Widow Woman (13 page)

"I was supposed to stay at the cabin all winter."

"You're not chained."

"No. But, uh, I didn't want you to think I told anybody about ... anything. I didn't. Shag showed up last week, like he knew all along I was there, and said to come for Christmas. It seemed unneighborly to say no."

"You did right, Davis."

"You think, Nick?"

"Yeah. But you'd better get in out of this."

"Yeah. Okay. Good night, Nick.” The younger man hesitated, then added quickly, “Happy Christmas, Nick."

A knot of warmth in his chest caught Nick by surprise. “Happy Christmas, Davis,” he answered, but he wasn't sure Andresson heard before he closed the bunkhouse door behind him.

A flicker of light drew his eyes to the main house, the upstairs room he knew was Rachel Terhune's. Perhaps she'd climbed the stairs, after helping Ruth straighten the kitchen and prepare for the next day's festivities, to find the present Shag had mentioned.

A
pretty girl like you should be wearing pretty dresses.

Not widow's weeds. Not faded work dresses.

It wasn't likely Shag's present ran to the expense of a new dress. Rachel Terhune surely missed having pretty dresses. Something other than a remade black. Or that old-fashioned riding habit. Something like she'd seen worn by the ladies of Hammer Butte. Something like he'd seen on women in San Francisco—and taken off a few.

The figure above him came nearer the window, close enough that he could see she wore a white nightdress. A gentleman would have looked away. He'd never tried to claim that title even if others would have allowed it.

With her wheat hair loose down her back, she appeared a creature of flowing paleness. Like the Spirit of Christmas Past she'd read about tonight, in its tunic of purest white.

Christmas past ... What had that been but another day of avoiding his father's fist if he could and knowing he couldn't avoid his tongue, another day of watching his mother weaken, another day of struggling to cushion his sister's fate. He'd failed at that in the end, along with everything else.

Nick flipped the cigarette away and went to his bunk.

But he rested no easier than Ebenezer Scrooge had on that singular Christmas Eve. Nick's sleep was disturbed, not by three spirits, but by dreams of one spirit, in white with wheat-gold hair and changeable eyes. These dreams produced a decidedly earthy reaction considering they were about such an ethereal being.

Nick had never seen chores done so cheerfully as they were the next morning. Caring for the working stock, tending the horses, toting water buckets and splitting wood for Ruth's stove. There was a good deal of joking and conversation about Mrs. Terhune's story as they scrubbed up in the bunkhouse, donning their best pants, fanciest boots and cleanest shirts.

"You coming, Nick?” Finally satisfied with the reflection of his tie in the rusty mirror, Davis was ready to head to the main house.

"In a minute."

"Better hurry, or you'll miss the readin'."

"I'll be there."

Nick was the last to take a seat at the long table, after a last-minute change to the new striped shirt he'd bought in Hammer Butte.

The Circle T's owner wore a dress he hadn't seen before. Its gray material looked as if it would be as soft to the touch as it was to the eye. White lace formed collar and cuffs. Around the bottom of the skirt, more fashionably narrow than most he'd seen her wear, was a band of velvet of so deep a red it neared black. The same material marked the front and the sleeves. A paisley shawl around her shoulders mixed the gray and a lighter shade of red.

That color also seemed to be reflected in her cheeks as she flicked a look at him before picking up the book. When she began reading, even the scrape of utensil against plate became muted, and finally fell silent.

Nick had never seen anything like it. As a rule, hands didn't make much conversation at a meal and they never lingered. They finished eating, they left the table. There was too much to do for it to be any other way. But here they sat, not one leaving. “'So, as Tiny Tim observed. God Bless Us Every One,'” she finished, and closed the book.

"If that don't beat all,” said Henry among general mutters of approval. “Guess old Scrooge learned his lesson right enough."

Mrs. Terhune smiled. “He did, indeed. Now, what we have to learn is how to get ready for this afternoon's arrivals in no time at all."

