Spirit of the Wolf (5 page)

"Good lookin' horses
,
"
he said, gazing into the corral.

Her plan
? Ma
ke him feel so comforted by her friendly, non-threatening demeanor that he'd start yakking and not stop until
he'd spilled h
is whole life
's
story. Instead, he'd
distracted her with talk of
horses
of all things!

Tucking in one corner of her mouth, Bess sighed. "Oh, they're all right, I suppose." And then, to hide the
frustration
in her voice, quickly added, "They're Shagya Arabians. Pa had them shipped here from Syria just over a year ago. He's hoping to breed them. They're as strong as they are beautiful, just as suited to pull a wagon as to seat a rider."

When he met her eyes, both blond brows rose high on his forehead. "It ain't often you meet a lady who knows her way around horses."

Shrugging, she stared at her feet. Until now, she hadn't realized how cold they were.... "I don't know much about most horses, but I made it my business to know about
these
."

"Hmmm." He spoke to the Arabian that was nuzzling his hand. "She's smart, pretty, a good cook
, a
nd honest, too. Hard not to like a woman like that...."

Unnerved, she struggled for something
clever to
say. "
Would you believe
I've already forgotten where in Texas you said you're from
?
"

His beautiful smile vanished like smoke. "So she's 'tricky,' too,
is she?
" he said, more to himself than to the horse. He
met
Bess's eyes. "
N
ever said where I was from."

His closed expression warned her to stay out of his business. Out of his life. She got an 'or else' message from those dangerous orbs, too.
Or else
what? she wondered. Bess swallowed hard, hoping to repress the tickle of fear bubbling in her throat.

Well, food had always soothed the boys, and Pa, and the farm hands....

"There's leftover chicken in the kitchen...."

He patted his stomach. "
Wolfed down
enough at supper to last me two days."

She'd been around men all her life,
and
never had a bit of trouble getting along with them. Bess didn't understand why
this
man rattled her so.

"Pa tells me you're going to be an excellent foreman. Have you done much of that kind of work in the past?"

"Ten years' worth
,
in
dozens
of towns."

Dozens
?
"I don't imagine your wife and children think very much of being without you for such long periods of
—“

"Don't have a wife. No young'uns, either."

The flat, emotionless tone had returned to his voice. Bess took a deep breath. She wanted to bring back the teasing drawl, the wonderful smile.

"Maybe
instead of chicken, you'd prefer a slice of
cherry pie?"

Silence was his answer.

Exasperated, she blew a stream of air between her teeth. "Won't you sit with me, then, while I have a slice?" she asked
, walking
toward the house.
He'd either follow, or he wouldn't. Bess hoped he
would.

"I reckon I c
ould
do that," he said, falling into step beside her, "if you think you can rustle me up a glass of milk."

Without missing a beat, she winked. "Easy as...pie...."

The sun was peeking over the horizon when he headed back to the bunkhouse. They'd talked for hours. About Foggy Bottom. About Mary and Micah, Matthew and Mark. About
her
....

In her room, changing into a white-cuffed pink frock, Bess thought of the way his golden waves had shimmered in the kitchen lamplight. As she piled her long, dark curls atop her head and secured them with a satin ribbon that matched the one at the collar of her dress, she thought about the thick black lashes that trimmed his crystal-blue eyes. Hooking the buttons of her black leather boots, she marveled that in their time together,
Chance
had learned a lot about her,
but he'd
told Bess precious little about his past.

Who
wa
s this beautiful man with the sad, soulful eyes
, and w
hat ghost
s
had
dogged his heels
for ten long years, over thousands of miles?
Bess
swallowed
the hard lump of fear that
formed in her throat, knowing that if she didn't find out
why
, everyone at Foggy Bottom might pay a hefty price
.

***

It had been easy to teach the new men her routine. Up at four-thirty every morning to perform barnyard chores. Wash up for breakfast, served at five.
Back o
ut in the fields by quarter of six.

This day, the meal consisted of fried ham. Griddle cakes swimming in maple syrup. Eggs, sunny side up. Honey-buttered bread. Hot coffee and cool milk. As Bess filled and refilled plates, the men ate and discussed the day's plans.

She'd saved the sticky buns, hot from the oven, for last. As she slid them onto a warmed plate, she heard
Chance
's quiet, authoritative voice. Not even her tasty surprise distracted the men from his instructions. They liked him, anyone could see. But more than that, they respected him. That fact alone told her he'd be one of the best foreman Foggy Bottom had ever seen, and Bess had seen enough foremen over the years to know a good one when she saw one.

In the month he'd been with them,
Chance
had gotten to know the farm almost as well as Micah knew it. Had gotten to know Matt and Mark
. And thanks to late-night chats—some in rockers on the front porch, others at the corral gate, still others over
pie and milk
under t
he soft
glow
of the hanging kitchen lamp
—he'd gotten to know Bess well, too
.
But
despite all the hours of gabbing they'd racked up, Bess felt she didn't know any more about him
now
than she
ha
d on the day he'd arrived.

