Weathered Too Young (10 page)

Yet the fact remained—Slater Evans was her employer
. T
hat was all.
He had no interest in her beyond expecting her to keep house and cook meals
,
and this was as it should be.
Thus, each time Slater’s presence would cause Lark’s innards to begin wildly trilling
,
she would simply remind herself of her position.
Most times this worked in subduing any goose bumps threatening to erupt over her limbs at the sound of his voice.
Most of the time this allowed her to hide her feelings
,
for she was nothing if not guarded in her thoughts.

“We oughta be back by midnight,” he said.

She nodded.
“Enjoy yourselves.
You are very deserving of reprieve.”

“So are you,” he said.
He smiled at her
,
and Lark fought to keep her sudden breathlessness hidden.

“Then, if you don’t mind, I’ll just be about my own business
,” Lark said.
“Good night.”

Slater couldn’t help but smile as Lark began to struggle with the knot in her apron at her back.
He’d not missed the fact that their little housekeeper had a tendency to grow frustrated with apron strings, tie them into a knot
,
and forget she had done so until the end of the day.
More often than not, Lark found herself frustrated with the task of trying to remove her apron when the knot had grown so tight at her back.

She grumbled under her breath
,
already frustrated as her small fingers struggled with the ties.

“Here,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and turning her away from him.
“You best let me get you out of this apron…or else we’re bound to come home in the dead of night to find you still tied up in it.”

Lark couldn’t move!
She felt his hands at the small of her back—heard a mild, mumbled cuss escape him as he struggled with the knot in her apron strings.
She had a sudden and nearly overwhelming desire to lean back—to rest her body against the strength of his and beg him to enfold her in his strong arms.
But these were schoolgirl fancies
,
and she inwardly scolded herself—and harshly.

“There ya go,” he said at
last.

Lark
exhaled the breath she’d been holding as she felt her apron go slack at her
waist.
“Thank
you,” she said, pulling the white ruffled bib apron up over her head.
She’d braided her hair that morning
instead of pulling it up into a more practical bun
,
and somehow her braid caught in the apron.

“Ow!” she exclaimed, pausing in removing the apron—for the motion had pulled her hair as it entangled it with the apron.

“Here,” Slater said.
“Hold on
. Y
ou’re all snarled up here…”

Lark felt his hand at the back of her neck—felt the rough calluses of his palm against her flesh—and she could not will away the goose bumps erupting over her arms.
She could feel his hands working to separate her hair from the apron
,
and simply the knowledge he was touching her caused her to slightly tremble.

“There ya go,” he said, pulling the apron off over her head and handing it to her.

“Thank you,”
s
he said, draping the apron over her arm and pulling her long braid to lie over one shoulder.
“Enjoy your evening, Slater.”

“I will,” he said.

She watched him take the stairs two at a time—heard him begin to whistle.
She couldn’t help but smile
,
for it was a rare thing to see Slater Evans experiencing a moment of lightheartedness.

Lark sighed.
There was no reason to cook supper now.
She’d satisfy her hunger with some bread and butter
,
perhaps a strip of Slater’s special peppered jerky.
Then she’d choose a book from the s
h
elves in the parlor and do nothing—nothing at all.

Suddenly, an evening alone began to appeal to her, and Lark smiled and began to hum as she rather strolled into the kitchen to tuck her apron away in the pantry.
She giggled a moment later when she realized she’d been humming the same tune Slater had been whistling—
“
Little Lucy Sparrow.
”
A vision of her mother sitting next to her bed, darning stockings
,
and singing
“
Little Lucy Sparrow
”
wafted through her mind
,
causing her heart to ache a moment.
She wondered if Slater’s mother had once sung the song to him.

“
Little Lucy Sparrow, perching on a limb so narrow…oh, won’t you trill a love song for me?
” Lark began to sing.
She smiled, remembering how dear the song was to her—how dear were the memories of her sweet mother.
“
A handsome caballero that wears a wide sombrero…is only what I wish for, you see.
”
Lark
giggled, suddenly
delighted by the melody and clever words of the song.
“
Please
,
Lucy
,
trill him to me, as a blossom bee to honey
. A
handsome caballero he’ll be.
And as I perch on his knee, just as you there perch in your tree…Oh, Lucy
,
trill a love song for me.
”

Lark
paused and frowned, momentarily
unable to remember the next trail of lyrics.
“Little Lucy Sparrow, perching on a limb so narrow…oh, won’t you trill a love song for me?” she mumbled, closing the pantry door behind her.
“La la la la…” Lark shook her
head, frustrated
at being unable to remember the next line of the song.

“
A pretty senorita, perhaps named Rosalita…for that is what I wish for, from thee
,” Slater sang in a low, masculine voice as he descended the stairs
,
a clean white shirt in hand.

“That’s it!” Lark smiled.

