West Winds of Wyoming (24 page)

Well, there was no hope for it now. Couldn’t go back. Releasing a breath, he reached for his pocket watch on the side table next to his cot. He pressed the catch until it popped open, then tried to make out the time. Unable to read it in the dark, he glanced out the window. From the inky-black sky opposite him, he’d guess the hour was around three in the morning.

He snapped the watch closed, thinking of his father and brothers, and of his stepmother, Priscilla, and how she’d made their lives so much better. As the middle child he’d been, at times, invisible to his pa—until Lance got into some trouble and shifted the blame to him. But it was the memory of Charlie’s younger brother, Langdon, that grappled with his heart. The happy-go-lucky boy had been young enough to be spared any haunting memories of their real ma. Like the day she’d taken ill, her funeral at the country church outside town, and her newly dug grave. The remembered image never failed to send a shiver into Charlie’s young soul whenever he thought of her buried underneath the cold, packed earth.

“Tristan, you’re such a sweet child. I don’t know why God has blessed me so,” she’d say often, and kiss the top of his head while squeezing him in her arms. She always smelled of vanilla and cinnamon, and a day didn’t go by she didn’t cook something sweet to entice them. His pa, a hard-working Iowa farmer, worshiped the ground she walked on. Treated her with respect and love, and during the summer brought her a handful of wildflowers every day when he came in from the fields.

After her death it was three long, struggling years before his pa met and married Priscilla, a widow from the South. She’d embraced her stepchildren as if they were her own and was a light in their lives until she passed away from influenza. By then he’d been a grown man of thirteen. The war was on and he wanted to enlist. After his pa forbade him until he was older, he snuck away in the night to join up. Charlie still carried guilt over that choice. Perhaps if he’d stayed home, his pa would still be alive and the family intact. Years later he’d gotten word his pa had died and his brothers had sold the farm, wanting an adventure of their own. Now the family was split up and he didn’t know where Langdon or Lance lived. Or even if they were still alive.

Charlie rolled to his back, now fully awake. If he got up and started the fire in the stove, he might wake Nell. He slung an arm over his eyes, again pushing away the desire that she evoked in him. She was twelve years younger—he’d best remember that. He needed someone like Brenna, someone established, with children of her own. That was best for Maddie.

A scuffling sound caught his attention, chasing away his thoughts. Then a small scrape—was that a boot heel? No. He was letting his imagination run away with him. He turned his head. Listened to the early-morning sounds. Wilsonville and Grover Galante were never far from his thoughts. His heart swooshed in his ears as his heartbeat picked up when he thought about Nell asleep upstairs, an easy target.

Could have been a gopher, or squirrel, foraging for food on the porch. But when the kitchen door creaked open, Charlie bolted upright in the bed and knew the intruder was inside.

Nell came awake when the hinge on the kitchen door squeaked before stopping abruptly. Staring up into the darkness, she wondered if she’d conjured the sound out of thin air. Intuition told her the noise had been real.

She’d been dreaming about Charlie, the two of them swimming in the river on a hot summer day. He’d dived under the water and she’d watched with excitement to see where he would surface. Pushing through the chest-high water, she spun in a circle, then back the other way, laughter bubbling up from inside. Charlie surged out of the water and burst into the air, the sun glistening off the droplets gushing off his head and chest. Their laughter mingled and filled the air of the wide-open grasslands. Her heart nearly burst with the rush of love she felt.

Now, her skin tingled. Someone was downstairs. Had Charlie gone out for some fresh air? He mentioned he did that every now and then. Or perhaps Seth had finally come home and was trying to sneak in without disturbing anyone.

Or—a shiver skittered up her back—was the stranger back? If yes, he could kill Charlie in his bed; kill him before he even knew what happened. The memory of the coldness in the stranger’s eyes again frightened her breathless. Her heart thumped painfully against her breastbone. She needed to get down there before anything bad happened.

When Nell swung her legs over the bed and reached for her pants, her head exploded in pain as if she’d just been smacked between the eyes with a horseshoe. She grasped the dresser to steady herself and gasped for air until the pain ebbed and her stomach decided not to empty itself on her bedroom floor. What in tarnation had prompted her to open that bottle of wine? And why had they felt inclined to finish the whole thing? Her stomach rolled and the walls tilted.

Breathing deeply, she pulled on her pants, strapped on her revolver, then silently opened her door. She crept down the hallway toward the stairs, avoiding the boards she knew were loose. Her head throbbed. At the top of the staircase she stopped and listened. Didn’t hear anything else. Took the first step, then another and another until she was at the kitchen.

She found Charlie waiting at the bottom, shirtless and bootless, but armed and ready. He stood in a beam of moonlight that slipped through the window and splashed across the kitchen floor.

Her heart beat wildly in her chest and without thinking she stepped into his arms.

“Don’t be scared,” he whispered against her hair, sending a bevy of chills rippling up her spine. An image of them kissing on the river’s edge flashed in her mind and she realized the memory was from her dream, buried in her subconscious until now. “It’s gone.”

“It?” She could feel the thump of his heart against her own. His skin under her fingertips was intoxicating.

“A raccoon. Must have jimmied the door, somehow. You know how resourceful those critters can be when they’re hungry.”

She held him tighter.

He hesitated. “He’d made it up onto the counter but I got here before he made a mess. Maybe smelled those pork and beans set aside for Seth,” Charlie said. “Scared him away before he got a chance to mess up our clean house.”

