Comanche Rose (21 page)

"Neither have I."

"You lead, and I'll try to follow."

"It's not a dance," she whispered. The woman closest to her turned and glared. "All right."

The song was too high, and his voice cracked trying to reach the notes. He gave up the effort to listen to Annie, who could hit them all cleanly. She had a pretty voice—a real pretty voice. When he closed his eyes, it was like listening to his mother sing again. And then it was over, and she was closing the book.

"You didn't have to quit, you know," she said, low.

"You were doing all right without me."

"God doesn't care."

"A man doesn't like to make a fool of himself."

He'd about forgotten how long-winded a preacher could be, he discovered to his regret. Once the fellow in the black coat got started, he waxed eloquent for well over an hour, haranguing his captive audience about the cost of sin, enumerating just about every transgression anybody'd ever think of. About halfway through, Hap took a peek at his watch, then resigned himself to endure, vowing silently that it'd be a long time before he made this mistake again.

His thoughts left the sermon, turning to the woman beside him. The lantern light seemed to reflect off her pale hair almost like a halo, and the irony wasn't lost on him. Nobody but him was seeing it. They were too determined to look down their noses at her. But she sat straight, her shoulders back, her head up, listening to the preacher, almost daring anybody to tell her she didn't have the right to be there.

He'd been angry with her earlier, but as he watched her out of the corner of his eye, he was damned proud of her now. She had real grit. After everything that had happened to her, she could still face folks down. She wasn't going to play dead for anybody.

She was poking him, pointing at the hymnal. He glanced down, seeing the title. "Break Thou the Bread of Life." "Surely you know this one," she whispered.

"Yeah, but I can't sing it, either. It's too slow."

After Communion, the prayer lasted another ten minutes, and then came the inevitable invitation to be "saved in Jesus." And a recessional he could actually manage with some authority. As he gave full range to the refrain of "Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty, early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee," he was almost reluctant to close the book.

He felt pretty good now that it was over. The chapel was emptying, the people lingering outside in small groups. Seeing that the three women were eyeing him speculatively, he flashed them a smile, then took Annie's elbow.

"You didn't have to do that, you know," she murmured.

"Smile?"

"No, come on my account."

"What makes you think I did?"

"You saw Frank Davis, didn't you?"

He started to deny it but didn't. "Yeah. Why didn't you tell me about her? No sense putting yourself through that."

"I haven't seen you since I got here," she reminded him. "Besides, I doubt if anybody else is exactly wanting my company, either."

He had no answer for that. It was cold enough outside that he could see his breath. Guiding her past the curious, he nodded to them but kept going. "Guess we'll be leaving in the morning," he said finally.

"You don't have to leave for me, Hap. You need to make it easy on yourself."

"It doesn't make much difference. If I hang around here, I'll just play poker and get drunk. There's not much else to do around a fort in winter."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah. I reckon we ought to get an early start. Think you can be ready to load up by six?"

"My carpetbag?" she asked, smiling. "I'm sure of it."

"Good. I'll tell Davis I'll be by about then. There's some rough country between here and Griffin, and I still aim to have you settled in your house by Christmas."

They were almost to the Davis house when he stopped. "You better get on inside and get some sleep, Annie. Six o'clock'll be coming early." But despite his words he made no move to leave. Instead he stood there, looking at her.

"You're a fine-looking woman, Annie Bryce," he said softly. "A real fine-looking woman."

It was as though the world stood still for a moment. Afraid he meant to touch her, she froze, her expression stricken. "Don't," she whispered. "Please don't."

"Don't what, Annie?" His hand reached to brush a stray strand of hair back from her forehead. "You've got nothing to be afraid of with me, Annie."

He could see her swallow, and the terror in her eyes was real. He dropped his hand and backed away. "Hell, I'm just drunk, don't mind me," he told her. "Good night."

"I'm sorry."

"Be sorry for things you can help."

"I'm dead inside, Hap."

"See you in the morning, Annie."

