Larkspur (10 page)

“Did Cletus think that someone would follow me?”

“I ain’t knowing that, but the boss puts a heap of store in what Cletus says. Boss says, too, he’s a damned old fool, and if’n he ain’t careful, he’ll end up like Yarby.”

“Yarby Anderson? You knew my uncle?”

“Never set eyes on him, miss. Sorry to say. Here we are. Ya just sit tight till I get the mules settled and I’ll help ya down.”

Kristin noticed the men went into the trees on one side of the line of wagons. She hesitated a moment, then went into the bushes on the other side. It was embarrassing, but necessary. Her bladder was full almost to overflowing, and it was such a relief to empty it. Back at the wagon, her shoulders slumped with fatigue. Mrs. Gaffney had insisted that she sleep a little while she waited for Bernie. But she had been unable to do more than doze for a few minutes at a time.

Now five hours later, Kristin’s back ached and her eyes burned from lack of sleep. Her lips felt gritty when she licked them. Hunger pangs reminded her of the jam-filled biscuits Mrs. Gaffney had wrapped in a cloth and placed in her bag. She shared them with the driver, who appeared to be enormously grateful.

The horizon ahead seemed to melt into the sky. Nothing moved except the long grass bending in silver ripples before the breeze. It was a vast, empty, still country with the mountains ahead. And it was quiet. Quiet beyond anything Kristin had ever imagined.

“This is beautiful country.” Her mouth was so dry she could hardly talk. The wagon had bumped along for what seemed to Kristin an eternity. She hated to ask the driver for another drink of water from the fruit jar he kept at his feet. “Is the Larkspur like this?”

The teamster spat over the side of the wagon, then looked at her with a cocked eyebrow.

“We be
on
the Larkspur.”

“Oh, my goodness!”

“It’s big. Mighty big. It goes clear up to them mountains. We been making good time. Boss figures it pert nigh thirty mile ’tween Larkspur and Big Timber.”

“Where’s the house?”

“Over yonder in that grove that backs up to the mountain. There be a stream ahead. Boss’ll want to stop and water and rest the stock. Then we’ll be knowin’ how he figures to get ya over there.”

Kristin felt her heart leap, then settle into a pounding that left her almost breathless.
This is my land. Yonder is my home. I own a small piece of this earth. Mr. Lenning, please, please welcome me. Please help me to keep it.

The mules were drenched with sweat when the train stopped beside the stream. A robust man with iron gray hair came to the wagon and extended a hand to help Kristin down.

“Miss, it’s been a long hard pull for my stock. They’re pert nigh wore out. It’s about a mile over to the ranch. Do ya reckon ya can walk it if a couple of my men go along and carry your plunder?”

“Yes, of course.” Kristin pulled the cloth from her head and wiped her face with a corner of it. The men gawked at her silvery blond hair. “I hope someday to be able to thank you properly for helping me.”

“It didn’t put us out none a’tall, miss. Cletus seemed to think them scallywags was ’bout to hornswoggle ya outta yore place here. That Forsythe’s got a mean bunch a hangin’ round him, for all his smooth ways.”

“I never got to thank Cletus, or Mr. Gates. I was lucky to meet up with them.”

“I’m thinkin’ yo’re right ’bout that. Folks are gettin’ mighty fearful a losin’ their land. It be hard to fight a bunch with the law and money behind ’em.”

Two men came to the back of the freight wagon with a canvas stretched between two long poles. They fitted Kristin’s trunk and her box in the sling, lifted the poles to their shoulders and started toward the grove at a fast clip.

“They don’t mean to carry them? We could leave them here and Mr. Lenning could come with a wagon.”

“It ain’t no chore, miss. Them two could carry a buffalo.”

“Good-bye.” Kristin held out her hand. “When you get back to Big Timber, tell Cletus how much I appreciate what he’s done for me.”

“Luck to you, miss. Buck Lenning’s a good man. He’ll help ya all he can.”

Kristin hurried after the men carrying her trunk. As tired as she was, she was glad to be on her feet and walking. Her hipbones and buttocks ached from the rough ride on the big wagon, and there was a constant ache between her shoulder blades. With her bag over her shoulder, she waved her scarf at the teamsters and headed across the grassland toward her new home.

