Spirit of the Wolf (29 page)

***

She'd dreamed of rose bouquets and long flowing veils and ruffled white dresses. He hadn't come to dinner
after their moments in the loft,
but then, Bess
hadn’t been
surprised.
Chance
had always been a bit remote and distant, particularly when folks got too close.

For the second day in a row, she made all his favorite things for breakfast: eggs and thick-sliced ham, jam and bread, fried potatoes, and honey b
iscuits
. She'd brewed the coffee extra strong, just the way he liked it, and added a dash of pepper to the biscuit batter, because she'd so often seen him spice them up at the table.

Bess had never minded the womanly chores that involved caring for the men of Foggy Bottom
, b
ut she'd never enjoyed it quite so much as when she prepared the food that would sustain
Chance
throughout his long, hard day.
The Widow Rennick had
certainly
been on-target when she'd said
“
When the rig
ht man comes along, you'll know!”

Bess whistled as she set the dining room table, hummed as she
lined it with
big steaming bowls of food. By the time she stepped onto the porch to ring the bell, Bess felt like
singing. She
knew the male mind well enough to understand that terms of endearment
—and
commitment
—were
difficult to speak.
But it didn’t matter, because
Chance
had
shown
her how he felt. Someday, he’d say those
three, wonderful words
again, and next time, it wouldn’t be an accident that she heard them. For
now,
patience
was
the operative word....

She rang the breakfast bell, and one by one, the men filed into the dining room. Plates began to fill as serving platters were passed up and down the long, narrow table. How could
Chance
miss yet another meal, she wondered, and continue the hard pace he
demanded of
himself?

Once the hired hands had everything they needed, Bess strode determinedly into the kitchen, flung her apron onto the table and slipped quietly out the back door, carrying the plate she'd fixed him. She
aimed to d
eliver it to the bunkhouse, and didn't intend to leave until she'd watched him eat every la
st bite.
When Bess knocked on the door, she heard the sounds of chair legs scraping across the wood floor.

"Who's there?" he called.

"
I've brought you breakfast."

Silence.

Then, "I'm not hungry."

But how could that be? He hadn't
eaten
a real meal since breakfast, two days earlier. "
Chance
Walker," she scolded, "I'm going to count to five, and then I'm coming in. So you'd better make yourself presentable."

She tapped her foot on the flagstone walkway outside the bunkhouse. "One, two, three," she said, her free hand on the tarnished brass doorknob, "four, five!"

Ordinarily, she did not enter the men's quarters except to change their bed linens and mop the floor, and only then, while they were at work in the fields. She believed they deserved as much privacy as this crowded, eight-bed space would allow. It felt odd to be inside while the men were still within shouting distance
. F
elt odder still to be
t
here with one of them present.

"I told you," he
growled,
standing when she entered the room, "I'm not hungry."

"Well, you don't have to get all uppity about it. I
thought
you might enjoy a nice hot meal, since you haven't eaten in so long."

Chance
couldn't take another minute of watching her lovely face, pinched by the
hurt his harsh tone had caused. C
ouldn't take another minute of listening as she struggled not to cry. He crossed the room in three long strides, but stopped short of where she stood. He pocketed both hands and stared at the toes of his boots. "
D
idn't mean to bark at you," he said softly.

When she'd knocked, he'd been sitting at the rickety old desk, trying to explain why he had to leave her. Six sheets of paper, wadded up and tossed into the corner, proved how inadequate words could be at a time like this.

A time like this....

As he'd sat there, trying to pen his goodbye, he found himself
knuckling
his eyes. What would Matt and Mark have thought if they'd seen him, snuffling like an old crone as he tried to write the note that would allow him to sneak away without having to face her
,
directly?

She continued to stand there, napkin-covered plate balanced on one hand, the other fisted on her shapely hip, blinking back tears of her own. He could tell by the set of her shoulders and the tilt of her jaw that she sensed he'd started construction on a wall that would separate them
. T
he quivering of her full lips told him she had no idea
why
.

If only he could tell her everything
!
If he could set the record straight, maybe she'd understand why he couldn't stay. Maybe then she'd realize that if he didn't go, she and Micah and the twins
and everybody associated with the farm
would face the same danger
he'd
been running from all
these
years. If only he could explain that his love for her was why he had to go.

He closed his eyes
to the
'if onlys' and steeled himself to do what
he must.
For
r Bess, the truth would set her every way
but
free.

Chance
took the plate from her, placed it on the corner of the desk, then took the hand that had held it. Her fingers were still warm from the heat of the food, and he stroked her palm, knowing it would probably be the last time he'd touch her. He closed his eyes and sighed.
Dear G
od, but life can be hard
.

"
Chance
...what's wrong?"

If he looked into her face, into that trusting, open face, he'd lose the last vestig
es of self-control.

