This Loving Land (10 page)

“Well?” A flicker of anger was in his eyes. “You allow him to get away with such behavior? Run rough-shod over you? Haven’t you taught him any manners?”

Manners? Obedience? How could this man know what it was like to raise a fatherless boy? A daydreamer of a little boy, who had been hers to care for and to worry about while caring for a sick mother. Summer’s face, in the soft light of the kitchen, was stolid, her eyes like empty stars. She stood beside the table and smoothed out the cloth with a few quick, graceful, and totally unnecessary movements. There was not a single word to be said, because he would never understand. He would have had to have gone through the ordeal himself to have understood.

It was Sadie who broke the silence, rescuing Summer and not Slater. She poured a mug of coffee and sat it on the table.

“I’m the one who is forgetful of my manners,” Summer said tightly. “This is my friend, Mrs. Bratcher.”

The rapid thrust of his gaze moved over Sadie, interest in his eyes.

“Slater McLean, Mrs. Bratcher.”

“Do you take sweetnin’, Mr. McLean?” She pushed the cup toward him.

“No, but I have a fondness for doughnuts.” He smiled his one-sided smile.

Sadie seemed to be perfectly at ease. Her face lit up and she grinned at him.

“I ain’t never seen a cowhand that wouldn’t trade his pocket knife for a pan of doughnuts. ‘Pears you ain’t no different than the rest, Mr. McLean.”

“I get a craving sometimes for something other than refried beans and tortillas.”

Sadie giggled and Slater laughed back at her. Summer swallowed with difficulty. It seemed to her she was the only person in the whole world whose stomach was tied up in knots. Sadie’s catlike green eyes absorbed the lines of distress on Summer’s face.

“Take yore coffee to the veranda, Mr. McLean. It’s powerful hot in here. Here’s a cup for Summer, too. I’ll bring you all a hot cake from the next batch.” She tossed her head and grinned at him. “I’m gonna need this here table for my doughnut-makin’.”

Slater’s glance at Sadie held a quality of conspiracy that caused Summer’s heart to beat painfully.

“I can see that we would be in your way.” He picked up the two mugs. Summer followed him on wooden legs.

She sank down on the bench and accepted the mug Slater held out to her. She felt tired and strangely bewildered. Her face was quite still, depleted of all her strength. Under Slater’s sharp gaze, she was still, small, young, alone.

“You don’t like the way I handle your brother?” There was a tiny hint of a taunt in his voice. He sounded as if he wanted to hurt her, and not because of the way she had failed with John Austin. She was convinced it was something personal about her that angered him.

She bit her lower lip, looked at the expanse of blue sky and didn’t answer him.

“Well?” The expression of anger was still on his face; the muscles clamped above the jawline.

She had to meet his eyes, because to have avoided them would have been the last indignity.

“It isn’t that.” She closed her eyes to escape the mesmerism in his. “You can’t know how it was.”

“I think I know.” His voice was softer. “We’ll share it now.

Her eyes flew open.

He turned away, reaching into his pocket for his tobacco. In that silence, the match flared; he lit his smoke and blew out the flame. Then, he picked up her hand, turned it palm upward and looked at it. It was a small hand, still very young, but it had the callouses of hard work on it. Her eyes came up to his. They were sad, sober eyes, but deep down in them Slater could see a yearning beginning to dawn.

“This is what you brought your brother here for, isn’t it, Summer? You wanted my pa to help you guide him, discipline him. He’s a very clever and unusual child . . . and strongwilled. You do too much for him, protect him to the point of making him weak. I’ll not allow you to do it any longer.” He sat looking at her. They were so near they touched.

“But he’s so young. . . .”

“Not so young that he doesn’t know how to manage you. He has that age-old wisdom and knowledge of how to work a woman, far beyond his years. He’s not an ordinary boy, and he’ll need a heavy hand for a while.”