She felt a surge of elation when the ranch buildings came in sight. The log house, squatting comfortably on a small knoll, blended perfectly with the background of the grass-covered, tree-dotted foothills of the mountain. The logs were thick and fitted snugly together. There was no chinking in this house, for the logs had been smoothed with a broadax and adze, and laid face-to-face. A cobblestone chimney rose above the roof on one end. The peaked roof slanted down to cover a porch. Kristin could see several other buildings and a series of split-rail corrals, but they were all a mere background for her lovely new home.

Kristin had expected her uncle, an old unmarried man, to have lived in a shack somewhat like the poorly constructed ones she’d seen from the train. This was a lovely homestead. Beyond it was an endless sea of grass and above it an endless span of sky.

“Are you sure this is it?” Kristin had to run a few steps to catch up with the men as they reached the porch and unloaded her trunk and box.

They looked at her strangely.

“Yes’m. This is Larkspur Ranch.”

“Thank you. Could you not stay for a . . . drink of water?”

“No, ma’am. The boss’ll be ready to move when we get back.” The man rolled the canvas around the poles and hoisted them to his shoulder.

“Good-bye and . . . thank you.”

They tipped their hats and hurried away. Kristin felt a moment of panic. It was so quiet. She stood just at the edge of the porch and waited for the door to open. It didn’t. She stepped upon the porch and rapped on the door. After a moment, she hesitantly tried the door. It was locked.

Please, let someone be here.
Although she realized it was futile, she rapped again. A short time later she stepped off the porch and went around to the back of the house. A dozen head of horses were in a large split-railed corral. She rapped on the back door. The silence was deafening. Her eyes clouded with worry. Had Mr. Lenning given up the fight with Forsythe and abandoned the property?

As she turned from the door, she saw a black-and-brown animal come streaking across the corral, leap the rail fence and head straight for her. Fright kept her immobile for a second or two. Then she turned and frantically clawed at the door. Miraculously it opened. She rushed inside and slammed it shut. A second later she heard the ferocious growls of the animal and then claws scratching the door.

For a long moment she was even too frightened to move. Of all the dangers she had expected to encounter, a wolf would have been on the bottom of the list. She could hear the animal growling outside the door. Making sure it was closed securely, she went to the one glass window and looked out. All she could see was the corral. But the scratching on the door told her the beast was still there.

Thank heavens she had made it inside.

Kristin set her bag on the table and went to the waterbucket that sat on the end of a long counter fastened to the back wall. She drank two full dippers of water before she hung it back on the nail above the pail. Then she surveyed the room. It extended across the back of the house. At one end was a fireplace, at the other a black cookstove, work counters and shelves. In the center was a heavy table, its plank top rubbed to a glowing finish. The cookstove was still warm, and a pan of soiled dishes soaked in the dishpan.

Two hide-covered chairs sat on each side of the fireplace and on the mantel a tall oak clock, its pendulum swinging back and forth. It was a friendly sight. Kristin had a fondness for clocks. A handsome slant-top desk sat against the inside wall.

Two rooms opened off the kitchen. One of them was large. A heavy door with a bar across it opened onto the porch. The room was furnished with a bed, a chest and several other pieces of furniture that appeared to be totally out of place with the others, as was the handsome desk in the other room. A fancy square table, covered with a fringed cloth, a green velvet chair and a banquet lamp with a painted round globe were more suitable for a parlor than a bedroom. Hugging the side of the inside wall was a very narrow stair leading to the attic room. A man’s hat and coat hung on the rack on the wall.

The covers on the bed had been straightened. The room was not cluttered, but was not very clean. The plank floor needed to be swept, and cobwebs hung from the ceiling.

The room off the kitchen area was smaller. The only furniture was a bed, a chest and a trunk. Several shirts and a coat hung on pegs on the walls.

Mr. Lenning and another man had definitely taken over her uncle’s house—her house now. It was to be expected, she reasoned. How long had Uncle Yarby been missing before his body was found? A year?

