Jane Bonander (6 page)

“Why do you drink?”

He cleared his throat. “Something usually triggers it.” He took a bite of biscuit and seemed to have trouble getting it down, but finally succeeded.

She rose, lifted a jar of honey off the shelf, placed it in front of him, and resumed her seat. “And what triggered it last night?”

His smile was mysterious as he slathered the biscuit with honey. He didn’t answer for a long, quiet moment, then finally said, “Probably the job. I thought it was going to be a piece of cake.”

“And it’s not?”

“Seems I’ve stepped smack dab into a bit of a range war.”

“Oh, yes. Those poor sheepmen.” Ethan had talked of little else for months.

“What do you know about it?” He suddenly seemed quite alert.

“Oh, not much. Ethan—that is, Mr. Frost, the banker— is a friend of mine, and he holds the loans against much of the property around here. He hears things.”

Jackson Wolfe gave her a noncommittal nod. “I see.”

They sat together in silence for another long moment. Finally he said, “Again I apologize for last night.”

Libby ran her finger over the rim of her cup and waited.

“I must have said or done something stupid. I usually do when I’m in that state.”

She recalled every second of their little tryst. It was just as well that he didn’t. “You don’t….remember anything?”

His gaze flickered to her chest, then to her mouth. “Not much.”

Heat crept into her neck. So. He did recall ogling her bosom.

The silence was thick again, and just when Libby decided she couldn’t bear it, Mahalia glided into the room.

“Well, Mistah Wolfe. You feelin’ better now with some-thin’ in your stomach?”

He gave her a weak smile and took another swig of his coffee.

“Tell you what,” she began. “I’m gonna start on dinner. It’s gotta cook a long, long time, and this house’ll be filled with smells that’ll make your mouth water. I’m cookin’ New Orleans vittles tonight, complete with Cajun spices and sausage drippin’ in grease.” She winked at him. “Bet you can hardly wait.”

With a shuddering swallow, he pushed himself away from the table, rose, and rushed from the room.

Libby’s lips twitched. “You did that on purpose.”

Mahalia chuckled. “Every man what imbibes oughta pay the price, is my feelin’.”

“I gave him a little of my own,” Libby admitted. “I described eggs gone bad, then stuck a couple of fresh raw ones under his nose.”

Mahalia threw her head back and laughed. “You’re learnin’, gal. You’re learnin’.”

Later in the morning, after Mahalia had opened the quilt and spread the feathers on the attic floor to dry, Libby continued to think about Jackson Wolfe’s body. It upset her that thoughts of him took control of her mind. He was, after all, just a man. It had been hard enough to remember that when he was clothed. But at least she could have told herself that, like Sean, he probably looked terrible without attire.

However, the sight of him with nothing on at all was completely and utterly impossible to forget. That was one body against which she could easily consider curling up. And if nothing else, that admission shocked her into doing something that totally occupied her mind. She sat at the desk in the parlor and went over her accounts. It was the only thing that could take her mind off everything else. Even at that, it was a struggle, for every other word she read reminded her of him. Sheets—that he slept on and that molded his manly form. Quilts—that were whipped off, revealing his glorious nudity. Pillows—which he belatedly used to cover himself.

It was a wonder she got any work done at all.

Dawn poked her head around the kitchen door. “I’m looking for Mumser, Mama, have you seen him?”

Libby thumped her knuckle on a loaf of bread, testing the firmness of the crust, then slathered the top with butter. “I imagine he’s at the jail with Mr. Wolfe.” She placed a cloth over the bread.

Dawn danced into the room, “Burl said Mr. Wolfe didn’t take the dog with him this morning.”

Libby frowned. Obviously the man couldn’t handle a hangover and a dog all in one day. “I wish he’d tell me when he’s not taking the dog with him. I wouldn’t appreciate having to look after it, but at least I could keep it out of trouble. Hopefully, the dog is shut in his room.”

“He’s not.”

Libby pulled the apple crisp from the oven and slid it onto a table. “How do you know?”

Dawn glanced at the floor. “I checked.”

