A Stockingful of Joy (25 page)

"She wants to raise horses, like my pa did. She cares more about that mare than anything else," the boy added morosely.

"Including you?" Morgan guessed.

The boy shrugged, but his answer was eloquent in the slump of his skinny shoulders.

"Let's go," Morgan said suddenly. He'd had enough of chin-wagging with this boy. And he felt suddenly in genuine need of that promised cup of coffee. No matter how bad a cook she was, it couldn't be any worse than what he'd brewed on the trail, using grounds that had been leeched of all their taste a hundred or so miles back.

He gave his horse, the animal who had nearly made a meal of more than one set of unwary fingers in the past three years, a curious, sideways glance as he passed.

He had a feeling there was much more to old, weepy, spinster Aunt Faith than there appeared.

"What's your horse's name?"

Faith knew it was a silly question, but she felt like she had to say something. Just listening to Zachary's excited chatter was painful; he hadn't said more than a sentence or two in a row to her in the entire month she'd been here, but he talked to Morgan as if they were old friends. It wasn't that Morgan hadn't led a fascinating life—he'd been to so many places she'd only heard of, seen so many amazing things—but the boy's garrulousness made her all the more aware of how miserably she was failing at carrying out her last promise to her sister.

"He doesn't have a name," Morgan said.

"Why?" she asked as she watched him finish the last of the biscuits and gravy she'd fixed for breakfast; she hadn't been hungry herself, and Zachary usually just picked anyway, but it seemed only polite to offer a plate to Morgan, and he'd accepted it graciously enough, thanking her. And he'd eaten most of it, with no comments of the kind she'd come to expect from Zachary; the boy made it clear that no food that wasn't prepared by his mother could possibly be edible.

"Horse doesn't need a name."

"But what do you call him?"

He shrugged. "Horse."

Zachary snorted. "Better'n some silly name like Espe."

Faith blushed. "Among many other things, Zachary doesn't care for my mare's name."

"Espe?"

"Yes." She went on hesitantly. "It's… Latin."

Morgan lifted a dark brow at her. "You speak Latin?"

"Oh, no," she said hastily, "but Dr. Ward, in Granite, does. He helped me pick the name."

"Dumb name for a horse," Zachary put in again.

Morgan ignored the boy and asked her, "What does it mean?"

"Hope. I named her for my sister."

Zachary's head came up sharply. Morgan shifted his gaze to the boy. "Still think it's a silly name?"

The boy flushed. "I… "

"A man should always be sure he knows the whole story before he goes passing judgment on folks," Morgan said mildly.

Zachary ducked his head, his excitement at their guest quenched for the moment by his embarrassment.

"I saw your mare in the barn," Morgan said, lifting his cup to his lips for another sip. "She's a good one."

Faith's enthusiasm bubbled up, making her forget her troubles for the moment. "She's smart and strong and quick. I've been training her, and even though it's only been a few weeks, she's learning quickly. She's a wonderful horse. She's the last of Parson's get." At his look she added, "My sister's husband bought him from a reverend. They raised horses to sell, until…"

"Parson was the horse that killed my pa," Zachary said.

Faith turned on the boy. "That's not true, Zachary Phillips."

"Is, too."

"It is not. You were barely four, you can't remember."

"Mama told me—"

"That innocent animal did not kill your father. It was an accident, and if anything Parson died trying to save him, crossing that river. I know your mother never told you such a tale, and I will not have you saying such things now that she's gone."

Zachary stared at her, his eyes wide. He scrambled to his feet. "You don't know anything about my mother! You say she's dead, but I know she isn't, she comes to see me, in the night. You're lying, and I hate you!" he yelled, then turned and darted out of the house.

Her heart sinking, Faith rose to her feet.

"I'd let him be," Morgan suggested, in that same unemotional tone.

"But if he runs away again—"

"Won't." Morgan nudged the bundle that sat on the floor by the boy's now empty chair, the bundle of all his belongings.

"Oh." She sat down again, letting out a long breath.

"Interesting," Morgan observed.

"What is?" she asked, still staring at the door Zachary had slammed behind him.

"You'll let him say blame near anything about you, but you get all in a pucker when he talks bad about a horse."

"That's different," she said, a little lamely.