But as he left her, he knew he would have kissed her if she'd let him. And it would have been wrong. She wasn't ready for anything like that, and neither was he. Any man wanting to bring her back to life was laying himself out a hard row to hoe.

She watched him walk toward the low building beyond the post grounds, wondering if it was the girls that drew him there. Not that it was any of her business, anyway, she reminded herself. Yet as he disappeared into the darkness, she felt an acute, aching loneliness.

CHAPTER 14

Gray, weathered boards showed through where the whitewash had faded on the exterior of the house. And the yard was strangely empty. The clothesline was bare, the big tree in the front of the house gnarled and naked. Her gaze moved to the barn and the pen surrounding it. They were deserted, too. There wasn't a living, breathing creature on the place. She'd known it would be like this, but she still was unprepared for what she saw. "I reckon you'll want to go inside," Hap said behind her. "Yes."

"Key's under the jar. I had Rios lock it up when we left. I didn't figure anybody ought to be going in."

"There was a time when I never thought I'd ever see this place again," she murmured.

"I'll get the key for you."

"It seems so empty."

"Last time I looked, your things were still there." Moving around her, he stepped onto the stoop and felt beneath a heavy crockery jar. "Yeah, it's here, all right." Straightening up, he unlocked the door.

It creaked on its hinges as it swung inward, admitting a slice of winter light that spread across the dusty floor. Her heart pounding, Annie followed him in, and her spirits sank. In her memory everything had stayed just as it was before. She was unprepared for what she saw.

Cobwebs hung from every horizontal surface and clung to the walls. As she walked across the room, her skirts stirred gritty dirt, nearly choking her. She stopped at the piano and reached her hand to trace the carved beadwork along the top, leaving a trail of fingerprints in the thick layer of dust.

As he watched her move through her house, stopping to touch each piece of furniture, each bit of bric-a-brac she'd collected, each scarf and doily she'd made, he felt like an intruder. "It's all here, isn't it?" he asked finally.

"Yes—yes, it is."

"You want to go through the rest of it?"

"Yes."

She didn't look nearly as happy as he'd hoped to see her. "It's a nice place, Annie. You had it fixed up real pretty, you know."

"Yes."

"It's going to need a little cleaning up to make it look like that again," he added in an understatement. "But you can do it. In a week it'll be home again."

"I hope."

"Tell you what—you make a list of what you need, and I'll go into town and get it. Then we'll spend a couple of days getting everything back in order before I leave for good."

"All right."

"I'll get the fire going, bring in some of the food from the wagon, and help you get started. You'll be all right while I'm gone, won't you?"

"Yes."

He came up behind her and laid his hands on her shoulders. "Something's the matter, isn't it?"

"No, I'm all right."

But she was moving around almost as though she were in a trance. Instinct told him to leave her alone, to let her work out whatever was ailing her. He dropped his hands.

"Well, first things first," he said. "I'd better see about some wood before you take your death of cold in here. Until then you'd better keep your coat on."

If she heard him, she didn't respond. Instead, she walked into another room, leaving him standing there. Maybe he'd been wrong to bring her home in winter. Maybe if the sun had been shining, things would have seemed better. Maybe she was just now facing the reality of being alone. Maybe the task of cleaning up the place was too much after the long trip from Fort Sill.

He took a deep breath, and nearly choked from the dust in the air. Yeah, he'd better get some wood in. With a fire in the stove and some food on the table, things might seem different to her.

"When I get back in, I'll try to help you get some of this swept out," he promised.

She heard the door close after him. Standing in the doorway of her bedroom, she took in the heavy wood bedstead. Her quilt was still there, only now the background was tan instead of white. She walked closer, studying the fine stitches she'd made, the intricate blue and white stars in the pattern. Then she pulled it off the bed and threw herself onto the feather mattress. Sobbing, she pounded the pillows with clenched fists. It wasn't fair that this was all she had left.

The wood in the pile behind the house was bleached with age, the bark on it long since eaten by something. It was too old, too porous to burn right, but if he could put it with something else, maybe it wouldn't go so fast. He went to the barn to look for Ethan Bryce's ax, found it and an iron log splitter, then carried them back outside. It had been a long time since he'd actually chopped wood, since he'd lived at home with his ma, but it wasn't something a man forgot.