Libby gave her a soft, scolding look. “You know we don’t go into our boarders’ rooms without good reason.”

“I know, but I wanted to play with Mumser. He’s probably lonesome and bored, having been alone all day.”

Libby ground coffee beans, then poured them into the coffeepot strainer, placing a coarser strainer over the top. “Have you finished your sums?”

Dawn flittered about the room. “Everything is done. That trick Mr. Wolfe taught me is great, Mama.” She stopped in front of Libby, her gaze a bit dreamy,

“He’s been so many places. All over the world. Can you imagine? He’s been to Africa, India, and even China, Mama.
China.
That’s where he got Mumser.” She hugged herself and twirled. “I’ve never known anyone who’s been to so many exciting places.”

She danced to the stove and sniffed, wrinkling her nose. “Mahalia’s cooking that smelly stuff for supper?”

Libby winked at her daughter. “Better see that the horse trough is full.”

Putting her hand over her mouth, Dawn tiptoed closer to Libby and giggled. “Remember the first time Bert tasted Mahalia’s Cajun cooking? He nearly drowned in the trough trying to put out the fire in his mouth.”

Libby remembered, too, and joined her daughter with soft laughter of her own. “He was facedown in the water with his arms and legs hanging over the sides.”

Dawn’s giggles grew. “He looked like a drowning scarecrow.”

Laughing harder, Libby drew her handkerchief from her apron pocket and wiped her eyes. She pressed her forehead against Dawn’s. “We shouldn’t laugh at him
,
dear.”

“Oh, pooh, Mama. He laughs at everyone else, all the time.”

Libby gave Dawn’s braid a loving yank, then stepped away. “It’s time to set the table.” She lifted the plates from the cupboard and put them on the counter.

Dawn grabbed handfuls of silverware and started making place settings while Libby gave Mahalia’s stew a stir.

“Evening, ladies.”

Libby’s pulse jumped at the sound of Jackson Wolfe’s voice, and both she and Dawn turned toward the door. Libby had to admit his appearance was much better than it had been at breakfast.

“I…er…thought I should tell you that I’ve finished putting fencing around your flowers.”

Libby felt warm, almost content. “Why…how thoughtful of you. Thank you.”

He appeared contrite. “It was the least I could do. After … ah …” He glanced at Dawn, then at Libby, and smiled sheepishly.

In spite of Libby’s warm, cozy feeling, the cynical side of her wanted to inquire if he was merely trying to make up for what he’d done the night before, but she was wise enough not to put the thought into words.

“Oh, Mr. Wolfe” Dawn gushed. “Where’s Mumser? I wanted to play with him, but I couldn’t—”

A shrill, eardrum-piercing shriek interrupted Dawn’s sentence, and all three of them glanced toward the stairs.

Libby was the first one out of the kitchen. “Mahalia?” Hiking her skirt up to her knees, she ran up the stairs, the clatter of Dawn’s and Mr. Wolfe’s footsteps not far behind her.

Libby reached the attic, her heart pounding from fear and exertion. “Mahalia? What’s wrong? What is it?”

Mahalia threw open the door and stood over her, her fists slammed against her hips and smoke nearly coming out of her ears.

She flung a fleshy arm toward the attic floor.
“This.
This is what’s wrong!”

There, amid a flurry of feathers that appeared to be falling from the ceiling, scampered Jackson Wolfe’s damned dog. He was chasing after the tiny plumes, leaping and snatching at them, catching them in his mouth, then flicking them out with his tongue. The hair on his chin was thick with feathers and wet from his slobber. The room looked as though a storm had dumped several inches of snow on the floor, then sent in a whirlwind to bring every flake to life.

J
ackson took the broom Libby offered and began sweeping the floor. He’d insisted on cleaning up the mess his dog had made, and he was apologetic as he swept up feathers.

“I hope some of these can be salvaged.” He uttered a mild curse. “I’m sure sorry this riled your cook the way it did. I should have taken the dog with me today, but”—he stopped sweeping and ran one hand through his hair—”I guess I thought I had enough to worry about without wondering what he’d get into at the jail.”