"Mmm."

Whatever
that
meant, Faith thought. She dragged her gaze from the closed door; obviously the boy would be gone for a while. She hoped not long; it was sunny, and the snow was already beginning to melt, but winter was here and the weather could turn crazy at any time, with little warning. It was the nature of life here on the high plains at the foot of the towering Rockies.

"He told me he didn't know where his mother was."

Faith flinched, and felt the sudden sting of moisture behind her eyelids. "She died five weeks ago. Some kind of fever. I came as soon as she sent for me, but… it was too late. She went so quickly…" She wiped at her eyes. "Zachary hasn't accepted it yet. Keeps waiting for her to come back."

"His father didn't."

Morgan's voice was cool, detached, and Faith couldn't help thinking his words rather cruel. But for some reason it helped Faith regain control and blink back the tears that were threatening yet again. As she did, she wondered if he ever let down his guard.

"He saw his father," she was able to explain after a moment. "They brought his body home when they found it. When Hope took ill, Zachary went to stay with the schoolteacher, so he wouldn't catch the fever. He never saw her again." She hesitated, then gestured toward the small window at the front of the house. "I didn't realize what he was thinking until he got upset when I tried to move that lamp there in the window. Said his mother would never find her way home without the light. It was what she used to do when his father was gone, put the lamp there, to guide him home." She gave a helpless shrug. "I think he doesn't believe it was really her in the box they buried."

"Especially if he sees her at night."

"I dream about her, too," Faith said quietly. "A lot. Hope was… beautiful, and sweet, and kind, and good. Our parents hated it when Allen took her out here, into this wilderness they called it. They kept begging her to come home, up until they were killed in a steamboat explosion five years ago." She sighed. "I'm almost glad they… weren't here to know she died so young. She was the most precious thing in the world to them."

"But they still had you."

Faith grimaced. "You don't understand. Hope was the special one, the beautiful one, everyone loved her."

"I see."

She glanced at him, and her breath caught at the suddenly piercing steadiness of his gaze. He was looking at her as if he did indeed see, including what she'd not told him, that sometimes, despite her tremendous love for her sister, she'd ached inside for wishing she could be more like her, for wishing she wasn't her plain, ordinary self. She went on hastily, before she betrayed any more.

"I asked her again to come home after Allen was killed, but she insisted on staying, on keeping this place so that Zachary could have his inheritance from his father."

"And instead you ended up here."

"I know it sounds… crazy, but she loved it here so much, the way she wrote about it made it sound so beautiful and open and free… I wanted to come. It seemed a place to belong, and that's all I've ever wanted." Heavens, she sounded like some whining, self-pitying old maid for sure, Faith thought, and quickly changed the subject. "I hope Zachary doesn't go too far. It could be dangerous."

He nodded. "This is a mite different than St. Louis."

She blinked and drew back. St. Louis? How had he known St. Louis was home? For an instant she wondered just how much those eyes—they were a rich blue-gray, she'd noticed when he'd come into the house—really saw. Then she realized where he must have gotten the information; the same place he'd learned her name.

"You and Zachary seem to have talked of a lot of things."

"He mentioned you used to sew there."

Her chin went up; she was used to the disparaging opinions of those who made it clear what they thought of females who had to earn a living because no man had found their other meager skills enough to overlook their plain appearance.

"I was a seamstress there," she said rather defiantly. "A good one."

"I know."

She blinked again. "What?"

He nodded his head toward her. "Your dress."

She knew she was gaping at him, but the thought of a man who rode in out of nowhere looking dark and deadly dangerous, noticing the details of a woman's dress astonished her.

She thought she saw his lips twitch, as if he were suppressing a smile, although she found it hard to believe. Any lightness of spirit seemed foreign to him, and if she hadn't known that it had to be him she'd heard chuckling in the barn, she wouldn't have believed it.

"I knew a woman once who spent more time and money on dresses than she did anything else," he said. "And her fanciest Paris gown didn't fit like that."

Faith felt herself blush, although she wasn't sure exactly what it was she was blushing about. He hadn't said anything untoward, not really. And then the heat faded from her cheeks as she found herself wondering just who that woman was.

