Winter Hearts (20 page)

“To see what I’m doing to him? He’s just fine.”

They stood toe to toe. “I could just as easy get word to the sheriff in Volga. What you do is against the law,” Morley said.

“Since when is baching against the law?” Sam asked. “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Morley, but you have nothing to report to the sheriff except a lot of speculation. Thank you for visiting. I hope to be at church soon.”

He attempted to wedge himself between Luke and Morley until Morley backed up and went for his horse. “I saw him kissing you just now. That’s more than speculation.”

“You’re word against ours,” Sam said.

“I’m not giving up on you, Sam,” Morley called out as he mounted. “A man like you belongs with a refined young lady like Josephine.”

They stood watching Morley ride off. “Why is that man so damned determined that you should marry his daughter?” Luke asked. “Sure, you’re a handsome son of a gun, but you’re not the only healthy, good-looking boy in Dakota Territory.”

Sam shrugged. “I suppose he just likes me,” he said vaguely. “Shall we take the wagon? We never did return that butter churn.”

“We can’t return it now. You’ve used it,” Luke said. “But I’ll hitch up the wagon. Are you feeling lazy?”

“A little,” Sam admitted.

* * * *

“Wait till you see how much De Smet has grown since you were there last. It’s exploding like a mosquito that just drank a man’s blood,” Luke said when the town was in sight. Even from a mile away, they could see the bustle of people.

Sam laughed. “Beautiful simile.”

“Beautiful what?” Luke asked, but before Sam could answer, he went on. “There’s a post office now and more stores. A bank opened up and a newspaper office and a furniture store, not that we need any more furniture. More people are living in town and working in the businesses. They’re even building a bigger schoolhouse with two stories. There’re enough new people that many of them don’t know us, and I’m sure they have enough to do without gossiping about us.”

“I like this,” Sam said, leaning his head on Luke’s shoulder.

“Sit up before we’re seen.” Sam still made him nervous with his open affection. The boy should know better. “What do you like?” he asked when Sam moved away.

“Riding in the wagon like this. We can pretend it’s a carriage, a fancy one like Morley has, and we’re out for a Sunday buggy ride.”

“It ain’t Sunday, and if you want a carriage like that, go and marry his daughter. I’m not a carriage-riding kind of man.”

Sam laughed. “I know. That’s what I like about you.”

“Your father may work in a tannery, but you sure have some fancy ways with your tablecloths and new bed sheets.”

* * * *

Luke tied the wagon to the hitching post outside Clancy’s Dry Goods store so Sam wouldn’t have to walk very far to get his cloth. Luke was still acting like Sam was fragile, though he knew his young man was all healed up. “I’m going over to see about renting that combine. Then I’m heading to Fuller’s for a new spade to dig a root cellar. The old one’s got a broken tip. It’s nearly time to pick the squash and potatoes and beets. You’ll need somewhere to put them up for the winter.”

“I’ll go to the post office too to see if we have any mail,” Sam said.

Luke watched Sam go into the store, but when he was out of sight, a slight panic set in. Without thinking, he hurried to the door to look inside through the window. All was well. Only a few ladies were inside shopping, no one to offer Sam any threat.

The arrangement to rent the combine was done in short order and with no trouble, so Luke headed to Fuller’s. A couple men skirted him but more because they were afraid of him than anything else. The few times he’d been in town since Sam’s beating, he had made it clear he would deal promptly with anyone who insulted him or made any disrespectful reference to Sam.

Fuller nodded at him from behind the counter when he walked in. A couple of other men who had greeted him last winter no longer did so, but they knew to keep their mouths shut. Luke chose a shovel from the barrel, thinking about how proud Sam was of his vegetable garden and all the food he’d grown for them. He had plans to can the beets and green beans, or so he said. Each evening when they settled down, he pulled out a book about canning and read it aloud to Luke. On impulse he went to the shelves loaded with mason jars and took down two boxes of a dozen each.

At the counter he paid and was about to leave when Fuller asked, “Did you want the
Boston Globe?
I remember you saying you hailed from Boston. I get newspapers in from all over, what with so many people heading to De Smet these days from back east.”

“I’m not interested in what’s going on in Boston.”

