Widow Woman (34 page)

"If you're talking about her heart, you can't protect anybody's heart.” She swallowed, trying to ease the ache in her own chest. “If you're talking about other matters, well, do you think Davis is capable of hurting her?"

"Any man's capable,” he said grimly.

Rachel figured he was thinking of his own demons, though he spoke of Davis and Alba. “Nick, you know Davis Andresson. You trust him. Do you truly think he is capable of hurting Alba?"

He stared at her, his tense stance unyielding, but the struggle apparent in the depths of his eyes. His lips parted, and Rachel felt a swell of hope. Then he clamped them shut again, and turned to the door.

"I'll send Davis with the mare,” he muttered without facing her.

Thomas Dunn made no pretense of politeness when Nick strode into the KD office. “What do you want, Dusaq?"

"You need cattle. I have cattle to sell."

"I had the feeling, a while back, that you didn't want to sell anything to me under any circumstances."

"I didn't. Now I do."

Dunn's eyebrows rose, then his eyes narrowed. “Why?"

"I have use for cash."

"But not cattle?"

Nick maintained a bland stare.

Dunn seemed to relax. “What's your price?"

Nick named a figure slightly under what he'd get on the Eastern markets. Dunn acknowledged that with a thoughtful nod. “So, you think I need cattle."

"I
know
you need cattle. I know your losses."

"Everybody had losses this winter."

"And that means everybody has two choices. Rebuild their herd or get out. Which is it going to be, Dunn?"

Dunn's eyes clashed with Nick's. Nick didn't flinch. Locking eyes with an animal could cause it to attack, but sometimes it was the only way to face one down.

Nothing changed in the older man's gray eyes before he spoke. “How many head?"

"Two hundred."

A flicker crossed the gray, a mingling of disappointment and perhaps a reluctant respect. “Two hundred? So you're not one of those getting out of the business, Dusaq? But selling two hundred isn't the way to build your herd, either. What are you up to?"

"Two hundred won't cut my herd too close and it'll let you rebuild."

"But it won't let me rebuild fast, not the way buying your whole herd would."

"No, it won't."

Dunn moved to his ornately carved desk. “I presume a bank draft will do."

"On the Chelico bank."

They'd never be friends; they might even remain enemies. But each knew the other wouldn't be driven away—not by nature, not by human means.

"Delivery?"

"Send your men with me now. I'll cut and your men can say yes or no to each head."

"I'll come myself."

"Up to you. But it's got to be now."

"I think I begin to understand you, Dusaq."

Nick gave no answer, watching flow of pen across paper.

"I had thought you were too impatient, too cynical for this business. It doesn't do to be soft, but a man's got to have a gut optimism that time will turn today's travail to advantage. Yes,” Dunn went on, blowing on damp ink, “a man has to have faith that things will come right, because he has faith in himself. That's why I'm buying your cattle."

Nick's eyes went to the window, looking beyond lace curtains.

"Could be that's why I'm selling them."

Not more than a dozen words in nearly four days. Nick figured that was silent, even for Davis Andresson.

Nick had returned to the cabin two days after he left. Davis hadn't asked where he'd been and he hadn't told him. All he'd said was, “We're leaving for Chelico at first light."

"Can't leave your sister alone."

"She can stay a while at the Circle T."

Next day they rode with Alba to within sight of the Circle T home ranch, watched her on her way to the house, then veered off toward Chelico.

In town, Nick found Rachel's horses had gone to a number of buyers. Most of the two dozen animals sold were already headed East. For those he sent telegrams offering to buy back the ones he could trace. Others, he and Davis set to tracking down.

After two days, they'd bought an older mare, a two-year-old colt, a yearling and Fanny—not much of Rachel's precious stock, but some.

They put miles behind them before making camp. They picketed the horses that night, then led them on a string next morning, it was slower going, but faster than rounding them up if they bolted.

Davis shifted in his saddle, and cleared his throat.

"I'm glad you did this, Nick."

Nick grunted, not quite willing to admit to himself he was pleased to hear Davis's voice, much less his words.