“You think I tied him to my apron strings.” Summer looked at the smooth side of his face, the scarred side turned away from her. He opened and shut the fingers of the hand she allowed to lie in his.

“It was necessary. Without those apron strings, you couldn’t have gotten him here. But there comes a time to cut him loose.”

“Now is the time. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Now is the time.” He gripped her hand tightly. “It’s time someone took care of you, too. I’m going to take care of you both. You belong to me now.”

Slater’s eyes were suddenly like dark glowing coals. They met Summer’s. Hers were startled. He had said, “belong to me.” And she could see he meant it. Suddenly, something had changed, forever. They both knew it.

Summer sat frozen, yet waiting. Very slowly, he raised the cigarette to his mouth. Smoke floated away like a dream, lost and gone. He stared down at her.

“What we have, we share.” His eyes were inscrutable.

This wasn’t a game, or a fantasy. He meant what he said. Her heart pounded and she drew the tip of her tongue across dry lips. Under his slanting black brows, his eyes were clear and searching.

The silence was long, breathless and deafening.

Slater flicked the cigarette into the yard and took the mug from her hand. Then his arm went around her and she was so firmly against him that she could feel the hard bones and muscles of his body thrusting through her thin cotton dress. The intimacy of that contact sent waves of surprise and pleasure through her. Strange, tempestuous feelings threatened to swamp her, and she struggled desperately to keep her head.

The smooth side of his face pressed tightly against her cheek, and the feel of his mouth against her ear made her panic. Writhing in the trap he made of his arms, she uttered a faint cry of protest.

“Sh, sh . . . hh. Sh, sh. . . .” His voice was soothing. His lips touched the side of her neck and his hand moved up and down her back. She was panting a little, the wild beat of her heart against his. “Do I frighten you?” His lips were against her cheek.

“No.” It was scarcely more than a whisper. Her brain commanded her to fight free of him, but her senses ignored the order. Her eyes closed and all conscious thought was wiped away by new and pleasant sensations.

Long ripples of tranquility flowed through her as she lost the desire to struggle. Her body became pliable and molded itself tenderly against his as a new need grew within her, a sort of ache for something—she wasn’t quite sure what—something like a joy beyond anything she had ever known, and which she might be able to reach if she stayed close to him.

Still holding her with one arm, he raised her face to him. She opened her eyes.

“Is there anything you want to say?” His voice was thick, but she didn’t notice. She was too aware of the hard warmth of his body and the faint smell of tobacco on his breath to take notice of anything else.

“I . . . don’t know. I . . . have to think.”

“I’m staking my claim,” he said tensely.

The bold possessiveness of his words, the sheer arrogance of them, sent a thrill of excitement through her even while her intelligence rejected it. Once again, she made an effort to assert absolute control over her mind, only to find that her senses were being led into open rebellion by the touch of his fingers as they wandered down her chin and over the hollow of her throat. Gently the tips stroked the soft skin.

“I won’t rush you,” he murmured. “We’ll take time to get to know each other.” He looked searchingly into her eyes, then his arms fell away abruptly and he stood up. “From here on, I’ll handle your brother. He’s not going to grow up to be a spoiled bastard like Travis!” He walked away with sure, quick steps. At the end of the veranda, he paused and threw her a wary glance over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner of the house.

Summer sat for a moment, then went to the end of the porch to peek out. Slater was talking earnestly to John Austin. Perhaps he intended to take care of them like a younger brother and sister. He hadn’t mentioned marriage. Her confused mind groped for an answer. Confusion darkened her eyes, and her heart began to pound again. It hadn’t been a sisterly embrace when he held her. You belong to me now . . . the words refused to leave her mind. She went back to the bench and sat down, her pulses beating feverishly, wondering what would happen the next time she saw him.