Libby allowed a small smile. “He’s a nuisance at the jail?”

“According to Vern, he is.”

“I wouldn’t imagine there’s much to get into there,” Libby reflected.

He gave her a boyish smile, one that tugged at her. “You’d be surprised.”

They worked quietly. “I know Mumser’s a poor excuse for a dog,” he said, “but you have to understand. He was a gift from the emperor of China, and I wouldn’t feel right palming him off on someone else. I guess, according to Chinese customs, I should feel honored, Mumser’s a breed of dog that’s highly valued there.”

Intrigued, Libby asked, “You’ve recently been to China? What on earth did you do there, Mr. Wolfe?”

“Jackson. Please. You know what they say—Mr. Wolfe is my father.” His eyes closed briefly, but not before Libby saw a twinge of pain.

“What kind of work are you in that takes you clear to China?”

“I’m a soldier-for-hire. At least I was.”

Libby crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. This man became more and more interesting as time went by. “You mean a country planning a revolution would send you an invitation?”

He caught her cynical tone and smiled. Again it transformed him. “Something like that.”

“You said you
were
a soldier for hire. You’ve retired?”

He turned, sweeping with his back to her. “I’ve done enough fighting to last me a lifetime. War changes people, ma’am.” He stopped working and stared out the window.

Libby’s gaze followed. On the bare branch of a dying cedar, blackbirds loitered like hooded highwaymen. From the tone of his conversation, she imagined they bespoke his mood.

“Before we go into war, we’re chaste. Naively innocent. After a few battles, we change color, like cities that become blanketed in soot.”

My, she thought, lifting an eyebrow. For a large, battered man, he was quite poetic. “Do you think that standing in for Sheriff Roberts will fulfill your lust for adventure?”

He turned, his china-blue eyes cautious. “Wanderlust is a hard impulse to resist, but I’m going to try.” After a moment he added, “I have some other plans.”

The way he looked at her almost made Libby believe she would be a part of those plans. Which was ludicrous, of course. She mentally shook herself. Too much time spent listening to her daughter and Chloe Ann blather on about fantasies and dreams.

The door creaked open, breaking the silence between them, and Cyclops sashayed in, her scarred and scabby nose in the air as she perused the room. In spite of her appearance, she no doubt considered herself quite a feline. Rather like Lila Sanders, the aging prostitute who had rented a room from Libby a few years ago, unaware that her looks had gone bad and her figure had gone south. The cat sniffed at the floor, smelling the area where the dog had been. Growling, she arched her back, then sashayed out again.

“We’ve…never had a dog around here. Only cats,” Libby explained.

Jackson continued to sweep. “I was raised on a ranch. Cats were left outside to control the rat and mouse population.”

Another boyish smile, another tug at Libby’s heart.

“I had a dog, though. Well,” he amended, “he ended up being mine. Max was a big black bruiser. He fell down an empty well shaft and was as close to death as a creature could be.”

Interested, Libby asked, “What happened?”

Jackson scooped up another handful of feathers and dropped them carefully into the wicker basket. “My pa thought we should put him out of his misery.”

Libby gasped, pressing one hand to her chest.

“Don’t worry.” Another heart-stopping smile. “My stepmother convinced him that the dog deserved a chance. It was her dog, actually, but I’d recently been … Well, let’s say that she knew how much Max meant to me. They put the dog in a room at the back of the barn, and I slept there and took care of him. My stepmother brought me meals. Didn’t even demand that I sleep in a proper bed until Max was out of the woods.”

He stopped working, his eyes filling with warmth, his harsh features softening. “It was almost as if she and I understood each other from the beginning. Hell, I was only eight at the time, but…” He sighed, then smiled again, and Libby thought she’d never seen anything quite so beautiful.

She said nothing, but immediately envied that kind of relationship with a parent. And that kind of childhood.

She glanced at the room. “Well, it looks like things are in order again. Thank you for cleaning up.”

“It was the least I could do.”

The grandfather clock that stood in the downstairs foyer tolled eight. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid you’ve missed dinner.”