'The eyes are the windows to the soul,' or so the sages said. If
Chance
's eyes were any indicator of what lived inside him, she thought,
he's about as good as a man can get
. She sensed something in this man. Something honorable
. Something
decent.

And she'd had plenty of time to evaluate her feelings about him, since he seemed to be on her mind almost
every waking moment
!
S
till…s
omething told her
Chance
hid something painful behind that tight, careful smile. If she could only get him to open up, maybe she could help him put whatever it was behind him. It's what her mother would have done....

Bess was stacking the breakfast plates, hoping to find a way to reach his well-protected heart when he walked into the kitchen. "Lubbock," he said, leaning an elbow on the water pump. When she didn't respond, he said it again. "Lubbock."

She arched her left brow and grinned. "I don't know whether that's a very poor imitation of a
bull
frog, or if you have something stuck in your throat."

Chance
chuckled. "It's my home town."

Her heart skipped a beat, because he'd told her, in four simple words, that he trusted her, finally. Bess smiled. "So tell me, was the town
name
d
for a bullfrog? Or did the founding father have a frog in his throat when he
pronounced it Lubbock?
"

He threw his head back and laughed.
S
he loved the music of it, hearty and deep and wholly masculine. Twice now, he'd treated her to the sound. Bess decided right then and there to make him do it again, and again,
and
as often as possible. But before she could conjure up another joke to inspire a repeat performance, he saluted and grinned and left her alone with the mountain of dirty dishes. To her regret, Bess didn't see him again until dinner time.

At least, she didn't see him
in person.

Bess saw plenty of him, though, whenever she closed her eyes.

Once she'd cleaned up the breakfast mess, Bess set some bread dough to rising near the warmth of the cookstove. Savory beef stew bubbled on the stovetop, and a batch of Apple Betty
baked
in the oven. Just before the men came in, she'd whip up some potato dumplings and drop them onto the gently boiling stew.
Meanwhile, she'd tidy
the house, then the bunkhouse.

Clean laundry flapped colorfully on the clotheslines out back. The chickens had been fed and the eggs gathered. She'd save the mending and darning for evening, when she and the boys and Pa gathered around the parlor fireplace until bedtime. At last, her least favorite morning chores completed, Bess could indulge her other passion: ciphering.

Bess loved
few things more
than adding up columns of numbers in her father's blue-lined ledger books. She'd learned precisely when to order seed, what kind and how much to order, and which peddler would give her the best price. She'd learned to wrangle a fair deal from old Samuel down at the livery stable when saddle cinches and blankets wore out, too. While other young women her age were having babies, organizing tea parties, and crocheting doilies, Bess was busy running Foggy Bottom, and loving every minute of it.

Well,
almost
every minute....

One Sunday after services,
Pastor
Higgins told her
that she should pray
long and
hard about her future. "'A prudent wife is a gift from the Lord,'" he quoted Proverbs.

"
Yes," she
quoted the same book
, "but '
even a child makes himself known by his acts,
w
hether what he does is pure and right.'"

The reverend's jaw sagged and his eyes bugged out. Bess felt fairly certain that her retort stunned him sufficiently, and doubted he'd discuss marriage with
her
any time soon.

The following week,
at
the
church social, his wife
took up the gauntlet.
"Don't you sometimes see your girlfriends with their little ones," Mrs. Higgins asked, "and wish you had a baby of your own?"

Years ago, when her friends began falling in love and setting up house, Bess thought maybe there was something wrong with her...that a maternal heart did not beat within her bosom, for she truly didn't yearn for a husband, a home, an infant to suckle at her breast. She'd shared her fears with the Widow Reddick, who owned the general store.

"Bess, my dear," the old woman had said, "babies and husbands are grand
,
and I've had a couple of each, so I know what I'm talkin
g
about
. B
ut babies spit up, and husbands, they just plain spit." The joke inspired a round of laughter to bubble from the old woman's throat, and once she'd regained her composure, the Widow said something Bess would never forget: "If you follow those young hens, they might well lead you to a fox in the chicken coop
…b
ut your heart won't steer you wrong." She'd placed a withered hand upon Bess's sleeve and added, "When the right man comes along, you'll know it.

"Now, don't you roll your eyes at me, young lady
.
I'm tellin' you true! When th
at
man comes along, you'll
want
to make a home for him and give him children. Trust me, there's nothing you won't do...for the right man."

Bess had
been eighteen when she s
lid
that sage advice to the back burner of her memory. Four short years later, standing in the church basement facing Mrs. Higgins
' judgmental stare
, Bess called upon the strength it had given her. "I have, at any given time," she told the pastor's wife, "as many as ten 'babies' to cook for and clean up after
,
if you add the
care of
hired hands to
the list of Beckleys
. Besides, I think I'm the best judge of when the
g
ood Lord call
s
me to motherhood." From the look on
the woman'
s face, Bess got the idea the pastor's
wife
wouldn't be discussing marriage with her any time soon, either!