In the days that followed, Summer learned much about Slater and McLeans Keep. What impressed her the most was that he was a person who didn’t give away his feelings easily. He was the undisputed boss of the significant number of people that lived and worked on the ranch; his was a position of great responsibility. He had to know how to do everything he expected his men to do, and do it better. They respected him and depended on his judgment. Summer had never met a man of his type before. She hadn’t, for that matter, met many men of any type—a lack she was terribly aware of, in a frightened way.

John Austin recognized Slater’s authority and bowed to it. When he was harsh with the boy it shook Summer, for she had brought her brother up with dedicated tenderness and care for his young feelings. However, Slater was just, and while he reprimanded John Austin, he also made every effort to give the boy his heart’s desire—books from the ranch house.

One evening, more than a week after he had taken John Austin in hand, he returned at dusk; bathed, shaved, his dark hair wet and slicked back from the small white strip near his hairline where the suntan stopped, his strong brown throat protruding from a freshly-washed, open-necked shirt. He had come to “walk out” with Summer. He made his intentions clear the first evening.

“Evening, Summer, Sadie.” He lowered himself down onto the bench and leaned back against the rough logs of the house.

While Summer was struggling to bring some semblance of order to her thoughts, Mary slipped off Sadie’s lap and went straight to Slater. She stood between his knees and looked curiously into his face. Summer held her breath for fear the child would mention the scar on his face.

In the gathering darkness it was hard to see Slater’s expression, but his voice was gentle, and opened up whole avenues of conjecture as to his real nature.

“Isn’t it about your bedtime?” He lifted the child and set her on his lap, one large hand cupping her bare feet. “You could get into a cockleburr out here in the dark.”

On hearing Slater’s voice, John Austin came out the door.

“Slater!”

“Hello, John.” Slater turned his attention back to the little girl. She cuddled up against him and he chuckled softly, a sound that caused an inexplicable emotion to rise in Summer. “You’re a little scalliwag, that’s what you are!” He hugged her tighter in his arms.

While Summer and Sadie watched, fascinated, Mary’s small hand came out and reached for his face. Summer sucked in a long breath as Mary’s little fingers moved up and down over his scarred cheek. Slater stayed very still, his eyes looking down on the child’s face. It seemed like an hour before she rested her curly head against him, wrapped her arm about his neck, and closed her eyes.

“Slater . . . .” John Austin said impatiently.

“In a minute, John.”

In the silence that followed, Summer wondered exactly what his visit meant. She thought of his telling her he was staking his claim, and it brought an unexpected flush to her cheeks. If only she didn’t feet this terrible constriction in her heart when he was near

Slater got to his feet and held the child out to Sadie.

“She’s sound asleep.”

“Slater. . . .” John Austin hovered beside the door.

Slater waited until Sadie went inside the house before he spoke. “What is it, John?”

“You promised to teach me to play chess.”

“And I will, but not tonight. It’s time you were in bed.”

“But—”

“It’s time you were in bed,” he said again. “The evening hour is for me and your sister. It’s going to be our private time together. You may join us when you’re invited, and only when you’re invited.”

Summer stirred and Slater put out his hand and caught her elbow, commanding silence.

“Say goodnight to your sister, John,” he continued “Be careful not to disturb Sadie and Mary. Goodnight.”

“Dear. . . .” Summer started forward.

Slater, holding her elbow, held her back.

“But Summer always comes with me and. . . .”

“No. You put yourself to bed, tonight and from now on.”

“Please, John Austin. Do as he says.”

“Goodnight, John,” Slater said again. There was no mistaking the foreboding in his voice. John Austin retreated a few steps.

“Goodnight,” he said with a catch in his voice; then, anxiously, “you’ll be back tomorrow?”

“Right after sun-up.” Slater’s voice was softer, friendlier.

With his hand on her elbow, he turned Summer and guided her firmly away from the house, down the path toward the creek.

“How could you?” she said in a hoarse whisper.

“I could and I did. It was very easy. I intend to manage him my way, Summer. Its best I begin in the way I intend to go on.”

“But . . . you’re so abrupt . . . unfeeling.” She had a sob in her voice. “He’s not used to that.”

