Larkspur (13 page)

Del stood and placed his empty glass on the sidebar. His movements were slow and relaxed. When he spoke, his voice was as calm as if he were talking about the weather.

“I suggest that you be more respectful of Miss Gates. Don’t call her a
bitch
and never speak of
screwing
in connection with her.”

A deathly quiet settled over the room. Mark felt a chill slither down his spine. He could almost smell sudden, violent death.

Colonel Forsythe suddenly realized he had made a dangerous mistake and that this man would kill him without a second thought. His fertile mind searched frantically for a way to put things right. He locked his hands behind his back and arranged his features to make himself appear more contrite.

“I’m sorry, Del. I got carried away. You’re absolutely right. It was not a gentlemanly thing to say about a lady.” When he swung around to speak to Lee, his voice was not quite steady. “I hear that Lenning has moved his herd up onto Indian land. That’ll complicate matters a bit.”

“His drovers are Oglala Sioux.” Lee glanced at Del Gomer. Lee was thankful his eyes were on the colonel and not him. “A couple of fellows that I’ve hired off and on came in,” Lee continued, anxious to defuse the tension. “They had a run-in with Lenning out on Sweet Grass Creek a few days ago. He had a Sioux woman with him.”

“I hadn’t heard he’d taken up with a squaw.”

“The point is, he was about eight miles from the ranch.”

“Well, now.” Forsythe rubbed his hands in glee. “If his men are away, it might be a good time to strike.”

“The place is like a fort. There’ll be no sneaking up on him.”

“I’m not thinking to attack the ranch. If Lenning is found eight or ten miles from his ranch, who can say what happened to him. Could be a Sioux wanting his horse, or a jealous husband wanting his squaw back. Without him and the woman we’d have no trouble getting that land.”

“Are you talking about ambush?” Lee wished he’d had the nerve to say
murder.
This land-grabbing scheme was going into a phase that made the young lawyer uncomfortable.

“It happens all the time. This is a dangerous country. Who do you know that’s good with a rifle?”

*  *  *

Buck slept only intermittently throughout the night, uncomfortably aware that Kristin Anderson was in the next room. Having a woman in the house was strange. More than strange, it was downright unnerving. Earlier he had walked Moss outside to relieve himself before he put him to bed, but as soon as Moss lay down he began to expel gas in such a loud explosive manner that the sound was sure to reach into every corner of the house. And, of course, Miss Anderson would not know it came from Moss.

He had at first planned that he and Moss would sleep in the bunkhouse, but that was before it had occurred to him that Forsythe’s men might have followed Miss Anderson. He couldn’t leave her in the house alone.

Sam would let him know if anyone came to within a hundred yards of the buildings, that is if his desire to mate hadn’t drawn him away from his post as it had done earlier in the day. A bitch wolf-dog had been in the area lately, and her scent caused Sam, at times, to forget his duties.

Another reason for Buck’s sleeplessness was that Moss occupied his bed and he lay on a bedroll on the floor. He was becoming soft, he told himself while shifting around to find a comfortable position. For years he had slept on the ground, or wherever he happened to be.

He had tied the long soft strip of cloth about the old man’s waist and fastened the other end to the bedpost as he did when Moss slept in his own bed. He had fashioned this safety measure to keep Moss from wandering around the house in the night and possibly hurting himself or setting the place on fire.

Morning was just a suggestion of pale light when Buck got up, dressed and went out onto the porch in his stockinged feet. The stars were fading. A quail called questioningly and received a reply.

Lord, how he loved this country, this place.

Buck breathed deeply the fresh, cool mountain air and stretched his long frame. This morning he had to have a talk with Kristin. Sometime during the long sleepless night hours he had begun to think of her as Kristin rather than Miss Anderson or Yarby’s niece. He had resigned himself to the fact that she was here . . . for a while. Even if he knew of a safe place to take her, he couldn’t leave Moss, and he couldn’t take him along.

Having met Kristin had brought back Buck’s old yearning for a woman of his own, to bear him children, to be by his side during the day and in his bed at night. He was troubled by the desire that hardened his body and clouded his mind. He tried to shake off the feeling.

