Widow Woman (29 page)

Her eyes grew heavy, drifting closed as the heat and tingle reached deeper, to where she ached always.

When his fingers slowed to a stop, then began to glide away, she couldn't stop a soft sigh. “Davis."

Slowly she opened her eyes ... his face was so close. She wanted to thank him, to tell what solace he brought her. She raised her hand, languid and warm, to brush her fingers along his jaw. His blue eyes had not lost their gentleness, but they held an intensity she had not seen there before. She opened her hand to cup his jaw.

His lips touched hers so softly she wouldn't have been certain it had happened except for the flare of surprise that crossed his eyes. That should have warned her. But her own surprise filled her too completely.

He leaned nearer, fanning a warm breath across her face. His lips slid along hers again in awkward seeking. Then one hand reached around her quilt-covered waist, and the other touched her hair, tilting her face slightly—their mouths came together a third time in a caress that drew a dual sigh.

She heard his breathing, louder and quicker. She felt his heat, swelling around her.

Smothering her ... searing her ... punishing her.

She pushed at him, unable to stop herself though she knew it would make what would come only worse.

She raised her arms in futile protection against the blows.

"Alba!"

Davis's voice. Davis's face. But at such a distance. Or was she at a distance? Looking down, watching the woman flinch as the man reached to her. Watching the man jerk as if
he
had sustained a blow.

Davis. A good man, one who must find a good woman to give him love and babies, and all that he deserved. All that she was not.

"Go, please. Now."

"Alba, I shouldn't have—I'm sorry. Are you all right? I won't ... Just look at me, please."

She wouldn't look at him.

"Go. Please."

He did. Slowly. Pausing four long, painful heartbeats at the door before closing it, and leaving her to stare at the faint stain on the quilt, in the shape of a man's hand.

Nick would have left without seeing her again, but Rachel sought him out at first light as he saddled Brujo in the snug stable. She brought a packet of food for his journey, another parcel and a letter for his sister.

"I hope you don't mind."

"I don't mind,” he said gruffly.

"Thank you, I—Oh!"

Her gasp brought his head around to her. Her eyes were fastened on his throat. He'd forgotten to tie his bandanna high the way he had yesterday when he'd seen her.

"What happened, Nick?"

Her hand stretched toward him. Her fingers would be gentle, healing. He knew that touch, he knew the peace and the heat it could bring.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

Her indignation ended in something near a squeak, and he nearly smiled. The lifting of his lips stopped abruptly when her outstretched fingers brushed the raw flesh of his throat. He backed away, but too late. He already felt the contact through his bones, down to his gut and into his soul.

"Nick, you got frostbit. Saving Gordon?” This time, her voice was throaty.

"It'll heal."

The pale light made her skin look nearly as white as the snow that awaited him outside, except for blued shadows under her eyes. Had she stayed awake all night, watching over her husband? Had she lain, alone, in her bed, thinking of him, of Nick Dusaq, lying in the bunkhouse, longing for her against every command of his mind? Or had the writing of this letter to his sister, thick and crisp, kept her from sleep?

The letter, tucked inside his coat, seemed to burn against the skin of his chest.

He swung into the saddle as she opened the stable door for him. He would have passed with only a nod, but she put a hand out that brushed at his leg.

"Take care of yourself, Nick."

"Goodbye, Rachel."

"You got enough wood until supper. Alba?” Nick glanced over as he drew on gloves. “Need Davis to get more?"

Without looking she knew Davis's eyes rested on her. She had not been alone with him in the week since Nick returned from Natchez. They exchanged no more words than those necessary. Nick hadn't noticed. He had returned with a deeper silence than ever.

"No. There is sufficient firewood."

Nick opened the door, letting a swirl of bracing air in. “Let's go then, Davis."

Davis followed slowly. At the door, he paused, his gaze resting on the lowered woodpile, then coming to her. She would carry the firewood herself, once they were gone.