“He’ll get used to it.”

She walked beside him in silence. There seemed to be nothing more she could say. They crossed the yard and stopped under the cottonwood where the sack swing hung. Absently, she gave it a push.

“It can’t be the same swing,” she said, half to herself.

Slater moved away from her and leaned against the tree.

The cottonwood leaves were whispering and the stream seemed unusually loud in the quiet night. With no other noise, the smallest sounds were obvious. Summer tried to see Slater’s face in the deepening shadows, but the outlines were gone, and she could only see that he was standing there.

Abruptly, he struck a match and held the flame unusually long to the end of the cigarette he held between his lips. The light flickered on his scarred cheek and outlined it briefly before he blew out the flame.

“This is a hard, lonely land, Summer. I’m a hard, lonely, impatient man, made more so by the murder of my pa and my own . . . injuries. I’m asking you, now, before this thing between us goes any farther, if this thing on my face repulses you, if I repulse you.”

She had expected him to say almost anything but this. Shocked, she stared at his shadow, at the small glow of his cigarette. Finally, she found her voice.

“I’ve said that I didn't know you, Slater. Well, you don’t know me, either, or you wouldn’t ask me such a question.

“It’s an important question and I demand that you answer.”

“All right, but I’m disappointed that you think I have no more depth to me than to be put off by a scar.” She stopped and caught a long, ragged breath. “I have a few questions of my own, Slater Where do we stand with you? It appears to me that you’re taking over our lives I have the right to know what to expect.” She finished breathlessly, her heart thumping like a mad thing in her breast.

He drew on the cigarette, then dropped it to the ground and stepped on it.

“I’ve told you what to expect. You’ve had several days to think on it. Why are you angry?”

From anxiety and anger, her mood changed when he spoke.

“I’m not angry. Confused, but not angry.”

“Then answer my question. I need to know if the woman I plan to spend the rest of my life with finds me unbearable to look at.”

Summer stood motionless, staring at his shadow, transfixed, literally shaking inside. She swallowed hard, fighting back the tears. There was a poignant longing in his voice, and for a moment all the years rolled away and she remembered him as he had been . . . the tall, slim boy: You go on and get all growed up, summertime girl, and I’ll come and fetch you home.

“How can you ask?” The warm night air almost suffocated her as she waited for him to reply. He said nothing, and finally she cried out helplessly, “No! No! You make it seem so important and it’s not! It’s not!”

“Then come to me,” he whispered huskily.

It didn’t occur to her not to obey. She stopped in front of him and his arms reached out and drew her close. Her palms pressed against his chest. She looked up at him, into his eyes. He studied her face, the sparkle of tears on her lashes, her trembling mouth. He grabbed her hand and held the palm hard against his cheek.

“You’re sure?” he asked, and she nodded. “You are absolutely sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” She was crying to herself inside that it was so hard for him to believe her.

Slowly, he released her hand, but she held it there against his face and let her fingertips trace the rough ridges and plains of his cheek. She looked up at him searchingly. The pale light slanted onto his scarred cheek and his thick lashes made fans of darkness in the hollows beneath his eyes. The moment quivered with electric tension. As her hand caressed his cheek, her soft, slim body changed and grew taut with a strange longing. And out of the longing grew a new feeling, a wish to take away his hurt, to absorb his pain.

“I don’t want you to be hurt . . . ever again,” she said in a low, stricken voice. Her breath was coming quickly, and she felt his body shivering against hers.

“My summertime girl,” he whispered, and leaned his head forward, kissing her reverently on the forehead. His voice was merely a breath in the night. The softly-uttered words and the caress of his hands on her back sent tingles of excitement racing through her. “I had to hear you say it,” he said against her hair.

Her hands moved up to encircle his neck and she lifted her face. A sound, half-groan and half-sigh, exploded from him, and he strained her closer.

