A Stockingful of Joy (26 page)

"I didn't mean to scare him," Zach said, eyeing the horse, "but it's true. I see her."

Morgan stifled a sigh. He'd been right to stay away from kids. Dealing with them was too complicated. And too painful.

"And I suppose she explains where she is," he said dryly.

"No," the boy said. "She doesn't 'xactly talk to me. She's just… there. She smiles at me, like she always does when she comes to check on me, to make sure I'm all right."

A sudden memory of a slender, sweet-smelling woman with dark hair and laughing eyes, bent over him and kissing him good night, flashed through Morgan's mind. He nearly flinched; he hadn't thought of her in so long he'd thought the images permanently vanished from his mind. How could he blame this child for hanging on to a much fresher memory, when this one from his earliest days was still with him after nearly thirty years?

"Aunt Faith says I see her because I'm wishing so hard that she'll come back. But she's there, I know she is. I can even smell that sweet stuff she used in her hair when she washed it. I'm not lying, really."

Morgan dragged in a breath. "You're sure it's not your aunt, checking on you? Her hair… smells like flowers."

Lilacs, he thought, amazed that he could even recognize the scent. But he did. And the fact that his mother had rinsed her hair with the same scent was a fact he'd forgotten until now. This was why the fragrance had seemed familiar when Faith had been close enough to him for him to catch a faint whiff of it.

"Nah, it ain't her. She's not pretty, and nice, like Mama."

"She was nice enough to come here to take care of you." Morgan wasn't sure why he was defending her; maybe because, unlike his own stiff-necked, self-centered aunt, Faith at least cared about the boy. Whether he believed it or not.

"Only because she had to," Zach insisted. "But she can't take Mama's place," he ended fiercely.

"I didn't notice she was trying to," Morgan said. "But she cares about you, boy. If she didn't, she wouldn't have come."

"But Mama asked her to."

Clearly the idea of anyone saying no to his beloved mother was more than the boy could believe.

Hope was the special one, everyone loved her.

Suddenly weary of it all, Morgan reached for the saddle blanket one last time.

"Are you leavin'?"

"I am."

"Oh." The boy gave him a sideways look. "You could stay. Have supper with us."

Morgan's mouth quirked. "I thought your aunt couldn't cook."

The boy lowered his gaze. "Well… maybe she's not so bad."

"She just doesn't cook like your mother."

"She doesn't even try."

"Well, now," Morgan said, "you'd think if she was really trying to take your mother's place, she'd at least try."

Zach looked startled. Morgan said nothing, just letting the boy think about it. He brushed some straw off the saddle blanket before putting it back on the stallion's back.

"She calls me Zachary all the time."

A hanging offense for sure, Morgan thought, stifling a grin. "I thought that was your name."

"I like Zach better."

"And when you told her this, she said she liked Zachary better?"

The boy had the grace to look a bit chagrined. "I… never told her."

"Mmm. Doesn't seem quite fair to feel mad at somebody for something they don't know you don't like."

"Maybe," Zach admitted grudgingly. He walked over to Morgan's saddle, inspecting it with the curiosity of a child. "How come you only carry a rifle?"

"It's enough. Don't need a belt gun."

"But most folks wear one."

"I don't. They only make you a target."

The boy seemed to accept it, a good thing since he wasn't about to explain any further. Then, as he once more put the blanket on the by now disgruntled horse's back the boy said hopefully, "It might snow some more tonight. You should stay."

"Smells like it's a day or so off."

Zach looked even more startled. "That's what Aunt Faith said. I thought smelling snow was silly."

Did she, now? Morgan thought. Maybe she wasn't quite as unfit for this life as she seemed to think. If she was in harmony with the land enough to sense the weather, and she could charm all horses the way she'd charmed this one… well, others had started with less and made it.

But more had died in high plains winters.