"Your… wife?" She hazarded the guess tentatively, wondering why her heart was starting to pound as she awaited the answer.

Morgan snorted. "I'm not fool enough to marry a woman like that. She was my… aunt."

That pause before he spoke that last word made her wonder what he was thinking, whether it had been meant for her, Zachary's aunt, in particular in a way she didn't understand. She looked at his impassive face, thinking it doubtful that anyone, man or woman, ever truly knew what this man was thinking. He changed the subject rather abruptly, so abruptly she got the feeling he would rather have just walked out, and probably would have had she not just fed him.

"The boy said you wanted to raise horses, too."

"I wanted to. I love them, and I'm good with them." Faith sighed. "But it was just a… silly dream." Her mouth twisted. "I don't know whatever made me think I could run this place. I can't even get one small boy to speak to me. Everything I do is wrong, the way I dress, the way I talk, even the food I fix, because it's not like his mother's. He hates me because I'm not her."

Morgan looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, "He thinks you hate him."

Faith gasped. "What?"

"Says you pray at night for him to go away."

"I never," she exclaimed. "I only…" Her voice trailed off, and she put a hand to her mouth. When she went on, it was in a barely audible whisper. "I only said… I prayed, asking for help, telling God I… couldn't do this. I never meant… how could he think I meant that?"

"Zach's just… confused right now. It's tough, getting used to being an orphan so young."

Something about the way he said it, some faint bit of emotion that marred the utter detachment she'd almost grown used to, made her ask softly, "How old were you?"

"Younger than Zach. I don't remember them at all," he said, then his eyes narrowed, as if he hadn't meant to answer at all.

"Both your parents? Together?"

"Yes." He stood up abruptly. The conversation was clearly at an end. His part of it, anyway. "Thanks for the coffee. And breakfast. It was good."

"You're welcome."

Before she could say another word, he was gone.

His horse looked at him curiously. And Morgan couldn't blame the animal; he'd put the saddle blanket on and taken it back off again twice now. The dark head had come around, the alert ears swiveled toward him, as if awaiting some kind of explanation of this odd behavior.

"I wish the hell I knew," he muttered.

He should be riding out of here right now. Hell, he should be already gone. Long gone. The snow had stopped for now. But there was more coming, he could feel it, and if he didn't get out of here now, he could well end up stuck here for longer than he wanted to think about.

Of course, another ten minutes was longer than he wanted to think about. Determinedly he reached for the blanket again.

Hope was… beautiful, and sweet, and kind, and good. Hope was the special one, everyone loved her.

Faith's words echoed in his head again. And again he tried to quash them. What did he care about the hurt feelings of a girl he'd never known, a girl who had clearly lived in the shadow of a prettier, doted-upon sister? He didn't give a damn about anybody's hurt feelings, and had more than once observed that it was better to do as he did, and make sure you had no feelings to be hurt. It was a lesson he'd learned early and well.

"She's not dead. She's not."

Morgan's hand was halfway to his rifle before he recognized the small, insistent voice that came from above him. Damn, he hadn't even heard or sensed the boy in the loft practically over his head. "Keep this up, and you'll be bucking out real soon, and they'll bury you under a board that says you got snuck up on," he muttered to himself.

"I've seen her, 'most every night."

Morgan slowly picked up the blanket he'd dropped when the boy had startled him into going for his Winchester before he said, "But not in the daylight."

Silence met his words. He put the blanket back once more, settling it carefully over the stallion's withers and sliding it back so there was no twisting of winter coat that might irritate the already spirited animal.

He kept his voice toneless. "Most folks would call that a dream."

"No, it's real, I see her!"

Morgan heard a scraping sound as the boy scooted toward the makeshift ladder of cross pieces nailed to one of the support beams of the loft. Zach came down rapidly, skipping the last three rungs in a sort of scrambling jump. The boy froze when the stallion snorted and danced sideways. Morgan calmed him with a quiet word and a pat; the animal was well mannered, as stallions go, but he wasn't used to children. The horse eyed Zach warily as he let Morgan nudge him back in position. The saddle blanket slid from his back, landing with a faint plop. The horse stretched out to nose the blanket as if suspecting it of having taken on a life of its own. Morgan stared at it, wondering if there was some kind of message for him here.