's
not welcome here."

"Of course he's welcome. I'm just not sure how well I can
teach him."

"You'd have been teaching Tim if we hadn't lost him. You'd be
teaching more children—if you wanted to have them."

Not this. Not this again. What was it he wanted from her? Couldn't
he just leave the subject alone? Talking about the past wouldn't change
anything. She got up and headed for the kitchen, where she could lose herself
by keeping busy in the crowd of strangers.

From the corner of her eye, she saw when Jesse followed and set
his mug beside the basin. The door squeaked opened and closed.

Pitch gave her a curious glance from across the room.

She knew their conversation had been too quiet to overhear, so he
must have seen something on Jesse's face or in the way he carried himself from
the room that made him question Jesse's abrupt leave-taking.

Or maybe a telltale look was on her face.

Before the second shift of diners arrived, Mrs. Barnes gently
eased Amy away from the stove and pushed her toward the other room. "Go on
upstairs. You've been out in the weather and gone without decent rest, and
you're ready to fall over where you stand." She waved the hem of her apron
as though Amy were a pesky fly. "Shoo."

Amy wearily climbed the stairs and entered the bedroom. In the
darkness, she stood in front of the window and gazed down on the outbuildings
where light poured from windows and doors. Shelby Station was always filled
with comings and goings. People from all walks of life passed through for
various reasons and headed to their destinations. Strangers who eased Amy's
discomfort in having to live with herself.

Conversation drifted up from downstairs, chair legs squeaked on
floorboards and iron kettles clanged. Living as she did amid a constant stream
of activity and purpose, how was it she always felt isolated and adrift?

Amy survived with her heels dug into the here and now to keep from
sliding off into the past or the future where nothing was safe and where she
risked the chance of caring too much. Sometimes she thought that so much of her
spirit had bled from her that she was nothing but a walking, breathing shell.

And then Jesse had gone and said something that proved there was
more on the inside of her after all— more to board up with walls of denial and
secure with self-preserving nails. But she was good at construction. She didn't
even have to think about building barriers anymore—it was survival instinct.

With the muted sounds of life beneath her, Amy undressed and
crawled into bed. She went through the routine she had devised, thinking about
the chores she had to do the following day and not about what had already
transpired.

But the image of Jesse riding through the rain, sliding from his
horse and looking her over, wedged its way past her guard. She saw his face,
blue eyes squinted against the rain that drizzled from the brim of his hat, the
set of his jaw and his unspoken relief. She had a man who loved her beyond her
failings and her barren heart. Few people in this sorry world were loved that
completely—that unselfishly. Any other woman—a whole woman—would glory in that.

Rain poured from the heavens and soaked into the earth. Heat
blazed from the stoves and the fireplace; light gleamed from the outbuildings
and every window of the house except hers. But within this room, within this
heart, it was dry and cold and dark.

And for the first time Amy recognized dimly, as though looking
through a gauzy veil, that hers was a heart condition that hurt as much as
anything physical. And maybe more.

***

A rainbow was a beautiful thing. Jesse squinted at the ethereal
colors from the corner of the corral. Birds sang morning greetings and the
countryside smelled clean and alive.

His head throbbed and his tongue felt like he'd chewed sawdust
half the night. Even dunking his head in the rain barrel hadn't cleared the
morning-after cobwebs.

Half an hour ago a Concord coach had arrived from the West,
dispatched by telegraph for the sole purpose of picking up a particular
passenger, but seven others would benefit from the ride, as well.

A man Jesse recognized as one they'd brought from the train and
served in the kitchen last night appeared from the barn, a leather satchel in
hand. He wore a tailored black suit coat and trousers, a white shirt and shiny
tie, fancier garb than was the norm in these parts.

"I owe you, your wife and father-in-law a debt of gratitude,
Mr. Shelby." He placed his bag on the ground and extended a hand.
"Castlewhite's the name."

Jesse shook his hand. "Call me Jesse. Pleased everything
turned out all right."

"I own a few investments in Denver City," the man said,
leaning back on his heels. "A hotel among them. The White Castle
Hotel."

"I believe I've heard of it."

"Consider it your home whenever you chance to be in my city,
Jesse. There will always be a room and meals for the Shelbys."

"Thank you, Mr. Castlewhite. I'll keep that in mind."

"Give," he said with a grin.

Jesse nodded.

Hermie and the driver had loaded baggage, and Hermie came to get
Clive's satchel. The other passengers who had been chosen to travel with the
hotel owner called their thanks to Jesse and boarded the coach.

By the third day all but three of the displaced passengers had
ridden out on departing stages. Only William Hunter, Eden Sullivan and Mr.
Barnett remained.

On the fourth day the two men were gone, as well, and the
boardinghouse held the usual sprinkling of guests, plus the still-hobbling
Eden.

She'd made no mention of moving on, and continued to pay her
dollar a day for room and board. It was a steep rate; the Shelbys could charge
it because of their locale and appeal, but it was a mystery why Eden didn't
mind paying it—and how she could afford to.

"Hello?" she chirped from her room as Jesse passed
through on his way out early Friday morning.

Hesitantly, he stood outside her partially open door.

"Yes, miss?"

"I'm dreadfully bored and couldn't possibly rest another
moment. Will you be so kind as to assist me to the house for the day? I'd like
to take meals with the others and converse a bit."