It had been an easy season, so far. If it hadn't been, he never would have left the Washington Territory. He still wasn't sure why he had, except that he never stayed too long in one place, and the time he'd been wandering around out there was more than he usually gave any one place. Even the five years he'd spent working cattle drives had been years spent in motion, along the Sedalia Trail, the Chisholm Trail. At forty dollars a month, he hadn't had much to show for it but a distaste for working twenty hours a day and a desire never to eat hot trail dust behind a moving herd again. So here he was, in the Wyoming Territory, looking to head out before more snow flew.

He wondered if Faith Brown had any idea what she was in for when winter truly set in.

Faith heard the sound for several seconds before she realized what it was. Of course, she might have recognized it sooner had she not been so lost in silly daydreams. And had she heard it anytime recently, the rhythmic, efficient sound of an ax in the hands of someone who knew how to use it.

She caught herself running toward the window and made herself slow. She was twenty-seven years old, after all, and should be far beyond such silliness as daydreaming of things that could never be, beyond running to a window in hopes of seeing a dark, dangerous man who was only passing through anyway.

But she did go to the window, and she did peer out toward the woodpile. And he was there, amid the snow, his long, lean body moving with a grace she couldn't help but admire as he so easily wielded the ax she found so difficult to handle. He'd shed his heavy coat, so she could see the muscles in his back and shoulders and arms flex and stretch as he swung the heavy splitting ax again and again. It seemed to take him only moments to reduce the already cut wood into stove wood, and pieces that would fit the fireplace.

She moved slightly, so that she couldn't be seen should he happen to glance up. She watched as he turned to the biggest log, some kind of pine, she thought, vaguely remembering Hope writing something about Allen spending days on end dragging deadfalls down from the higher country. Morgan studied the small gash, which was all she'd managed to inflict on the downed beast. She could imagine what he was thinking, what a fool she was to even think she could survive in a place like this, a woman alone, and a woman without the skills necessary for life here. Maybe she should just give up, take Zachary, and go back to St. Louis. She had little money left, especially if she had to hire things done that she was too stupid or weak to do herself. There was enough to perhaps get them through one more winter, but after that she would have to be making some, and that seemed unlikely. She could get her old job back with Mrs. Lane, she knew that, and even though it would be cramped in her old rooms with another person there, Zachary could have the small sitting area for a room of his own, which was more than he had now, and she—

Morgan swung the ax, and she stopped her own thoughts, determined not to think about really giving up. Hope had wanted more than anything for Zachary to have this small legacy from his father, and this place was the only home the boy had ever known.

The solid thunk as the ax blade bit deep reverberated in the still air. Again and again it came, and Faith watched with fascination. She told herself it was because she was curious about how different this motion was than when he had been cutting the smaller pieces, how he was now putting the full power of his strong body into each stroke. She told herself it was not because she simply wanted to look at him, wanted to be able to stare without him knowing, without him thinking she was a foolish old spinster, hungry for the sight of a man. And apparently she was just that, she thought sadly. Although it was odd, she'd never felt compelled to stare at any of the men she saw in St. Louis.

She didn't know how long she'd been standing there, engrossed in the easy movements, in the subtle power of him, she only knew that he was nearly through the big log in what seemed like a very short time. Then she stifled a tiny scream as he suddenly stopped, turned his head, and stared at the house as if he were perfectly aware that she'd been watching all this time.

She jerked away from the window. She was trembling. She stared at her hands, seeing the quivering. It was because she'd been caught, she told herself. Not that he really could have seen her, she'd been careful, but he'd seemed to know anyway, the knowledge had seemed clear in his eyes, even from here.

She fought the urge to draw back into some shadowy corner of the house and hide until he was gone. Gone from the woodpile, gone from the ranch, gone from her world. Her small, narrow world. But on the day she had resigned herself to her life, to never having the husband and family she'd once longed for, she'd sworn she would get something from life in return; she would no longer be afraid to do or say whatever she wanted.

Of course, she'd managed a lot more saying than doing, she admitted reluctantly. She'd had grand plans. She was going to keep her promise to her sister, she was going to make sure Zachary kept what Hope had wanted him to have, and she was going to make a home for herself and her nephew together. A family, as much a one as she would ever have. She'd come here with every intention of accomplishing all those things. And she was no closer to doing so than if she'd just stayed in St. Louis. Farther from it, probably; if she'd sent for Zachary, at least she would have been in familiar territory, not in a place where she couldn't do something as simple as chop wood.

