5

Hours later, Wade was still thinking that he owed the woman thanks, but he couldn’t force the words from his mouth. There had been disapproval in her eyes as well as questions as she’d fingered the bridle. What would she think if she knew he’d had an Indian wife? That might cause her to throw him out when murder hadn’t.

But then why should he blame her? Almost everyone in Colorado despised Indians. Hell, it was probably everyone, what with all the newspapers screaming about atrocities and moving all Utes to Utah where nothing but starvation awaited them.

He sickened whenever he thought about it. The Denver papers had been particularly virulent, accusing the Utes of everything from burning down forests to massacres that never happened. Wade had heard all the charges from miners and hunters traveling through Ute territory. Justification for stealing more land.

And the Utes, hoping for peace under Chief Ouray despite broken government promises and treaties, had steadfastly tried to appease the whites by giving up more and more land. The whites always wanted more, though, particularly the minerals in the Utes’ shining mountains. And then they took other things that didn’t belong to them, like Ute women.

Even his son had been considered less than human because of his Indian blood. So easy to kill. Nits make lice. That’s the way many soldiers put it.

Wade couldn’t withhold a groan. Drew had been the one good thing in his life, the only thing that had made any sense in the past seventeen years.

He had cared for Chivita. She’d been gentle and kind, and she had given him a son, but he’d felt no passion for her, only gratitude that she had soothed some of that fierce anger he had turned on himself.

She had been so accepting, so eager to share with him the simple pleasures of a mountain sunrise or a bud on a tree. She had asked for so little in return for teaching him, in her quiet, innocent way, how to live again. And now he’d turned away from all her lessons.

Wade reached for the beaded necklace on the table. It had belonged to his son, a gift on his name day. Chivita had patiently carved the beads from buffalo horns, and Wade had traded for the silver eagle, which had been fashioned by a Navaho craftsman. It had been Drew’s prized possession.

There were still traces of blood on it. Drew’s blood, he supposed. Ignoring his pain, he dropped the necklace over his head. He could care less what the woman or her son thought. He wondered whether he was actually challenging them.

It galled him to owe a debt to a woman who, like so many others, held Indians in contempt. It galled him even more to be imprisoned here by his own weakness.

Unable to sleep, he tried to sit. The lamp beside him was still lit, and he put out the flame, then looked toward the curtained window.

He wanted it open. He wanted to feel fresh air. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel so trapped.

He managed to get to his feet and stumble over to the window. He pushed aside the curtains and tried the window. It opened halfway, and he leaned against the wall and breathed deeply.

The rain had stopped, but the sky was dark, unlit by any star or piece of moon. He couldn’t see the mountains. Black Mountains, they were called.

But they weren’t nearly as black as his soul.

Mary Jo wasn’t sure when the rain had stopped. She woke to the stillness of the night. It was eerily silent after the nearly constant sound of thunder and the pounding of heavy drops against the roof.

She might as well get up, walk around, do something. Once she woke up at night, she always had trouble going back to sleep. Years, she supposed, of waiting for the sound of a door opening, of boots approaching her room. She’d spent nearly all her married life waiting.

And now she felt as if she were waiting again, but this time she didn’t know for what.

She stood in her nightdress. She’d made it herself several years ago before Jeff had been killed, and he had loved it. She’d spent hours sewing lace to the thin cotton. It had been a luxury, and she had not worn it since he died. She had no idea why she had put it on. A need to feel like a woman again?

She nibbled on her lip as she tried to deny the longing that had been stirred inside her. It kept bubbling, no matter how hard she tried to stop it. The fact that it had started with the stranger’s arrival terrified her. He was everything she should run from, should keep young Jeff from.

Air. Fresh air should restore her reason. She tiptoed through the room, careful not to wake her son. She crept quietly to the front door and opened it, standing in the doorway.

A fresh breeze seemed to be washing away the heavy, sultry air that had clung around the ranch house for many days. It felt good brushing through her hair, cooling her hot face.

She relished the sight of clouds rushing across the dark sky. Rushing away now to plague someone else with endless days of rain.

And yet she was grateful to the rain. It had helped the stranger. It had washed away his tracks.

The stranger.

Her thoughts kept coming back to him. And her protectiveness toward him, regardless of how rude he was, or how ungrateful.

Jake came out on the porch and sat, cocking his head to one side. He whined for attention, and she stooped down, her hand running absently alongside his ears. The whine changed into a growl of pleasure.

“Ah, Jake,” she whispered. “What do you see in him to like?”

He growled again.

“You’re just as troublesome as he is,” she told the dog. He wagged his tail and then, as if to prove her charge, he darted down the steps and into a yard that was now mostly mud.

Disregarding the dampness of the steps, she sat down and leaned against the post, too tense to go back inside. Somehow the vast darkness around her was comforting.

Why wasn’t she afraid of Wade Foster? Because she had already endured much in her life? She had gone hungry as a child when crops wasted away, and she had huddled in hiding with her mother during those times the Comanches were raiding. She had waited in fear with her mother for her father to come home, and years later waited in fear by herself for Jeff to come home.

Now she was afraid again, not of Wade Foster but of her own emotions, of her need and her loneliness. They had been tolerable until he came.