Hat in hand, Jesse opened the door and peered around it to find
the woman perched on the side of the narrow bed, dressed in a spring-green
dress, her dark hair artfully arranged in an upsweep of curls.

She motioned for him to come closer.

He glanced out toward the hall.

"Come on in. I'll need your strong back and arms."

He approached her uncomfortably.

"Come on, I won't bite."

When he drew beside her, she stood and reached one arm around his
neck. He placed his hat on his head quickly and lifted her up against his
chest, one arm around her back, the other behind her knees.

"I'm positively
aching
for company," she told him
as he carried her out of the room.

She smelled like powdery roses. "I'm sure my wife and Mrs.
Barnes will be good company."

"I asked the maid if Mrs. Shelby was your wife."

"She is."

"I wasn't sure, because you stay here nights."

Heat burned up Jesse's neck, but he passed off her comment as
though it didn't disturb him. They were out of doors and he made quick work of
traveling the board walkway that stretched to the house. Four steps up to the
porch, and he paused so she could reach for the handle on the door.

Amy stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot, her back to
them as they entered. Mrs. Barnes looked up from kneading dough.

"Amy, bring a chair, will you, please?"

She turned to discover her husband standing just inside the
kitchen doorway, a sweetly smiling Eden in his arms. Wiping her hands on her
apron, Amy walked quickly from the room, returning with the rocker.

Jesse deposited Eden on the seat, backed away as though she were a
stick of dynamite and he held the match, then nodded to Amy before slipping
back outside.

Eden watched the door close, then swept dark-lashed eyes around
the kitchen. "I couldn't bear another moment in that room staring at the
walls. Your Jesse was kind enough to avail me of his strong back."

Amy picked up a bowl of potatoes and a knife and placed them on a
bench within Eden's reach. "I'm glad you're here. We can always use
another hand in the kitchen."

Mrs. Barnes hid a smile by turning away and wetting a towel to
drape over the shaped loaves.

As the men filtered in for their morning meal, each pair of eyes
made a brief and appreciative inspection of the fetching woman seated in their
midst. Eden smiled and greeted each hand politely, but reserved the magnitude
of her charm for Sam and Jesse.

Sam scooted her rocker closer to the table and reached for cream
and molasses for her oatmeal. An injured foot hadn't affected Eden's appetite
up 'til now; Amy had observed that she'd eaten all the meals carried to her
room. But this morning, she ate only a few spoonfuls of oatmeal and a couple of
bites of toast.

"I can't hold any more," she told Sam. "But I'm
delighted to have company for my meal. I've been dreadfully lonely."

"Well, you just sit tight here and you'll have company for
all your meals," he told her. "Amy and Mrs. Barnes are in and out
most of the day, so you won't be alone."

"You've all been so kind to me." She drew a lace-edged
hankie from the pocket of her dress to dab the corner of one eye. "I can't
thank you enough."

Amy glanced at the males around the table. Deezer, the youngest of
their help, swallowed, and his Adam's apple bobbed as he stared at her
wide-eyed. Hermie and Pitch paused with spoons halfway to their mouths. Jesse
glanced from Eden to the door and downed his coffee. Even Cay stared as though
a heavenly apparition had been placed in their midst.

Sam patted Eden's hand awkwardly, then moved her chair back to its
original position. "No need to get carried away thankin' folks," he
said. "We're all real glad you and the others are safe and sound."

"Well, I wouldn't be if it weren't for your bravery. Yours
and Jesse's."

Jesse stood then, grabbed his hat and settled it on his head.
"Going out to look for you was my wife's idea. Be thankin' her." He
glanced to his nephew as he buckled his holster. "Cay, oil the harnesses
this morning."

He left, the door swinging shut behind him.

Cay scraped his bowl clean and trotted out with a perfunctory
"Thank you, ma'am."

Their departure prodded the others to finish their meals and head
out. Sam wished the women a good day and joined them.

By the time Amy had finished clearing the table, she noted that
Eden had managed to finish her oatmeal. Must be the men who made her lose her
appetite, she thought. She set the empty bowl beside the tub where Mrs. Barnes
was scrubbing dishes and they shared a knowing look.

Amy thought of the comical expressions on the men's faces and
realized that her father's was the one that disturbed her the most. She scoffed
at herself with her second breath. Sam was twice Eden's age—too old and far too
wise to be taken in by such obvious feminine wiles.

Wasn't he?

***

Sam was too damn old to be moonin' like a tongue-tied schoolboy
and finding excuses to stop by the house during the day. Or was he? He hadn't
even neared fifty yet, and he was still fit enough to wrangle a horse or carry
a featherweight woman to the boardinghouse each night and back again of a
morning. That part had come to be a pleasure. Eden was softer and curvier than
anything he could think of, and she smelled like rose petals. His wife had been
gone a fair number of years, but until now he hadn't realized how much he
missed havin' a woman in his arms.

Her skin was dewy and fair, and her hair held the midnight sheen
of a newborn colt. She was a delicate distraction from his otherwise
male-oriented and harsh days. It wasn't as though the woman's stay was
permanent. She would be movin' on—had family expectin' her—had a life of polish
and refinement far from here. No, life on the frontier was hard on women.