“As have you,” he reminded her.

The thought of dining alone with him appealed to her. “I can prepare something for both of us, if you don’t mind potluck.”

His mouth twitched, almost creating a smile. “Cajun sausage, swimming in grease?”

Libby laughed, then bit her bottom lip. “Not unless that’s what you want. Undoubtedly there will be enough left for another meal, considering that the last time Mahalia cooked this dish, we had leftovers for nearly a week. She tried to disguise it by hiding it in tortillas and in hash, but the boarders complained so much that
I’m surprised she dared concoct that meal again.”

His gaze was warm, sending Libby’s heart palpitating. “Anything will be fine.” He gripped the basket by the handles and lifted it into his arms. “Just let me know what to do with these.”

“Leave them here for the time being. If you’ll come to the kitchen in a half hour, I… we … I can have something for you … us … you to eat.” Lord, he had her tongue-tied.

“I’d appreciate it.” He returned the basket to the floor and left the room. His door opened, then closed. She heard him scolding the dog—not in cruel tones, but she knew it was a reprimand.

She took the stairs, stopping by Dawn’s room. Her daughter was reading, the light from a kerosene lamp fanning across the pages. She glanced at her mother and gave her a mischievous smile. “With all those feathers around his mouth, Mumser looked like he’d swallowed a chicken.”

Libby tried not to return her smile, but failed. “It’s not amusing, dear.”

Dawn continued to grin. “Then why are you smiling?”

She crossed to where her daughter sat and began unbraiding her hair. “What are you reading?”

Dawn showed her the cover.

“Ah, yes.
Little Women.
One of my favorites.” For a girl of twelve, Dawn was exceptionally bright. Although when Libby first took Dawn into her home, she hadn’t known how to read at all. Now she read everything she could get her hands on.

Dawn sighed. “Mine too. The only thing is…”

Libby threaded her fingers through Dawn’s luxuriant hair. “Yes?”

Her daughter sighed again. “I love you, Mama, please don’t feel bad, but I wish I had sisters. Lots of family, like those girls. Aunts, uncles, you know.” She giggled, a soft, wistful sound. “Even a bratty brother might be fun.”

Feeling the melancholy in her own stomach, Libby picked up Dawn’s brush and began brushing her daughter’s thick, shiny hair. “I understand, dear. When I was a girl, I wished for the very same thing.”

“But you had brothers and a mama and…and a papa.”

“Indeed I did.” She’d never gone into any detail about her unhappy childhood. It wasn’t important.

“Mama?”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t want to upset you, but I’ve been thinking about, you know, my real mother again.”

Libby stopped a sigh. What was a
real
mother, anyway? “Your curiosity is natural, dear.” Even though she believed her own words, Dawn’s curiosity about her natural mother was a hard pill to swallow. But she knew better than to upset Dawn with her own petty feelings.

“I wonder if she was White or Indian.”

“It’s hard to say.” Libby couldn’t imagine a mother of any color willingly abandoning a beautiful child like Dawn. In quiet moments she often thought perhaps both parents were dead. It was the only sensible conclusion she could come to.

Many things between her and Dawn had continually gone unsaid. Every so often, as now, Dawn admitted to being curious about her own family. The first six years of her life had been miserable: the first three she couldn’t remember, and the next three she’d been a virtual servant on a ranch to the north of Thief River.

“Tell me again how you found me, Mama.” Dawn’s voice had a dreamy quality.

They’d done this a dozen times before, but Libby continued to gratify her child. “I was on my way home from Eureka when I saw this pitiful little girl lugging water from the pump to the house.”

“Yes, and I tripped and fell and the water spilled onto the ground.”

“Then that woman”—

“Mrs. Fitzsimmons,” Dawn offered.

—”came out and scolded you, ordering you to bring in another full pail of water.”

“And you didn’t like to see a little girl working so hard.”

Libby gave her a sad smile. “It broke my heart.”

“Then you stopped and pretended to ask for directions so the woman would quit being so mean to me.”

Libby nodded. “I was surprised to find her so talkative.” And Libby had had to mask her anger at the way the woman treated Dawn.