As she thought it, the steady blows of the ax began anew. She couldn't stop herself from looking once more, at the striking tableau of dark man and white snow. It struck her then, what the simple act of chopping wood meant here. It meant survival, through a kind of winter she knew she'd never seen before. Morgan was giving them a gift it would have taken her weeks to match. And here she was, hiding, watching him secretly, with a kind of interest that would have embarrassed him had he known, and most likely should be embarrassing her. But she couldn't find it within herself to feel that way. It wasn't as if she were… expecting anything, she was too old and settled in her spinster ways for that, but she could look couldn't she? Look at and appreciate a fine figure of a man?

And she could thank him. Should thank him.

Quickly, before she could cravenly change her mind, she grabbed her cloak and stepped outside. She arrived at the woodpile just as a final blow separated a large piece from the rest of the long trunk. She saw Zachary sitting atop the far end of the log. The boy watched her, with an intentness she found rather disconcerting; it was as if he'd never seen her before.

Morgan upended the shorter piece he'd just cut, then straightened to look at her silently.

"I… we thank you," she said. "You didn't have to do this."

"You gave me shelter in a storm, and you fed me this morning," he said with a shrug.

She refrained from pointing out that she hadn't offered him shelter, he'd simply taken it. "I don't think biscuits and gravy count as a meal worth this kind of labor."

"I didn't have to fix it myself, and that's worth a lot. And it was good." Then, with a sideways glance at Zachary, he added, "Wasn't it, boy?"

Zachary's dark brown eyes darted from Morgan to Faith. Then he lowered his gaze to pick at the bark of the log. "Yeah. I guess so."

"Guess your Mama didn't get around to teaching you manners, and to be thankful," Morgan said mildly.

"She did so!" Zachary's head came up sharply as he spoke, as quickly as a protest rose to Faith's lips. But Morgan gave her a quick, hard glance that quieted her, and after a moment, to her surprise, Zachary said, albeit rather sullenly, "Okay, it was good. I liked the gravy."

Faith stared at the boy. It was the first positive thing he'd said since she'd come here. She looked at Morgan. His expression was unreadable. Her gaze returned to the boy's bent head, his blond hair so much like Hope's, silky and shiny. Tenderness flooded her at the sight of this last tiny bit of her sister that still lived, and she hated herself for having grown into looking upon him as an adversary.

"Thank you very much, Zachary," she said softly.

The boy's head came up again. His eyes once more flicked to Morgan, then back to her. "I don't like bein' called that. I like Zach."

"Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"That's what he told me," the boy said, nodding toward Morgan. "Said I shouldn't get mad if'n you didn't know I didn't like it."

Startled, Faith stared at Morgan. His face was still impassive, that unreadable expression never wavering. She turned back to her nephew.

"I'll try to remember… Zach. But you may have to remind me a few times, until I get the knack."

"Okay."

It was a small truce, brought about by a source she never would have expected, but it made hope soar within her.

"Maybe you could show your thanks by toting some of that wood inside," Morgan said. As usual, it was spoken in the tone of suggestion, not command, as if it mattered little to him if the boy did as he said. As perhaps it did, Faith thought, fearful she was reading too much into Morgan's continued presence, and his obvious effort to snap Zachary—Zach, she reminded herself—out of his sullenness.

The boy hesitated, clearly not certain he wanted to go quite that far with his acquiescence.

"More snow coming," Morgan observed, lifting his head as if to sniff the air. "A warm fire'd be a welcome thing."

Zach's eyes widened. "Then, you're stayin'?"

For a split second, Morgan looked startled, and that in itself so surprised Faith that she spoke before the man could give the boy the negative answer she'd read in that brief, unguarded moment.

"You're more than welcome," she said, drawing his steady gaze to her. "For supper at least. We owe you another meal, a real one, for all this work."