She
pressed both
hand
s to his
cheek
s
. "I dreamt of you last night," she said, her voice whisper-soft and sweet as fresh-pulled taffy.

He couldn’t,
wouldn’t
admit that he’d dreamed of her, too.

Bess tilted her head, tucked in one corner of her mouth. "You aren't ill, are you? Not that I'd be surprised, the way you've been skipping meals...." She pressed her palm to his brow, then frowned. After a moment, she took a step closer and linked her fingers behind his neck, drew him near and kissed his forehead. "
Mama used to say that’s
a foolproof way to tell if someone has a fever. The lips are far more sensitive than the hands, you see
….
"

He should
send her away,
so he could finish writing the
letter
. So he could
pack, and
hit the road. The best way, he knew, was to admit he would leave. Today. But a
s long as
she stood, boring into him with those big frightened
eyes
o
f hers, he'd
never get the words out
.
She knew
something awful was about to happen, yet there she stood, shoulders back, prepared to take it on the chin.

"Your breakfast is getting cold."

He heard the tremor in her voice, and felt like a heel for being the one who had put it there. "I'm
—“

"
—not
hungry
,” she snapped. “
So you said."

Chance
drove a hand through his hair, nodded toward the plate. "Thanks for thinking of me, though. It was mighty
sweet of you to—“

With no warning, Bess threw herself into his arms. "Oh,
Chance
. It's all right
. Everything is going to be all right.
Whatever it is, we can work it out,
together
." She looked
up
at him. "Because...because I love you, you big galoot."

Groaning with frustration, he
hid his face in her hair
.
Why oh why d
id she have to say
it
out loud!
He
had to find a way to make her understand. To make her see that he was no good for her, so she'd have no regrets, once he was gone.
Chance
closed his eyes. "Bess," he began, "I
—“

"Shhh," she
whispered
a forefinger against his lips. Her eyes glittered with
unshed tears.
"You don't owe me any explanations." She glanced away, but only briefly, as if searching for the courage to continue. When she met his eyes again, it was to say, "You don't owe me anything."

Oh, but you're wrong, my sweet Bess. I owe you
everything.

She had given him a reason to hope.
Ma
de him believe in himself by making him see W.C. Atwood, alias
Chance
Walker, through
her loving
eyes. But before he could put those thoughts into words, she was kissing him, hugging him, promising to love and stand beside him forever, no matter what. And by saying those things, she'd awakened that old longing he'd so carefully hidden deep in his soul.

Bright light dappled through pinholes in the oilcloth window
shade, peppering the left side of her face with sunny freckles, illuminating the soft curve of her cheek, highlighting her full lips, glinting from eyes that gleamed and glittered with unconditional love.

This is how he would remember her, always.

But he wasn't alone yet....

He
would revel in the sweetness of her soft breaths and the satiny smoothness of her face. He would concentrate on every
word that passed her lips,
and memorize t
he
music
of her
voice. This precious tick in time would become his treasured keepsake
. When s
now and rain and blustery winds chilled him to the marrow of his lonely bones
, his time with Bess would remind him that
perfect love
does
exist—at least for some folks—and the knowledge would warm him.
No matter where he went from this day forward, her love would live inside him.

"Ahhh, Bess," he rasped, "you're way too good for the likes of me...."

She stood on tiptoe
kissed him
, then leaned back to say,
"You're full of stuff and nonsense, W.C. Atwood. But I love you anyway
, a
nd I always will."

Micah, head bowed and hands clasped at the small of his back, paced back and forth behind his desk.
"Why all the secrecy,
Chance
?"
Suddenly, he stopped and jabbed an arthritic finger into the air. "I don't mind sayin' it pains me that you feel I can't be trusted with the truth."

The older man's red-faced anger,
Chance
knew, was borne of frustration; he couldn't condone what he didn't understand, and he couldn't understand what
Chance
wouldn't tell him. "What you don't know won't hurt you
.
"

Nodding somberly, he asked, "Have you told Bess?"

Chance
cleared his throat, shrugged. "I'm not much for conversation, and if I know your daughter, she'll want to talk this right into the ground. Frankly, I don't have the time or the patience to tell her what she wants to hear, so it'll be easier all-round if I just lit a shuck out as soon as
—“

Mouth set in grim determination, Micah walked past
Chance
and slid the pocket doors
together
, effectively
shutting
the rest of the world
from
his oak paneled office. "So what you're telling me," he said, sitting on the corner of his desk, "is that you already know she'll react badly to news of your
…
of your sudden departure."

Chance
ran his a hand through his hair and nodded. He'd given the matter a great deal of thought. There would be a fair amount of ranting and raving, and
plenty
of her 'puppy to the root'
questioning
. She'd give him a piece of her mind, all right.
And why not? She's given you her heart....