Fuller tossed the newspaper on the counter in front of him. “I see your young man is in it. Nice picture.”

Confused, Luke looked at the newspaper. “What are you talking about? I don’t have a young man, and you must be mistaken about the newspaper.” His first thought was that Sam was a wanted man. But what the hell could his boy have done to have a wanted picture in the paper. Refusing to take the bait, he headed for the door.

Fuller picked up the newspaper and opened it to a picture of a large group of people. “Right there.”

Luke walked back to the counter, and resting the boxes on the edge, he picked up the newspaper.

The headline read, BOSTON BRAHMIN FAMILY DONATES ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND TO HOSPITALS. In the picture under the headline, Luke picked out Sam right away, and standing off to the side, Holland, with a slender, beautifully dressed lady beside him. So stunned he couldn’t think, he stared at the image. How could Sam be in a picture with Holland, and what was that about Boston Brahmins? He’d heard that expression before but never really knew what it meant. Luke rested the newspaper on top of his boxes and carried everything outside.

“That’s four cents for the newspaper, Chandler,” Mr. Fuller called after him.

Ignoring him, Luke went out into the busy street, and being careful to avoid horses and the increasing number of wagons and buggies in De Smet, he crossed Main Street and walked along to the wagon, where he put the jars and the spade.

Afraid to look at the picture again, he stood for more than a minute, bracing himself before focusing once more on the newspaper.

There was Sam with his long, dark blond hair, dressed like a wealthy gentleman, standing beside a man and woman who were also clearly rich. Underneath the picture, he read,
In this undated picture, Mr. Samuel Porter-Smith the second can be seen with his wife, Cora, his son Samuel, and daughters Agnes and Victoria. The Porter-Smiths regularly donate large sums of money to worthy charities and the arts. The Porter-Smiths are pictured with family friend, Holland Endicott, and his wife, May.

Shaking his head, Luke read the words again—and again looked at the picture of Sam and then at Holland.

It wasn’t possible that Sam knew Holland. He’d said nothing. Sam’s father worked in a tannery. For several minutes Luke found it difficult to breathe as anger welled inside him. It must be some strange coincidence unless Sam had lied to him, just like Holland had lied, pretending he was a workingman and then going back to his mansion and his wife when he was done with back alleys and common men like Luke.

There was no sign of Sam, so Luke looked again through the window of Clancy’s. Sam was standing at the counter, smiling and chatting with Mrs. Clancy as he ran his hands over a bolt of white broadcloth. Luke felt uncomfortable going into a shop that was mostly frequented by women, and he didn’t want to confront Sam in town anyway. He wandered along the wooden sidewalk to the post office. He seemed unable to enter a business in De Smet without being greeted by silence. The post office was no different. At the counter the postmaster sat behind a barred grill. “What can I do for you, Mr. Chandler?”

“Is there any mail for me or Sam Smith?”

“There’s no mail for you just now, and I can’t give you someone else’s mail,” the man said.

“Why not? He lives with me.” He could have heard a pin drop.

“Well, I suppose so.” From the pigeonholes behind the counter, the man took a letter and looked at it for half a minute before handing it over. “Make sure he gets it.”

The man turned from the counter and began to shuffle mail that was already sorted into pigeonholes as if he couldn’t wait to get away from Luke.

Outside in the street, Luke read the name. Sam Smith, c/o Post Office, De Smet, Dakota Territory. Confused, he walked back to the wagon. Sam Smith and Samuel Porter-Smith. It had to be him. Aside from the name, the picture, though it wasn’t terribly clear, looked like him. Luke flipped open the newspaper to the picture again and looked closely at it. It was Sam, no doubt of it. Was he a rich boy out for a lark to see how the poorer people lived? Was that where he got his fancy ways, living in a mansion in Boston? All those stories about his father and claiming he’d worked in a hotel were false.

“Do you think you’ll make a good profit on your wheat? It’s a fine crop you’ve got, from what I saw this morning.”

Luke turned to see Linden Morley holding a letter and standing beside him on the board sidewalk. He swore that damned man was haunting him. “I do.”

Morley tapped the letter on the palm of his other hand. “You’re holding Sam back from the life he’s supposed to have.”

“Excuse me. I’ve got things to do.”