The men moved the desk and table to one side for dancing in the dining room and set out chairs in the parlor. About the time they finished, guests started arriving. Arnold Brett, his wife and boy from Natchez along with a couple single hands. The Murchisons, a family with two young sons running a bit of land southwest of the Circle T. And the Schmidts, whose road ranch served travelers up the stage road toward Miles City, came with their daughter, Gerta.

And each brought delicacies they added to the kitchen table already loaded with Ruth and Fred's bounty. Besides the women's cakes and pies, the single hands from Natchez brought tins of oysters and lobster. There would be another feast tonight.

Dancing started as soon as Mr. Schmidt warmed up his fiddle, and with the men far outnumbering the women, every female was kept spinning and whirling, even Anna Brett, who was obviously increasing again, as well as rotund Mrs. Schmidt and gray-haired Ruth Shagwell.

Nick leaned against the wall and watched. Davis, flushed and triumphant, joined him after a particularly spirited dance with Rachel Terhune.

"Nick, you know how Shag and Mrs. Terhune knew where I was?"

"No."

"From the Schmidts. I'd been by their place and they happened to mention it to someone who stopped the next night at the Circle T, and that's how word came along. I don't think they know—” Davis's fair skin reddened. “I mean, I think they think I'm just squatting there."

"That won't worry anybody any, because they know you're not rustling."

Davis nodded. “That's how I figured it. Might even suit ‘em having somebody they know in that cabin since it's not all that far off the Circle T."

"Might.” But how would it suit the Circle T owner when she knew Nick Dusaq owned that cabin?

"Aren't you going to dance?” Davis asked.

"Seems the ladies have plenty of partners."

Davis gave him a look that bordered on mischief. “Don't think they'd turn you down."

Nick lifted an eyebrow and retaliated. “Don't see you taking your turns with young Gerta.” The other single men had clustered around the Schmidts’ comely sixteen-year-old daughter.

The younger man's face grew thoughtful. “She seems awful young. All that gigglin', I guess."

Nick nodded. Seemed Davis had more sense than he'd given him credit for.

"No sense denying the others when they'd rather be dancing with her, when dancing with the married ladies is fine with me."

You danced with Rachel Terhune and she's not married.

Nick pressed his lips tight, but it didn't stop the thought.

Rachel Terhune was no foolish girl but, worthy as Ruth and Mrs. Schmidt might be, he couldn't for the life of him understand any man lumping her with them. Rachel Terhune was a woman in her prime. A woman any man would want to hold in his arms. The sort of woman who should have a man by her side, and be breeding a babe.

A knot formed in Nick's gut. At least one man had made it clear he was more than willing to put Rachel Terhune in that position. There were likely others.

"Where you going, Nick?” Andresson's question followed him as he headed toward the kitchen.

"Get some air."

He barely noticed the aromas swirling in the warmth of the kitchen, but strode through the deserted room and out the door, welcoming the slap of cold. He breathed in deep, filling his lungs so it would freeze any foolish notions lingering in his chest. It stripped his senses of the lure of warmth, music, food and laughter inside.

In the sharp, cold air of a Wyoming winter evening, Nick came to a decision.

He'd tell Rachel Terhune he'd bought the Wallace place.

Right now. If she fired him on the spot, he'd ride out without looking back. If she wanted him to work out the winter, he'd do that. But one way or another, he was going to tell her, and that would put an end to this.

Nick stepped into the kitchen in time to sight a swirl of gray skirt trimmed with deep red velvet disappearing around the edge of the door to the cellar pantry.

Fate held him to his word. Right now it would be.

He strode across the empty room. She hadn't closed the door. He did. It latched silently behind him.

Four steps down reached a dirt-packed floor covered with stretched canvas. Being underground helped cool it even in summer's heat. Shelves to the ceiling stocked foodstuffs to last a long, isolated winter.

At the far side and with her back to the door, Rachel Terhune stood on her toes, the hem of her skirt lifting to show her raised heels. A scuff marked the back of her right low-heeled slipper. Above showed a pale swatch of stockinged ankles as she stretched toward a wooden tray protruding from a shelf above her head. With the tips of her fingers she nudged the tray, topped by a round tin. Her fingertip-reach unsettled it, but couldn't secure the tray, and the tin threatened to slide right off and onto her head.