Does he feel anything for me? Is he aware my heart is about to burst?
She rested her head on his shoulder, absorbing his musky scent, remembering the kiss from a few hours ago. Anxious to commit to mind this moment, she closed her eyes, memorizing his feel. Her pulse galloped off in excitement, her breath swished in her lungs.

To her amazement, he didn’t step away, but held her in that magical, silver-golden line of moonlight. Like in the fairy tales she used to read when she was a girl.

“How’s your head feel?” he asked, his mouth close to her ear.

She tried to laugh, but pain in her temple stopped her. “It’s felt better. I guess the wine wasn’t such a good idea.”

“Go back up to your room and try to sleep it off. I’ll take care of the animals in the morning. Don’t get up until you’re ready.”

A light breeze drifted in the half-open window, bringing scents of rain-dampened earth, hay in the fields, reminding her of the horses and the schedule they were on. “But today we’re starting the horses.”

“You sure you’re feeling up to that? What will one more day hurt?”

“Feeling up to it or not doesn’t matter. We have a contract with the army with a delivery date fast approaching and don’t even have the number of horses they’re asking for. If we don’t provide, the army may go elsewhere. There’re plenty of outfits from here to Miles City who’d jump at a chance to take our place.”

She heard him grunt, then he stepped back and she instantly missed his warmth.

“Coming here, I rode cross country. I—”

“You were coming here?” she asked. She remembered the tracks at the stream and how sure she was they didn’t have anything to do with him. Had she been wrong? “I was under the impression you’d just happened to stop and liked Logan Meadows.”

“Yeah. Anyway, I happened upon a herd of horses tucked away up in the mountains. I was surprised to see them up that far because no rancher would risk injury to the animals in such high country. I didn’t see any brands. Lots of paints. Makes me think they were wild, descendants of the horses set free when the Indians were forced onto the reservations. Like some of yours.”

He had her full attention. “How far away?”

“Not exactly sure. A couple of days maybe.”

“How many horses?”

“That I don’t rightly know. If I had to guess, I’d say around sixty or more. Rounding up wild horses will be a heck of a lot harder than gathering your bunch you’d turned out.”

Her smile was his answer.

“Fine then, boss.” His voice held a modicum of humor. “Now that we have a possible solution to that problem, you go get some sleep. I’ll see you when I see you. I’ll keep busy until then.” Taking her by her shoulders, he turned her around and gave her a gentle nudge toward the stairs.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

A
pprehension zinged through Brenna like a runaway locomotive on ice-covered rails. Monday morning dawned early. Mr. Hutton, as she’d predicted, was too sick to do anything except lay flat on his back and stare at the ceiling, leaving everything up to her. She stood in the middle of the empty classroom—just moments before her day was scheduled to begin—whispering a heartfelt prayer to heaven for help and guidance.

Last night Mr. Hutton—with his mottled face and bloodshot eyes, and between his bouts of sleepiness—had scribbled out a teaching plan of sorts, nothing more than a brief outline on a piece of paper with suggestions on what to do and when. “You’ll do fine,” he’d croaked out, the cool cloth still molded to his forehead like a helmet. He handed her the paper. “Penny can help you if you get stuck on anything.”

That hurt.
He held her thirteen-year-old daughter in higher esteem than her. Not that she disagreed with him, for Penny was well read and each year her grades improved. She was bright. She would make a wonderful teacher, one day—when she grew up.
I’m grown up now and ashamed to say that Mr. Hutton’s opinion of me means more than it should. How have I let myself get so carried away?

She glanced at the paper and the Roman numerals marking the left-hand side of the page. The instructions felt like a lifeline as children’s laughter in the play yard reverberated through her heart.
In minutes it will be time to ring the bell, calling the day to begin. I’ve landed myself in a real mess this time.

Footsteps heralded someone coming up the steps. The door opened and a whoosh of cold air burst into the toasty-warm room.

“Hannah.” The name gushed from Brenna’s mouth when her dear friend entered. “What am I going to do? I feel faint. And I need some water to wet my parched throat. What if I go blank and can’t think of anything to say?”

Hannah marched over until they were face-to-face. “You’re as white as a store-bought hankie, Brenna. Get a hold of yourself.” She patted Brenna’s cheeks several times. “There. That’s better. Get that blood flowing. You’re going to do just fine. No, better than fine. You know how the children love you.”

Brenna shrugged. Even though she didn’t entirely believe Hannah, she was thankful her friend was here to bolster her courage.

“How is Mr. Hutton feeling?” Hannah asked before Brenna could respond, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Is he being a good patient for you?”

At the mention of Mr. Hutton, Brenna felt a rush of heat surge to her face. She hoped Hannah wouldn’t notice. She’d spent last evening at his place, tidying up and cooking a bland meal. “Just depends on how he’s feeling at the moment. When he’s rested and his calamine-lotioned face isn’t itching too much, he’s kind, and even quite pleasant. He also has a quirky sense of humor, which is nice to be around.”

Hannah tipped her head thoughtfully. “Is that so?”

“Yes—that’s so. But don’t go putting the plow before the ox, you hear? He can also be a horrible handful. If he’s hungry, or he wants the fussing to stop, he gets crankier than a hobbled billy goat. That man has a scowl on him that can singe the hair right off your head.”