“And she said my name was Dawn. That’s what I remember being called. And they’d found me on their doorstep one cold winter morning. I was maybe three, but no one really knows for sure.”

“That’s right.”

Dawn twisted in her chair and looked at her mother, suddenly understanding. “Does that mean that I really don’t have a birthday on August tenth?”

“That’s the day I found you. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the day you were born.”

“I guess that’s not such a bad thing.” Yet there was a wistful tone to her words.

Libby recalled that the woman—a pinched, work-worn rancher’s wife who had long since stopped feeling sorry for anyone but herself—had told her that Dawn should be grateful they’d taken her in at all and not left her to die. She’d been useless to them for the first few years, too young to work and too stupid to learn anything. Breeds were like that, she’d said, her whiny voice a grating annoyance. Libby remembered how her jaw had ached that night from keeping a close rein on her fury.

The woman had been anxious to get rid of Dawn, despite the fact that she’d been a useful servant. Libby had whisked the girl away before the woman could change her mind. Even at six, Dawn had been a beautiful child. To this day, Libby remembered the depth of emotion she’d seen in the girl’s eyes.

“And all the way home,” Dawn repeated, knowing the story by heart, “I sat next to you, and you put your arm around me. I remember that, Mama. I felt so safe with you.”

Libby swallowed the lump in her throat. It was a poignant memory. One she would never forget.

The only memory Dawn had of the time before that was of a frail elderly woman who had loved her and kept her safe. There was a gap in her memory that she couldn’t account for. And Libby had not pressed.

Dawn turned and gave Libby a hug around the waist. “Don’t look sad, Mama. I love you so much.”

Libby bit into her lower lip, pressed her daughter’s head against her, and kissed the top of her head. “I love you too, dear. Very, very much, but you know,” she added, “we don’t always get what we want.”

“I know that,” Dawn whispered. “I’m happy you’re my mama. The day you took me away from that place was the happiest day of my life.”

“Mine too.” Libby’s words caught in her throat, and she felt the sting of tears. She sniffed, a sound that brought Dawn’s head up. Her eyes were shining too.

They giggled together like best friends, boldly wiping away their happy tears.

Libby stepped away and dug out her handkerchief. “Well,” she said, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, “aren’t we just pitiful?”

Dawn’s grin was wide. “I like it when you cry, Mama. Then I know you’re happy.”

Libby laughed. “That’s kind of contrary, don’t you think? Most people cry when they’re sad and laugh when they’re happy.”

“But when you’re happy, you laugh and cry at the same time. And…and I’ve never seen you really sad. Or mad, even.”

Libby drew Dawn’s hair into a loose braid, drawing through it a ribbon, which she fastened at the end. “I’ve had no reason to be sad since you came into my life, dear. And angry? Oh, that takes far too much energy, and it’s all wasted.”

Libby pressed a kiss on Dawn’s cheek. “I have to get to the kitchen and fix Mr. Wolfe something to eat.” She started toward the door.

“I hope you make him something nice, Mama, and not that awful stuff we had for dinner.”

Libby stopped and turned. “You’re fond of him, aren’t you? And it isn’t just because he has a cute little dog.”

“Mumser’s darling. I know he’s a bit too playful, but he’s still a puppy. One day he’ll mind, I just know he will.” She searched Libby’s face. “Mr. Wolfe is a real nice man, Mama. I kind of wish—”

“Don’t say any more, dear. You know what Mahalia says—”

“I know, I know,” Dawn interrupted. “Fill one bucket with cow turds and the other with wishes and see which one fills up first.”

Libby raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. “I think you should get ready for bed.”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “Whenever you can’t think of anything else to say, you tell me to get ready for bed.”

Libby gave her daughter a warm smile. “It’s late, dear. I’ll come up after I’ve fed Mr. Wolfe.”

“Don’t close the door, Mama. Leave it open a crack so Cyclops can come in.”

Libby blew her daughter a kiss, then briefly checked herself in the mirror before she left the room. She was jittery with excitement and anticipation as she made her way to the kitchen.