"You won't regret it,” Davis added.

"You might. Money for a plow blade went into these horses. If Henry can't fix it, we'll be digging Alba's ground by hand next year. I don't want my sister coming after me again for abusing your hands."

Dull color crept into sight above the fraying collar of Davis's shirt, but he answered calmly, “Don't worry about Alba."

Nick wondered if the other man intended the proprietary note.

"When that roan mare comes in season, I want you to take her to the Circle T, match her with Warrior."

Davis said nothing, but his eyes remained on Nick.

It wasn't until midafternoon that Nick spoke again.

"I said the other day you were taking a lot on yourself, Davis."

Andresson nodded, not in the least apologetic.

"I didn't mean it as a good thing, but I see it different now. You've worked real hard—I expected that. But you've done a lot for the spread, things like changing that creek behind the cabin. Looking at ways to improve."

Only the creak of saddle leather and the rhythmic thud of hoofs broke the silence for a few minutes.

"I'm making you part owner. Ten percent. Or if you want to put some wages back in, I'll go a quarter share."

"Quarter share,” Davis blurted, then colored as Nick grinned. “I'll put back all my wages if need be, because I knew from the start you'd make something fine of this spread. And I'm honored, right honored, to have you making me a part of it. I'm grateful, too, for the chance."

"Chance to work your hide off,” Nick muttered, shifting in his saddle at Andresson's burst of words.

"But,” Davis seemed to gather himself then rushed on, “what means more is you trusting me this way."

The words surprised Nick almost as much as his own reaction. He looked at Andresson, and said what he hadn't known was true until a second before. “I do trust you, Davis. But you might want to hear about a deal I made with Dunn before you decide for sure."

"Alba, come with me. I have something to say to you."

Alba's hands stilled, knuckles deep in the bread she was kneading. “Where to, Davis?"

"The creek."

Davis hadn't said a word to her when she'd arrived a couple hours ago from the Circle T, riding along with Henry when he delivered the repaired blade. The old man had eyed Rachel's horses in the corral with raised eyebrows, but asked only where Nick was. Checking stock, Davis told him. Henry nodded serenely.

Alba wished she had some of that serenity. She'd been edgy for days. She had not told Rachel why Nick and Davis had gone to Chelico; if they failed she did not want Rachel disappointed; if they succeeded it was not for her to give that joy to Rachel. So a silence had settled between them that had not existed before.

Also, there were Rachel's questions about Davis. Kindly, even tentative, yet a matter Alba did not want in her conversations while she tried so desperately to put him from her mind.

Now he stood behind her, demanding she come with him. “Nick will wonder—"

"Nick won't be back till supper. That's why I came in now. I've things to say that're between you and me.” She stared over her shoulder at him. His hands clenched. “I won't be saying anything improper for a lady."

She uncurled her fingers from the dough, spread a cloth atop it and wiped her hands on her apron. She held her head high as she walked unevenly out of the cabin.

At the level area by the creek, she sat on the edge of the bank, hands folded in her lap, back straight.

Davis planted his backside on the bank three feet from her as if it were the saddle of a bucking horse.

"Nick's giving me a share of the spread. Making me a partner,” he blurted.

A spurt of air escaped her in a short “Oh."

He rushed through an explanation. Alba heard it all, recognized his pleasure and pride. But his words jumbled in her head with her thoughts and reactions.

Until now she hadn't realized what she'd feared—but he wasn't leaving, he was staying.

He'd be more than a cowhand. He'd be a man any would consider a worthy suitor for a woman. Another woman.

"I'm thinking we could cross the longhorns Nick brought from Texas with breeds like I knew in Iowa, getting good meat that'll stand up to winters. I've got other ideas. With a share of the place, I got a right to tell ‘em, too."

She stared straight ahead. “I am very pleased for you."

"I won't stay if it means you'll chafe with me around."