Kristin washed the trail dust from her face and hands and took down her hair. She massaged her scalp with her fingertips. When was the last time she had had a chance to brush it? Searching for her hairbrush, she emptied the contents of her carrying bag out on the table. She still had the money Gustaf had lent her and the pistol, so she was not completely helpless. At the hotel she had put a pair of clean drawers as well as stockings in the bag.

She stood beside the window looking out at the mountains behind the house and brushed her hair until her scalp tingled. She braided it in a loose rope and pinned it to the back of her head. It would not do for Mr. Lenning to return and find her looking like a trollop with her hair hanging down her back.

What to do now? She felt like an intruder, and if not for the beast outside the door, she would have gone out onto the porch. She peered out the kitchen window again but was unable to see if the animal was beside the door. She didn’t dare open it to find out.

Kristin sat down in the cowhide-covered chair. Mr. Lenning was likely away doing roundups and branding and the sorts of things cowboys do. Ranches were supposed to have lots of cowboys. Dear Uncle Yarby. She wished she could thank him for leaving her this lovely house. What a joy it would be to tend to it.

One of the first things she would do would be to move the table farther from the cookstove, and wash away the soot and the cobwebs behind it. As soon as she could find enough rags she would make a rug to go in front of the fireplace.

The glass windowpanes needed to be washed. They would shine when she finished with them. Someday, when all this trouble was over, she would go to Big Timber and buy curtain material.

My, this chair was comfortable.
She leaned her tired head against the back, telling herself that she would close her eyes for only a moment.

*  *  *

“Wake up! What the hell are you doin’ here?”

Kristin came dazedly out of the wells of sleep when she heard a man’s voice. With an effort she opened her eyes. They traveled up long legs to where a gun was strapped around narrow hips and on up to eyes that held such anger that for a second or two she froze with fear.

Oh, dear Lord! They followed and found me!

Chapter Seven

K
ristin shot up out of the chair and ran to the table where she had left her pistol. Grabbing it with both hands, she pointed it at the man.

“Stay away from me.”

“Mother of Christ! Who the hell are you?”

“You know who I am, you . . . you bounder, shyster, crook!” she sputtered. “I’m not signing, no matter what you do. Break my fingers, twist my arm, do what you will! I’ll not sign my land over to you and that’s that!” By the time she finished speaking she was shouting.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’d better get out. Mr. Lenning will be back soon. If he doesn’t shoot you, I will.” She steadied the hands holding the gun. Not for anything would she let him know how frightened she was.

Eyes the color of oak leaves beneath thick dark brows never moved from her face. The man stood there strangely quiet. He gazed at her for a long while before he spoke.

“I’m Buck Lenning.”

“You’re . . . not Mr. Lenning,” she scoffed. “He’s an old man like Uncle Yarby.”

“Mother of Christ!” he said again. “You’re . . .”

“Miss Kristin Anderson. And you . . . get out of my house!”

“Your
house?”

He was a tremendously tall, sun-darkened, wild-looking man with green, amber-flecked eyes. Thick black hair curled and twisted around his head in complete disarray.

He stared. She stared back.

“Put the gun down before you shoot yourself.”

“Not till you leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere. What’re you doing here.”

“Where else would I go? I couldn’t stay there. That slick scallywag was going to force me to sign over my inheritance. They’d have . . . hurt me. They’ve done it before.”

“Forsythe?”

“Oh . . . oh—”

There was no sound to alert her to the presence that filled the doorway behind her, but she knew it was there and whirled around to point the gun at the animal who watched her with fangs bared.

“Don’t . . . shoot!” The man leaped. His big hand grabbed hers, forcing the gun point to tilt toward the floor. “Give me that thing.” He wrested it from her hands. “Hell and damnation! If you’d a shot my dog, there’d a been hell to pay.”

Kristin glared at him defiantly, not wanting him to know that she was so tired and unsteady on her feet and that she felt faintly giddy. Beads of sweat stood on her forehead and upper lip.

“Dog? That’s not like any dog I’ve ever seen.” She tried to put strength in her voice and failed miserably. “It’s a wild, vicious . . . beast. It came running at me and would have killed me if I hadn’t gotten in the house.”

“How’d you get out here?”

Their eyes met in a duel across the table. His were instruments of power. His unwavering stare sent a series of tremors up and down her backbone.