The tray teetered. He moved quickly.

"I'll get it."

Rachel sucked in a startled breath, then couldn't seem to release it.

Even if she hadn't thought herself alone, this was the last voice she'd have expected.

Nick Dusaq.

She'd glimpsed his unsmiling eyes on her while she danced. The echo of his voice jolted up her spine and she brushed the underside of the tray again. The tin of nuts she'd come after rattled. Before she could react, he'd stretched both arms over her to steady the tray. He surrounded her, leaving no space, no air. Abruptly, she dropped to her heels, brushing against him.

"Hold still."

A half step allowed him a hold to lift the tin, a half step that brought him full against her. She obeyed his order to be still because she couldn't move. His outstretched arms suspended the tin overhead.

Turning only her head, she followed the tin's path as he brought it to the side and laid it on a shelf. She felt the solidity of his chest against her shoulder blades, the strength of his thighs behind her legs. And the heat of his desire.

Shadows filtered across the pantry. Like the shadows that had fallen across her room those nights Edward Terhune had come to her bed. She should be frightened, repulsed.

She spun around, bracing her hands against his chest to ward him off.

In the instant of that touch, the shadows burned away, leaving the heat of summer, the blaze of clear sky and the sparkle of sun on water. It dazzled her. Unable to move. Unable to think. Just as she had been that day at Jasper Pond.

He dipped his head and the fleeting brush of his lips across hers flashed through her body. When he raised his head, he didn't move away, his broad shoulders and dark head blocking the light. But the darkness didn't frighten her now.

His lips touched hers again. Not simply a brush, but a meeting. They slid along her mouth, stopping to press, then shifted for another angle.

He ended the kiss. They held there, so close but not quite touching, while motion and time and intent hung suspended.

Rachel knew she could end this, knew she should. She made no move—not toward him or away.

A sound escaped him, a low hiss of a word that touched her lips as a breath and slid a shiver down her spine.

And then his mouth was on hers again, full, hard, demanding. His hand cupped the back of her neck, holding her to him, and his tongue pressed at her lips, seeking entry. Gaining it. Sliding into her mouth, exploring, commanding.

She didn't know this. Hadn't experienced this kind of kiss. Hadn't felt this kind of heat. It came from all around. From the air that seemed to crackle with it, from this man's body, and most disorienting of all, from some hidden source deep inside her. It rose up in her to meet his heat and blend with it. And she didn't know how they could not be burned.

Nick felt the fire, inside and out. So hot he nearly shivered with it. So hot it would scar.

Her mouth's moist heat drew him in like a drowning eddy. Her hands on his chest seemed to burn through the covering cloth and right into his skin.

She stayed still, not fighting as he might have feared, not answering as he might have dreamed. And suddenly Nick couldn't stand the stillness. Let her push him away or let her hold him, but no more of this stillness. Loosening the strict hold on his desire, he blatantly drew her lower body against his. His other hand tilted her head to consume her mouth.

This was why he hadn't danced with her, some part of him recognized—because he never would have been satisfied with the polite embrace of dancing. The roomful of people wouldn't have stopped him, he'd have demanded more.

How many times had he absorbed her sweet, tangy smell? Now he tasted it, feasted on it. Acknowledged his hunger for it in a primal communication. And she responded. Her tongue touched to his. A tentative caress, so brief.

It didn't always take a bolt of lightning to start a range fire. Sometimes it needed only a tiny spark.

He raged with it. It licked at the restraints he'd so carefully built, over months with her, over years with himself.

Sliding his tongue against hers, rocking his hips against hers, he wanted more ... needed more.

She broke from his kiss with the gasp of a drowning person. The full power of her arms, pushing against his chest bought her only the breath of space he allowed. Their eyes locked.

Through the haze of desire, he recognized the wide stare of fear in her eyes. Beneath the slash of color across her cheeks, he saw a stark paleness that looked to him like terror.

What a fool. What a damned fool.

Heat burned between them, no denying that. But heat could destroy what it set out to warm.

He shoved her away, not bothering to gentle his rough hands, and she gave a small gasp.