Christamighty! He was as bad as Sam lusting after the bitch wolf!

This past week had been difficult without Gill and the Sioux drovers to help him keep an eye on the old man. Buck ran his fingers through his shaggy hair. Good Lord, when this problem started a year ago, he’d had no idea it would get so complicated. How much should he tell Kristin and how would she stand up under the strain? If he told her all, would she even believe him?

*  *  *

Early-morning light was sifting through the window when Kristin awoke from the drugged sleep of exhaustion and lay listening to the soft cooing of morning doves in the distance and the nearby scolding of a bluejay from an oak tree beside the house.

Lying in the strange but comfortable bed, she was overcome with a poignant wave of homesickness, and she longed with all her heart to be a little girl again back home in Wisconsin with her mother and father.

The clatter of a bucket in the room beyond her door brought her out of her dreamlike state. She lifted her head to listen. When she heard the faint sound of iron striking iron and recognized the sound as a lid being placed on or removed from the cookstove, she got out of bed, whipped her nightdress off over her head, dressed, brushed and braided her hair. She found her precious hairpins where she had placed them on the top of her trunk the night before, and fastened the coiled braid to the nape of her neck.

What would her brother Ferd make of her spending the night alone, miles and miles from town, with a strange, wild-looking man? He’d declare that his predictions were true—she had become a fallen woman. Kristin smiled at that. She’d felt as safe here as she had in the hotel room in Big Timber.

After tying an apron about her waist, she pulled open the door. Because she was an unwelcome guest in this house, she was determined not to abuse the man’s hospitality.

He was at the cookstove with his back to her. If he had heard the door open, he did not let on. He was dressed except for the boots that sat beside one of the chairs. His shirt hung loose and his dark hair was wet and combed straight back from his forehead.

“Good morning.” Kristin spoke before going farther into the room.

“Morning.”

“I’m usually up before this. I slept like a log.”

“I’ve not been up long myself.”

“I’ll . . . cook breakfast.”

“I was counting on that. I added water and more coffee to the pot.”

Kristin crossed the room to the open door and looked out into the still morning.

“Go on out. Sam would let me know if there was anyone about.” Buck glanced at her over his shoulder. “He’ll not bother you.”

As she hurried down the path to the outhouse, she had a feeling that during the night Buck Lenning had made a decision about her, and she felt suddenly chilled and unsure of herself. He was not like any man she had met before. He was a man of contrasts. She thought of the events of the night before. Just as she had finished making up her bed with sheets from her trunk, Mr. Lenning had rapped on the door. She had opened it to find him standing there with a lit lantern in his hand.

“Come. I’ll show you the outhouse.” He had spoken as unconcernedly as if he were speaking of wheat or cattle prices. “Keep the light low. I never know who is watching the place.”

Her face had been flushed with embarrassment as she followed him to a small building set at an angle between the house and the bunkhouse. He had handed her the lantern and walked quickly back to the house.

Reflecting on the action now, she realized it was a thoughtful gesture. At least she’d not had to ask him the location of the necessary building, and she had been grateful for the light.

Kristin thought of her choices now that the house Uncle Yarby had left her was not livable. She had land, but no idea how much, or if she could sell enough of it to build a house. She couldn’t go back to Big Timber unless she was willing to sell out to Colonel Forsythe—take his two thousand dollars and leave town. But where would she go? She wished Gustaf were here to tell her what to do.

By the time she left the outhouse, she realized that she had no choice but to trust this unpredictable man who had at first seemed as dangerous as a rattlesnake, but was so gentle with his aged father that she felt completely safe in his house. The thought occurred to her that the man called Moss could be Uncle Yarby’s trusted ranch manager and that when he could no longer carry out his duties, his son had come to take over. Cletus had known her uncle. She wished now that she’d had more time to talk with him about the man who had remembered her in his will.

She went to the washstand as soon as she returned to the kitchen, washed her face and hands and began preparing breakfast. She could hear Mr. Lenning in the other room talking in a low calm voice to his father. It surprised her that he bothered when the other man didn’t understand what he was saying.