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"I mean,” he said, with a grimness she'd never heard from him, “that I wouldn't take pleasure in having a share if I knew you'd keep on feeling the way you have since, uh, this recent spell. I couldn't have any ease with you feeling uncomfortable with me around. If you can't forgive me, well, I'll move along."

"Move along? And leave the share Nick has given you?"

"Yes.” So simply he told so much about himself.

"You will not give up such an opportunity.” Even though the opportunity would mean he could take a wife.

If she was firm, he was stubborn. “I won't stay if it keeps recalling to you what a clumsy-mouthed fool said and did so you had to remind him you're a lady and he's far from a gentleman."

"That was not—” She faced him in her effort to make him understand. “I did not mean for you to take my words that way, Davis. I ... I lost my temper with you and..."

Her voice faded at the import of her words.
She had lost her temper.
She had never lost her temper, not in all the years of her life. From her earliest memories, she had known safety depended on that. Men lost their tempers and lashed out, even when she held herself in check. What might they do if she became angry? She had never risked finding out. Even with her brother, she always maintained the security of her serenity.

Only with this man had she lost her temper.

Instinct as deep as survival had told her that with him she could be angry without risk.

Davis picked up her words. “You had cause to lose your temper. And I apologize for spyin’ on you. It wasn't right, no matter what I was intendin'. But—” stubbornness came to the fore “—I won't apologize for kissing you. I ain't going to stop wanting to kiss you, but I won't force it on you—don't worry on that. But if you can't live comfortable, then I'll move on."

Her mind could not formulate words, so she left that task to her heart. “You have never asked about ... about how I walk."

He didn't seem surprised. “Nope."

"Have you never wondered if I was born with such a walk?"

"Figured you weren't born with it. Creatures born a certain way accept it, because they don't know different. But those that get hurt later, there's a pain ... Not in the bone or the body, but deeper. It shows here.” He brushed a fingertip below her eye.

She stared into his eyes, finding peace there, as if their blue were a clear, calm lake whose waters could keep her soul afloat.

She told him of her father, of his drunken rampages, his rotting breath, his hurtful hands shaking, pinching, slapping. And then his fists.

She told him of Nick's attempts to protect her, of his final struggle with their father, and of her sanctuary with the sisters.

She told him of Harve Martin, of his early charm, of his unreasoning rages, of his cruelty and of his death.

And all the while, she cried. Tears she had never shed in moments and hours and years of pain, released now.

She ended on a shuddering sigh, drew in a long breath, and felt the burning ache in her eyes. She had purged herself, and that was good. She could not regret this. She could only be thankful that such a man as Davis Andresson existed, to hear her words and to soak up her tears.

She stood, the need to balance against the weakness in her right hip automatic, yet enough to remind her of what divided her from other women.

He caught her wrist. He stood. She felt him at her shoulder, the tall, lean body blocking the insistent breeze from her.

"Alba."

He bent, dipping his head, and touching her lips with his. He kissed her again, so gently. And again. “Ah, Alba,” he breathed so quiet against her lips.

Tears slipped from eyes she had thought were dry as midsummer drought. But these tears came from a different place, sliding free as softly as a bubbling spring.

He kissed her tears. His arms opened and she moved into their haven. With lips and hands, he stroked and caressed.

He was a healer.

She trembled as the layers of cloth that protected her secrets came away, but she didn't falter.

Davis squeezed his eyes closed when she tilted her hips to accept him fully. When he opened them, their blue dazzled her, yet she would not look away as he began to move with the patient care he showed in all things, carrying them to a destination neither could imagine without the other.

"I lied to you, Alba."

She stirred in his arms, and waited. Davis might believe he had lied, but he would never betray her trust in him.

"I told you I watched you here at the creek because I worried about you, but that wasn't the sole reason. I watched you because I was always dreaming of being with you like this."

She nuzzled against the firm, warm flesh where his neck met his shoulder, and his arms tightened.

"Most women, they wait for me to talk, and the more they wait the less I can. But you, you look at me like you already understand—without talkin'—and then I can talk. Alba?” He slid a hand into her disordered hair and gently drew her up until their eyes met.