But when the door closed, she did not set to her chores. Instead, she took from the pocket of her apron the letter Nick had brought from Rachel, along with a shawl and two books. Sitting at the table she opened the folded sheets and read them a fifth time.

She had never received a letter before.

Reading the words the other woman had written to her was at first a strange experience. This was the woman who had brought her brother much pain. But this also, Alba had recognized in her brief time at Natchez, was the woman whom her brother had given pain.

Alba would protect Nick if she could, but she would not lay blame. She had been judged, found lacking and punished too often, too arbitrarily to easily take any of those roles on herself.

Also, there had been in Rachel a strength and a resolve Alba admired. And her eyes had looked at Alba with neither pity nor curiosity.

Alba traced phrases of formal thanks for the care Alba had given Gordon Wood, expressions of gratitude and admiration. Then she came to the ending. These words seemed to her to have come quickly, before the mind stopped or polished them.

I wonder. Alba, if you long for a friend, as I do. I thought when we met that you might be my friend. I should very much like to have you come stay with me for a while here at Natchez, at any time that might suit you. I hope you will.

And then the signature.

Alba smoothed her palm over the pages. She would like a friend. Someone to talk to. Not of her secrets, because they were best left in the depths of her soul. But to talk with quietly of her life now. Of the dazzle of the sun on the snow. Of the way the air could bite. Of the strange fruits and plants she had seen in those early days and now eagerly awaited along with spring.

The things she once said to Davis because she knew he would listen with kindness and interest.

Yes, Rachel Wood, I do long for a friend.

A racking cough stopped Rachel outside Gordon's room. After Rachel spent all day in the sickroom, Esther had ordered her to take a brisk walk, eat supper, then rest. She followed each command. And now, with the sun set and the moon risen, she would spend the night at her husband's bedside.

He had not been out of his bed in the nearly six weeks since Nick brought him home to Natchez.

Some days the foreman, Jim Henderson, gave him reports. But Rachel and Esther rationed those days because the news was bad.

Rachel had ridden out when the warmth of spring and an obvious greening had come to the range, and had fought against being sick at the sight and smell of decaying carcasses.

Henderson didn't tell her much, but from Bob Chapman she heard that they hoped half the herd had survived, but feared it was more like a third. Bob once dropped a comment that made her guess that land she'd thought Gordon owned was really open range he'd taken the use of. Most outfits staked claim to a lot of open range. But Pa and Shag had always held with the security of a deed.

After that, she spent several hours each day studying papers in Gordon's desk, acquainting herself with the Natchez operation. She was appalled at what he'd spent on her, on furnishing Natchez, on entertainment. The more she learned, the more she suspected Gordon's refusal to talk to her hadn't so much been a matter of shielding her from the vulgarity of business as shielding his ego from acknowledging his finances’ sorry state.

She hadn't let him know these past weeks that she had any idea of the problems, because the priority had been to get Gordon well.

Only in the past three days had she acknowledged to herself that that wasn't going to happen.

The door of his room opened, and Esther came out. Rachel, wondering how long she had stood there, realized the cough had quieted.

"How is he?"

"He is calm. He is ready."

Rachel's gaze jerked to the steady brown eyes regarding her. “You don't think..."

"He wants to see you,” was all Esther said.

Rachel steeled herself. But when she entered the dim room she found Gordon, though pale and almost shrunken inside his slack skin, didn't have the feverish glaze of the worst days and nights.

She sat on the edge of the bed and took his hand between hers.

Gordon gave her a faint smile, then turned his head on the pillows that propped him to the near sitting position that eased his breathing. Rachel followed his gaze.

"I should close that curtain.” She started to rise.

"No. I asked Esther to leave it, and keep the lamp low. I want to see the moon."

He didn't take his eyes from the window as he asked in a dreamy voice, “Have you ever seen moonlight on a magnolia, Rachel?"

"No, I never have, Gordon."

"That silver light on those glossy leaves is something to behold on a soft spring night.” His voice carried more of the South than usual. “The breeze is like a lover's breath and the leaves seem to ripple like a dark waterfall tipped with silver."

