"But Red Feather and his band were allowed to stay?"
"The town was divided. Some, including the mayor, were violently opposed. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if some blame the Indians for the recent fire."
"You don't believe that, do you?" Maddie asked.
"It doesn't' matter what I believe. What else did Red Feather say?"
Maddie glanced down at her plate. Red feather had called him a murderer. She'd been shocked at the time, but now she was convinced that it wasn't Luke he'd called a murderer, but all white men. It was the only explanation that made sense. "That's all."
She glanced up to find Luke looking at her and she tried to read his expression. But now, as always, it was difficult--mainly because he took such care to keep his thoughts to himself.
"He did make it clear to me that he had a low regard for white men. Is it true they lied to him?"
Luke nodded. "I'm afraid so. The government made many false promises in order to persuade the Indians to move into Indian Territory." He leaned forward. "Maddie, please be careful. You don't know what he…what Red Feather might be capable of."
"Do you think he'll resort to violence?"
"It appears he's already resorted to violence."
Maddie shivered. She'd been cold ever since finding Prince's body. "Do you think…" She glanced at Matthew. "What happened to Prince...do you think it was a warning?"
"Maybe."
She met Luke's gaze. She didn't want to think about the possibility that Lefty and Flying Hawk and the others might turn against them. "Is Matthew going to be all right?"
Luke's face looked grim, but he nodded his head.
"Did you talk about it?"
"Talk about what?"
"Prince's death."
A muscle tightened at his jaw. "Some things are best not talked about."
"But…"
"Please don't fight me on this, Maddie. I know what's best for my son. Discussing something that is obviously
very upsetting to him can only do more harm."
She clamped her mouth shut. He was wrong about how he handled Matthew. She was positive of it. But she had no right to go against his wishes.
After he'd finished his meal, Luke pushed his empty plate away and excused himself. He stopped by her chair as if to say something, then apparently thinking better of it, he heaved a deep sigh and walked outside.
Maddie set to work washing the dishes and tidying up the soddy. When she had finished, she sprinkled fresh hay upon the dirt floor. Matthew normally helped her, but tonight he sat on the edge of the bed and stared into space.
He looked so distant and forlorn, she didn't have the heart to scold him for neglecting his chores. She dried the last dish and stacked it with the others on the shelf. She wiped her hands on the flour sack tied to her waist for an apron and walked over to the bed.
"It's bedtime," she said gently. Without meeting her eyes, he lay his head on the feather pillow. She sat on the edge of the straw mattress and rubbed his back. The boy held himself rigid, seeming almost oblivious to her presence. She wanted so much to talk to him, to talk about Prince, about his own mother. But she couldn't in good conscience go against his father's wishes.
Still, she fervently believed that loss and sadness needed expression. She pulled off his boots. "My father died when I was sixteen," she said softly. The candle next to the bed flickered, and for an instant it appeared to grow brighter as thoughts of her father came flooding back.
"You would have liked him, Matthew. His job required him to travel a lot, and I hardly saw him as a child. But when he came back to town…oh, did we have fun." She smiled as the warm memories of her childhood filled her heart.
"His favorite pastime was to race by the White House in his carriage." She glanced down at Matthew, surprised to find him looking up at her, the blank expression gone. "The White House is where the president of the United States lives," she explained. "And my father was certain that the president stopped everything he was doing just to come to the window and wave at us as we raced past."
She fell silent a moment to savor the memory, before adding, "I was very sad when my father died. I cried for days, and my heart felt like it was going to break inside my chest. And right here…" she ran a finger along Matthew's throat... "I felt a lump that wouldn't go away."
Matthew couldn't say anything, of course, not verbally. But his face, his eyes, the hand that found hers, spoke to her on so many levels, she could almost hear his voice.
That's how I feel
, he seemed to say, and his eyes filled with tears.
It was quite some time before his body grew still and she released him. Matthew obviously thought she was going to leave him, for he grabbed her hand and looked at her with panic-filled eyes.
She squeezed his hand and leaned closer to reassure him. "I'll stay until your father returns. I promise."
Kissing him on the forehead, she helped him to undress and put on his linen nightshirt. "If you move over, I'll lay by your side."
His mouth softened. It wasn't exactly a smile, but it was close enough to make her heart lilt. He moved away from the edge of the mattress, and she lay her head on the pillow next to his and sang him a song that her father used to sing about drunken sailors and tipsy horses. What a song to sing to a child, her mother used to scold. What a song indeed.
But it did the job, and soon Matthew's eyes fluttered shut.
It was nearly ten o'clock before Luke doused the lantern in the barn and stepped outside. The tipi was dark, and for that he was grateful. Still, the memory of the schoolteacher outlined against the hide walls came to mind, and he was momentarily taken aback.
Why did that particular vision of her keep coming back to taunt him? And why was it that at odd times during the day when he was in the fields working, he kept seeing her in his mind's eye, bolting through the tall grass like a wild young colt, her red hair streaming behind her?
No, she wasn't his type. Not physically. Not even intellectually. What in the world was to be done with a woman who had the audacity to call the president of the United States a drunken swindler and who knew the personal strengths and shortcomings of every senator? She understood things he had no knowledge of, confound it! And where in the world had she learned all those statistics about the war? It didn't seem right somehow, for a woman to be so knowledgeable about military strategy.