It took awhile to find what he wanted—a stunted Cottonwood tree already more than half-dead, apparently struck by lightning some time before. The first swing of the ax told him something he didn't want to know. As the muscles pulled across his back, he knew he was going to hurt when he was done. But all the time he was growing up, his ma had always said good, honest hard work never killed anyone. Now he was going to find how just how right she'd been.

It took him nearly two hours to fell the small tree, split the trunk, trim kindling, and make logs that would fit into a stove. Yet as much as his arms ached, he had to admit it made him feel good, as though he was still worth something. He made several trips to the woodpile, stacking everything neatly for her. With what she had, maybe it'd last a little while, at least long enough for him to make a supply run and get back.

As he came around the corner of the house with his arms full, he stopped dead. Hanging from the clothesline, bedsheets and a quilt flapped in the cold wind. It was every bit as eerie a scene as when he'd been here three years before.

"What the devil—? Annie, what the
hell
are you doing? Are you out of your mind? Dammit, you can't wait for help can you?"

She was on the front stoop, bending over a rolled rag rug, struggling to pull it out through the open door. As he came up the step, she turned around, and his anger faded on the instant. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face splotched. She'd obviously been crying.

"Annie—"

"No, I'm all right now, really," she said stoutly. "It was just the shock of seeing everything, that was all. Now, the sooner I get my life in order, the better it'll be. I just had to see it, to face it."

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Well, I couldn't sleep with that much dust and grit on my bed, so I thought I'd at least air the bedclothes out. And the rug. I can't sweep until I can clear the floor."

"Get back inside before you let all the heat out of the house."

"There isn't any heat."

"Well, there's going to be," he muttered. "That rug weighs more than you do, Annie."

"I know."

"Is that how it's going to be when I'm gone? You're going to be trying to do everything by yourself?"

Exasperated, she pushed stray strands of hair back, then looked directly into his eyes. "I don't see anyone else, do you? I'm alone now. I'm going to have to learn how to do everything, anyway."

"I told you I'd stay a few days to get you settled."

She looked at the wood in his arms. "I don't have a right to ask you to do things for me, Hap. I already owe you for more than I can ever repay."

"Did I every ask for anything?"

"No."

"Look, it didn't cost me but fifty dollars for the wagon, and I'd be eating, anyway. I'll just stop over at Concho before I head for the Ybarra, and some bullwhacker'll give my money back."

"I wasn't thinking of money."

"Maybe it was something I wanted to do. Maybe it was something I needed to do."

"Why?"

"Hell, it doesn't matter why, does it?" he countered almost angrily. "I got you home, didn't I? I can still do that, anyway."

"This isn't like you, Hap."

"How would you know? All you've seen is a damned cripple," he muttered, brushing past her. "I've got to build a fire. And then I've go to go somewhere and get you enough supplies to last awhile."

"A cripple?" she echoed incredulously. "Is that what you think you are?"

"Sorry I brought it up. I don't want to talk about it." Dropping the wood on the floor, he opened the stove door. He dug into his overloaded coat pockets for twigs and dead grass, then crouched to arrange them in the firebox. "Hand me one of the smaller pieces, will you?" he said over his shoulder. "I don't usually make my fires inside."

"Is this what you want?" she asked, finding a foot-long section of limb.

"Yeah. About three or four of em."

She was right behind him now, so close that when she bent over him, he could feel her breath on the back of his neck. It sent a shiver down his spine. Ducking away, he nearly stuck his head into the stove.

"Your leg's hurting you, isn't it?"

"No."

"You're feeling sorry for yourself."

"Yeah."

Fumbling beneath his coat for the matches in the flannel shirt pocket, he found one. He struck it against the stove, waited until the flare became a flame, then held it to the tinder. As the grass caught, he blew lightly on it and tossed the rest of the wooden match in. About the time he thought the whole thing had burned out, a small yellow finger of fire licked its way up a twig. Half closing the door, he set the damper handle.