“
Oh, Lucy trill her to me
,” she sang in unison with Slater—awed by the dazzling smile on his face.
“
We’ll kiss beneath the plum tree
,” they continued
.
“
Oh, won’t you trill a love song for me?
”

Lark
giggled and clapped
her hands with delight.

“My mother used to sing that to us when we were boys,” Slater said, smiling.
Lark watched as he slipped muscular arms into white shirtsleeves.

“My mother sang it too,” Lark said.
“When I was very little
,
before…”

“Before she passed?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered.

He didn’t press her for further information as she feared he would.
Simply he nodded and began buttoning his shirt.

Tom descended the stairs
then, smiling
as always.

“You must be in a good humor, Slater,” he began, slapping his brother soundly on the back.
“Singin’ sweet songs with Lark here
.
I ain’t heard you sing somethin’ like that since…well…I can’t quite remember when.”

“Fact is, I’m a might more pleased about gettin’ into town than I thought I’d be,” Slater said as he tucked his shirt into the waist of his trousers.
“You sure you’ll be al
l
right here alone, baby?” Slater asked Lark.

Lark
nodded, attempting
to appear calm.
It was true that the Evans brothers had taken to addressing Lark with rather endearing-sounding nicknames.
Tom rarely called her by name—choosing to address her as
darling
or
honey
.
But it was Slater’s habit of referring to her as
baby
that sent her nerves to nearly drowning her in delicious waves of delight.
Oh, she knew it was just their way—their casual manner.
Yet she liked to imagine that Slater’s referencing her as such meant more—that he favored her somehow.

“I’ll be fine,” she managed to tell him.

“Then let’s get,” he said, nodding to Tom.

“You enjoy yourself, honey,” Tom said, winking at her.

“You too,” she said as she watched them snatch their best hats from the hat rack by the door.

“Good night,” Slater said, nodding to her as he pressed his hat onto his head and left, closing the door behind them.

“Good night,” Lark mumbled.

Almost instantly she felt alone—deeply alone.
She felt chilled as well.

Hurrying into the parlor, she started a fire in the hearth
,
feeling even more alone as she heard the sound of horses breaking into gallops as the men left for town—all the men.

Forcing herself to an appearance of serenity for her own sake, she began to read the titles on the spines of the books gathered on the parlor bookshelf.

“Ah, there you are,” she said as she carefully selected a book.
“Mr. Twain’s
Tom Sawyer
.
I’ve heard you’re a wonderful adventure.”

Sighing, Lark snuggled down in the big, worn, and very comfortable armchair near the hearth.
Opening the book
,
she began to read, attempting to ignore the feelings of loneliness and insecurity threatening to grip her.
Slowly the story began to enthrall her—to distract her from any feelings of lonesomeness.
Furthermore, the fire in the hearth was comforting
,
an ever-present reminder that she was warm—and would be warm—all through the cold winter.

She was pretty
,
Tillman Pratt’s new actress.
Oh, not as pretty as some women Slater had known—not even as pretty as some women he currently was acquainted with
. Y
et she was pretty
,
and she sang well.
He did marvel at her costume
,
it being hardly more than a glorified, embellished corset—marveled at the depth of confidence and wild abandon a woman would need to possess in order to appear so nearly bare in public.
He smiled yet immediately scolded himself as a thought flitted through his mind—a wondering of how Lark Lawrence would look dressed in such a lack of dress.

Slater shook his head to dispel the inappropriate if not highly agreeable thought—tried to return his attention to Miss Josephine Glory and her rendition of a Stephen Foster melody.

“She’s got a purty voice,” Tom whispered.

“Yep,” Slater agreed.
He glanced to one side
,
curious as to what the other Evans
r
anch cowboys thought of Miss Josephine Glory and her black and pink corset.
He
smiled, amused
as he saw Eldon Pickering’s eyes were as wide as supper dishes.
Ralston and Grady were mesmerized as well
,
grinning so wide that Slater wondered if their faces might crack clean in two.
He leaned forward a bit
,
looking down the row of seats and tables to see if Chet w
ere
enjoying the performance of the scantily clad songbird.
He frowned slightly when he saw that Chet no longer sat next to Grady.
He glanced to his other side—to the chairs and tables beyond Tom.
Chet was not there either.

“Where’s Chet?” he whispered to Tom as a strange sense of unrest began to rise in him.

Tom looked from one side to the
other, a frown
furrowing his brow as
well.
“I
don’t see him,” Tom whispered.
He shook his head.
“That boy has near to a barrel of whiskey in him…and we don’t need no trouble.”

“I’m tellin’ ya…we shouldn’t let our boys drink liquor,” Slater mumbled.

“They’re free men, Slater
. A
in’t much we can do when they ain’t at the ranch.”

“Maybe we oughta start hiring boys that don’t take to whiskey then,” Slater growled.
“He’ll get himself in trouble, sure enough.”

“Well, you ain’t his daddy,” Tom reminded.
“You can send him ridin’ off if he gets into trouble…but you can’t keep him from drinkin’ if he has a mind to do it.”