Kristin put a dab of grease in an iron pan and set it on top of the stove to melt. After stirring up a batch of biscuits, she pinched off small hunks of the dough and dipped them in the hot grease before arranging them in the pan. She had the pan in the oven and her hands washed when the door opened, and Buck came out with Moss. The old man was dressed in worn, but clean duck pants and a soft shirt.

He paused in the doorway and looked at her.

“Good morning,” Kristin said and smiled.

Moss came to where she stood beside the table. As innocently as a child, he put his arms around her waist and placed his head on her shoulder. For a few seconds, she was unsure what to do. Then she put her arms around the frail body and hugged him.

“I like you too, Mr. Moss.”

“He lived in the woods with the grizzly bears.”

“Are you hungry this morning? I can make you some cornmeal mush.”

“Buck won’t give up without a fight.”

Startled by the words, Kristin looked quickly at Buck over Moss’s shoulder, her brows raised in question. His expression never changed. He took Moss’s arm and gently tugged him away from Kristin.

“Come on, old-timer.”

Kristin glanced out the window and watched the two men walk down the path to the outhouse. How in the world did Mr. Lenning get anything done? Taking care of his father was a full-time job. And . . . his patience with him was astounding.

Kristin felt a strange tenseness come over her as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff. Today, this morning, things would he decided that would affect her life for the weeks and months ahead and ultimately for the rest of her life. She was uneasy as she set the table. There was something hard and sure about the man who would be a part of the decision-making. She sensed that he was the kind of man that people trusted. Cletus had certainly trusted him. Rose Gaffney, too.

She also sensed that he was a man who wanted roots. He had built this house and filled it with this strange assortment of furniture. The fancy chair and table in the other room, the rolltop desk, didn’t go with the homemade table and chairs and rope beds. And the set of china dishes—

Last night she had looked for dishes with which to set the table because there had been only two granite eating plates soaking in the dishpan. On a shelf behind a curtain, she had found a set of gold-rimmed china dishes complete with cups, saucers, platters and vegetable bowls. They were of such good quality she had not been sure if she should use them until Buck spoke from behind her.

“Use them if you want. But they’ve been sitting there a while and will need a wash.”

“Are you sure? They’re far too fine for everyday use.”

“They are?” He frowned. “I’ve never used them.”

Once again she admired the lovely china and wished she dared bring out a cloth from her trunk to spread over the table’s bare wood.

Later, as Kristin sat at the table with the two men, she was surprised to realize that she felt comfortable passing the biscuits, putting sorgham in the mush she had made for Moss. He appeared tired and ate very little. Buck would remind him to eat every once in a while by reaching over and dipping his spoon in the bowl and watching while it made the perilous journey to his mouth.

“Wolves brought down a sheep this mornin’.” Moss looked from Kristin to Buck and back again. “Nothin’ smells as good as sawed wood.”

When Moss made these offhand statements, Kristin could feel Buck’s eyes on her face, judging her reaction. Buck said little even though he was polite and had been helpful pointing out where the supplies were in the kitchen. He ate large amounts of the food she had prepared and seemed to relish the meal.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever eaten a better biscuit.” The compliment came suddenly and unexpectedly after Kristin had cleared the table and was pouring water over the plates in the dishpan.

“Thank you. If I had butter, eggs and milk I could cook a much better meal.” She was increasingly aware that he was in a different mood this morning. “Would your father have coffee if I watered it down so that he’d not burn himself?”

“He’s about to fall asleep. He’s been sleeping a lot lately.” Buck gently pulled the old man to his feet, guided him to one of the big chairs and returned to the table. “Some days he’ll sit there for hours.”

“Is that when you get your outdoor chores done?” Kristin placed the heavy mug of coffee on the table in front of him. She could not bring herself to use the delicate china cups.

“Lately I’ve not been able to leave him here alone. That’s why I fixed up the room at the end of the bunkhouse. It has nothing in it but a bed and a table.”