She wasn't his type, praise the Lord for that. A woman with such a mind of her own could drive a man to drink.
He tiptoed passed the dark tipi so as not to wake her and walked quietly into the house.
The candles had burned down to the stub, and the flickering light was so dim, he could barely find his way around the room.
He peeled off his shirt and pants down to his underwear. Not wanting to wake Matthew, who preferred to sleep on the outer edge of the bed, he crawled onto the mattress from the bottom of the bed. Halfway up he froze. The light flared as the last bit of wick gasped amid a puddle of hot melted wax.
In the instant before the light went out altogether, he caught a glimpse of glowing red hair, and his heart practically stood still.
Maddie was sound asleep on his bed.
Chapter 20
During a span that lasted mere seconds, no more than a moment of time, Luke's heart stopped, fluttered, and then beat so quickly that he could barely breathe. The world seemed defined, suddenly, by her presence. His senses were so attuned to her that even the gentle sound of her breathing seemed like a roar to his ears.
For the longest time he remained in place, frozen on hands and knees, afraid to move for fear of waking her, for fear of waking himself from what surely must be a dream.
His mind raced with a bewildering profusion of sensation. It was all at once dark and light, hot and cold, noisy and quiet.
He forced a deep breath, clearing his head. The hard muscles of his back relaxed and the knots began to dissolve. At long last, reality took precedence. It was cold, dammit. And uncomfortable. He had to do something.
He supposed he could sleep in her tipi. It wasn't a very appealing option, though, and he quickly discarded it. Besides, he was likely to wake her up if he started to bump around in the dark. Relieved that he'd found a justifiable reason to crawl into his own bed, he inched his way along the length of the mattress and took his place next to Matthew.
There wasn't room in the bed for three people. He would have to sleep sideways, with his back pressed against the wooden board, next to the wall.
He could sleep on the floor, he supposed. It would be the gentlemanly thing to do under the circumstances.
But he wasn't feeling particularly gentlemanly. Come to think about it, he wasn't feeling particularly tired, although
scant moments ago he'd felt exhausted.
His senses were focused on her, alert to the sweet flower like scent--even the warmth--of her body.
It had been so long since he'd slept with a woman. Not that he was sleeping with one, of course. Not in the traditional sense. If he ever did have occasion to take a woman to bed, it certainly wouldn't be a brash, tall, skinny woman with…warm, soft, loving eyes that could melt butter, whose hair was so shiny and bright that even the dimmest of lights danced upon its silken strands.
He pressed his heated body against the wall and tried to ease the memory of her naked form upon the walls of her tipi.
A shadow
, he told himself,
that's all it was. Just a shadow.
Even so, his mind had no trouble filling in every glorious detail. Not then, not now.
Lord, if it weren't for Matthew, he'd have her in his arms so fast she wouldn't have a chance to object. He would devour her lips with his own, make her body sing until all of her fiery sparks and boundless energy were focused solely on him.
Just thinking of it made his body sing.
Just thinking of it made his body ache.
Just thinking of all that he would do to her made his heart fight the tight constraints he had put on it. If only Matthew weren't between them.
The fantasy was wiped out by another thought, this one a grim reminder of the past. Even if Matthew weren't between them, Luke could not give into his feelings, not completely. He must maintain control, hold back, never let himself love fully. That was the Tyler legacy.
He felt a stiffness in his shoulder. He was cramped, and something--Matthew's elbow, it turned out--was poking him in the ribs. Gingerly, he moved his son's arm. He then flung his own arm across Matthew's waist, stiffening when his hand found hers. He held his breath, and when she didn't move, he relaxed and let his own fingers curl around hers.
Her skin felt warm and silky soft.
Soft.
He chuckled silently. Now that was a word he had never thought he would use in regards to Maddie. And here, tonight, twice already, he had used the word to describe her.
Reminding himself not to feel too much, he held on to her hand like a drowning man held on to a life raft.
The tipi was dark and cold when she slipped inside and felt for her bedroll. His bed. Lord, she'd never forget waking up and finding his hand on hers.
He hadn't known he'd had his hand in hers.
He probably thought it was Matthew's. Of course. That was it. And it had been dark when he entered the soddy; maybe he hadn't realized she was there. Was that possible? Could someone actually not know that a third person was in a bed that size? Not likely. But if he had known…why hadn't he waked her so that she could return to her own bed?
He didn't know.
He did!
Shaken by the womanly feelings that stirred within her, she sank to the ground and scampered like a frightened child into the protective warmth of the bedroll.
It was a poor substitute for the warmth and fullness of his bed, knowing he was but a child's width away from her. If he hadn't been for Matthew…holy Jupiter. Her hearth thudded at the thought of what might have happened, could have happened, would surely have happened had it not been for Matthew.
She left early next morning to check on the progress of the school, driving her wagon along the dirt road leading to Colton as fast as poor Rutabaga could go. She'd left before Matthew or his father had made an appearance, before the smell of coffee told her that they were awake, before Lefty had made his morning trek to inquire if it was the Great Father's day.