Luke took a couple of steps away when he heard Morley say, “I don’t know what kind of spell you’ve put on him, a man like you, but you need to put a stop to it. He’s not who you think he is. He’s not an ordinary young man, Chandler. Is that why you want him? For his wealth?”

Morley knows Sam is rich?

Angered beyond words, Luke spat on the sidewalk. It seemed everyone but him knew about Sam. “No. That’s why you want him. I only just found out. Now take yourself off to mail your fucking letter before I break your nose.” He took a threatening step toward Morley, who walked quickly away and into the post office.

A bell alerted Luke that the door to Clancy’s store was opening. With a wide smile, Sam greeted him. “I got the white broadcloth.” Lowering his voice, he said teasingly, “I told Mrs. Clancy my man and I needed new sheets because we’d worn out the old ones having sex.” He grinned.

Nothing could make Luke smile just then. “You got a letter.” Quickly he closed the newspaper, folded it, and tossed it into the wagon.

Sam took the letter, stuffed it into the pocket of his trousers, and put his package into the wagon. “When are you going to get the combine harvester?”

“A week from today.”

“I’ve seen them in books. It will be really interesting to see how it works.”

The confusion in Luke’s brain was driving him crazy. The picture had to be Sam—and yet it couldn’t be. Surely the young man he loved could not lie so easily and so well. The letter, just like the last three, had been sent to Sam Smith. He distinctly remembered reading the name on the envelopes. They climbed up behind the horses, and Luke backed up the wagon. They were out on the prairie when Sam asked, “Is everything all right, Luke? Was someone in town difficult?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Anyone say anything to you?”

“No.”

“What’s in the boxes?”

“Can’t you hear them rattling? Mason jars for your preserves.”

“Oh! Thank you.” He turned around to look at the boxes. “That was a good idea. I’d have to get them sooner or later. You bought a newspaper?”

Truthfully, he’d stolen it. “Yes. I was interested to see what’s going on in Boston.”

“Which paper is it?” Sam’s tone was quiet all of a sudden.

“The
Boston Globe
.”

“Are you upset about something?”

“Nope.” He was very upset, but until he knew for sure, he wasn’t going to accuse Sam of anything. This could all be one big coincidence, but it could also explain why Morley had been after Sam from the start—which meant he knew about Sam long before he’d read it in the
Boston Globe
. “Who’s your letter from?”

“It looks like my mother’s handwriting. I’ll look at it later.”

“You never opened the last two letters. They’re still sitting on the shelf by the window.”

“I’ll get to them,” Sam said as if he didn’t care.

“Did you ever tell me what your sisters’ names are?” Luke asked.

Eyebrows arching in surprise, Sam said, “I don’t remember. Why?” When Luke didn’t answer, he said, “The older one is Agnes, and the younger one is Victoria.”

They drove the rest of the way home in silence.

Chapter Seventeen

Something was wrong.

Luke had hardly spoken all the way back to the claim, and the moment they got there, he took the spade and said, “I’m going to start digging the root cellar. You unhitch the wagon.”

“What about dinner? You must be hungry.”

“I’ll work for an hour.”

Sam did as he was told and then stood by the barn, watching Luke a hundred feet away with his shirt off, digging. His cock grew hard as he looked at Luke’s lean, heavily muscled body as he worked. It was Luke and all he was that Sam found appealing. Honest, hardworking, yet sure of himself described the man he had fallen in love with. His parents would be horrified, but then they’d be horrified no matter who the man was. Just the fact that Sam was attracted to men had them feeling—what were his mother’s words?—confused and betrayed.

How was it a betrayal of her that her son preferred men to women? His father had said nothing about his preferences, but neither did he defend or support him. Samuel Porter-Smith the second was from that school of men who put ladies on a pedestal.
“You treat your wife like a piece of fine glass,”
he had once told Sam.
“She is precious, beautiful, and easily breakable, so do not distress her.”

Luke drew his arm across his forehead to wipe away the sweat. The action made Sam release a long, slow breath. Maybe it was Luke’s roughness that attracted him, that no-nonsense manliness, that get-it-done attitude. Sam came from a family that got the job done too, but in the case of the Porter-Smiths, that meant philanthropy and a social conscience. Both were wonderful and were values Sam had been raised with.