"It sounds lovely."

"I wish I could see it once more."

"You will, Gordon. Next year—"

"No.” The soft word stopped her. “I left that long ago and made my life here."

She latched onto that. “That's right. And spring's coming here. You can feel it in the air, Gordon. In a couple days, we can open the window and you can feel it, too. It's not Mississippi,” she gently teased, “but it's getting to be fine weather. Why, before much longer, we'll be going to roundup. Jim's hired on hands and they're repairing wagons and bridles and..."

Her voice trailed off as he faced her, and she knew he hadn't heard a word. His grip tightened on her hand.

"I'm sorry, Rachel."

"Hush now, Gordon. You rest."

"I'll have time enough to rest soon, girl. An eternity of rest.” A ghost of his old chuckle slid into coughing.

Rachel held him upright so he could sip water.

"Remember that day I rode in to your branding camp? I told you to marry me so I could buy you pretty dresses. I did that, didn't I, Rachel? Buy you pretty dresses."

"Yes, you did, Gordon. Beautiful dresses."

"You look beautiful in them. Like an angel. Like something a painter'd be proud to put on canvas and sign his name to."

She thought he might sleep now, but his voice came again. “I told you that day to marry me so you wouldn't have to worry about running a ranch. I told you I'd take care of you, for always. I've let you down, Rachel. You lived up to your part. You always made me proud to have you be Mrs. Gordon Wood. But I'm leaving you with a sorry state, Rachel, and that's the truth of it. I've never owned much land, never saw the need, but now ... I don't know, maybe that Nick Dusaq has the right of it, buying a small place and starting that way. But it wasn't the way I'd run cattle, it wasn't the way I knew."

"I know, Gordon. It's all right."

"No, it's not. It's not all right at all,” he said with something close to his old vigor. “That's what I'm telling you. What land there is is mostly mortgaged deep. And there're other debts. I thought if we could ride through this winter ... this damn winter."

The surge of energy ebbed, and Gordon was left an old and heartsore man.

"I'm leaving you debts and a dying herd, Rachel. But I'm asking you to keep Natchez alive. Don't let it die."

"Natchez won't die, Gordon. I'll see to it. You rest now."

"Yes, I'll rest now. I'll rest easier."

Gordon Wood died early the next morning. Just after sunup. The time of day he'd loved to ride out to watch the spring sun begin to light the earth of his beloved Natchez with a new day and a new season.

The same wind that had brought spring in full force whipped at Rachel's hair, pulling a stand free. She shifted Johnny more firmly into one arm so she could tuck the strand beneath her good black bonnet. The hilltop she'd selected for Gordon's grave was open to a wind that tugged at men's coats and swirled ladies’ skirts. But it provided a view he'd loved—looking down on the house and buildings of Natchez and beyond to open range with a ridge of mountains in the distance.

The preacher droned on. He'd come from Chelico and clearly intended to make his trip worthwhile.

Clearing weather had brought a good number to Gordon's funeral. That and a measure of respect for the man, mixed, she suspected, with a powerful dose of curiosity about how the new widow was taking her reduced circumstances.

If they expected a melodrama, they'd come a long way over hard country for a disappointment.

But how would she provide for her child and all the people of Natchez and the Circle T with a dying herd and crippling debts?

Another tendril of hair tickled her temple. Once more she shifted her son and reached to capture the escaped hair. The movement brought her head up, and she nearly gasped at the intensity of a pair of black eyes boring into her.

Nick stood at the foot of the open grave, opposite where she stood by the preacher. Alba was next to him and Davis just behind, yet Nick seemed to her eyes to be totally separate from every other person in the gathering.

The stem lines of his face revealed little, even as his eyes shifted from her face to the baby she held in her arms.

You carry my child, don't you?

Yes, I carried your child, Nick. And now I hold your son.

She turned John slightly, easing away the blanket so that while it curtained him from the wind, it didn't cover his dark-haired head and honey-skinned face.

Your son, Nick. Do you feel nothing?

The man across from them showed no reaction.