He tilted her head so he could look directly into her eyes. His eyes devoured her. “You want me, too!” Relief and surprise made his voice husky and transformed his anxious face.

They stared at each other for a moment that was so still that it seemed time had stopped moving Then, slowly, haltingly, he lowered his mouth to hers.

Summer’s breath left her in a sudden gasp. The shock was abrupt. The first, gentle touch of his lips awakened fires, the bittersweet ache of passion. A strange feeling, until this moment unknown to her, fluttered within her breast. Although his lips were soft and gentle, they entrapped hers with a fiery heat that flamed her cheeks and spread down her throat. The tobacco taste of his mouth, the woodsy, musky smell of his face as her nose pressed his cheek, and the hard strength of his embrace made her head swim—she was only vaguely aware that his hand had traveled down her back to her hips and pulled her to him.

Her arms tightened about his neck and she clung to him, unaware of his restraint, unaware of the tremor in his arms. She came to him with eagerness. Their lips blended with an impatient urgency, and locked in each other’s embrace, glowing waves of pleasure spread like quickfire through her body. Somewhere, she had lost the fumbling uncertainty of her feelings for him, and untamed intensity swept her on. They were two beings blended together in a whirling tide that set them apart, for the moment, from the world.

He drew his head back and looked into her flushed face. He knew that he was the first man she’d ever loved. His hoarse, ragged breathing accompanied the pounding thunder of his heartbeat as he realized that she was not frightened of his passion, that she had responded. It was more than he had dared to hope for so soon.

“It’s a gr-rand thing that’s happened to us!” he said against her mouth. He stuttered with the power of emotion, and his voice sounded vaguely Scottish, like his father’s.

“Yes!” She could feel life pounding in her throat, her temples.

“Sweet, sweet, wonderful Summer!” His whisper was warm against her lips. He was trembling violently, and as he looked into her shining eyes, half-closed in ecstasy, his mouth went dry. He seemed to be drowning in her violet eyes. Mesmerized, he watched as the tip of her tongue came out and moistened her lower lip.

“Slater, I. . . .

“Shhhh . . . don’t say anything,” he cautioned. “We’ve said enough for tonight.”

He drew her arm around behind him and held her hand tightly between his arm and his body. With his arm around her, they walked slowly back to the cabin. At the door, his lips fleetingly touched her forehead

“Goodnight.” His hand gently squeezed her shoulder, and he was gone.

Summer moved into the darkened room. Nothing in her young life up to now had prepared her for the emotions that churned inside her. It was as if she was outside of herself. Her heart still hammered furiously and her lips felt warm and throbbing. A fluttering in the pit of her stomach refused to go away, even as she pressed her hands tightly to it. Automatically, she undressed and slipped into her nightgown, took the pins from her hair and combed through it with her fingers before plaiting it into one long braid.

For some reason, she thought of her mother as she climbed into bed, and the words she had murmured as she lay dying . . . “Such a wonderful summer . . . so wonderful.”

When morning came, Summer had no time to prepare herself for Slater’s arrival. He came in through the back door while they were having breakfast.

“Mornin’.”

Summer’s tongue froze to the roof of her mouth and a rosy flush came up from her neck to flood her face. Sadie’s quick glance took in her confusion and she jumped to her feet.

“Mornin’, Slater. Had yore breakfast yet? You did? You got room for coffee and a cake, I reckon.” She took her cup from the table. “Sit right here, where I was a sittin’, cause I m done, anyhow. That John Austin has been a rarin’ at the bit a waitin for you to get here. I’ll swear to goodness, I don’t know what we’ll do with that youngun. He’s a corker, he is.” Sadie knew she was talking too much, but she was desperately trying to make time for Summer to gather her wits about her. She sat looking down at her plate. “Did those big galoots up there at the bunkhouse eat up all those doughnuts? In all my life, I never did see men what could get rid of so many doughnuts. Filling them up is like pouring sand down a prairie-dog hole.”