My wife made it. She knew she hadn’t been able to hide that moment of shock. She still couldn’t believe it. An Indian bridle. And the necklace was Indian. The necklace that he had so frantically sought when he’d first awakened.

Jake bounded back up the steps, shaking himself and covering Mary Jo with mud. How nice to be so indifferent to niceties. How nice to have nothing to worry about but a good roll in the mud.

But now he would have to stay outside the rest of the night.

She finally stood. “You can be a watchdog tonight,” she told Jake.

He looked dejected.

“It won’t work this time,” she said severely.

He whined, and she almost gave in.

“No,” she said. Before she could change her mind, she went back inside, closing the door behind her. She wished she didn’t feel guilty, though she knew that in moments Jake would be out exploring, sniffing, and having a good time.

She wouldn’t be granted the same pleasure. The same perplexing questions about the mysterious Wade Foster would only continue to whirl around in her head.

Wade’s window looked out onto the porch and he had seen the woman. He’d told himself he should retreat to his bed, that he shouldn’t invade this moment of privacy she apparently sought. Yet he hadn’t been able to take his gaze from her, from the slender form that moved gracefully, that leaned wistfully against the post.

What do you see in him to like? she’d asked the dog.

Nothing was her insinuation, and he didn’t blame her. So why did she continue to care for him? Why hadn’t she told the posse he was here? Why hadn’t she just let them take him away? Why had she taken the trouble of retrieving his bridle?

His good hand clenched. He knew his body’s ability to recover. Two days, and he should have enough strength to leave. But how? No horse. No money. No place to go. How far could he walk? Not to the Utes’ shining mountains.

And he had no way to repay the woman. God knows how he hated debts. Especially to someone who would have looked down on his wife and child.

He’d watched her bend her head, her hair tumbling down across her shoulder as she hugged the dog. She puzzled him, interested him in ways he didn’t want to be interested. He had nothing to offer a woman like her, would never have, now that his right arm was smashed. He accepted that. Punishment for the past.

He limped away from the window and back to the bed. Her bed. It even smelled of her, flowery and fresh. Something in him ached at the thought. He would move over to the barn tomorrow, and then leave as soon as he could.

He closed his eyes, but he kept seeing her there, on that porch. Almost ethereal in the white gown.

“Goddammit,” he whispered. It was as if the devil weren’t finished with him yet. He’d just devised a new torture.

Birds were singing when Wade woke the next morning to a soft knock on his door. The sun was streaming through the window, and a light breeze was ruffling the curtains.

All of which meant the posse would probably be nosing around again.

But he felt better. The food and rest had helped. How much?

The knock came again.

“Yes?” he finally said, convinced now that whoever it was—mother or son—was not going away.

The door opened, and Mary Jo Williams came in. A delicious smell wafted in with her. His stomach grumbled.

She smiled, that tentative, searching smile that he’d never seen on a woman before. He’d seen the type that lured, that seduced, that was coy. And he’d seen the kind that sought so hard to please. But never this kind that challenged yet showed compassion. The kind that indicated tolerance but not surrender.

“You look better,” she observed. “And sound better.”

He was instantly embarrassed but didn’t know what to say so he just waited and watched. She wasn’t beautiful as much as she was interesting. Her eyes were alive with intelligence, spirit, and curiosity and yet she had learned to hold her questions. Her hair, gleaming red in the streaming sunlight, was plaited in a long braid that fell halfway down her back. The part of him that was still very much male wished he had seen more of it last night, and he felt the strongest desire to run his hands through it. No. His hand. One hand. The other was useless. He frowned at the harsh reminder of reality and lowered his gaze.

She was carrying a tray with a bowl of steaming hot water. He also saw soap and a razor.

“I thought you might like to wash before eating,” she said. She hesitated a moment. “I could shave you if you like.”

He wasn’t sure he would like that at all. He didn’t like the dependence. And he sure as hell didn’t know if he wanted her hands on him again. They were too soft, too tempting.

Yet he hated to think how he looked. He had let his beard grow during the war. He had thrown away every semblance of civilization during those years.

After a Yank had begged him for his life and Wade had turned on a fellow guerilla, he’d wandered off to the mountains and simply existed. He’d understood what he’d become and had nursed his self-hatred, remembering as if it were yesterday the faces of men he’d killed.

His left hand touched his cheek, feeling the roughness again. Had he reverted to that animal that didn’t deserve to live among decent people?

And then he became aware once more of the woman’s searching gaze on him. He nodded.

She moved closer to him, sitting in the chair that touched the bed. He wished she didn’t always smell of flowers. He closed his eyes at her first touch, kept them closed through the washing and soaping of his face, and finally the scraping of the razor against his skin.

He almost winced at the longing her touch stirred inside him. He felt disloyal to Chivita, because she had never aroused this need in him, had never stirred his heart.

It was suddenly all he could do to keep from pushing her away. He felt just as naked now as he had without his trousers, as if she were peeling layers of defenses from him, rather than whiskers.

But he held himself still, tolerating. After what seemed hours, the razor left his face, and he felt a cool towel against it.

“You can open your eyes now,” she said, her voice carrying a tiny bit of amusement. “I didn’t slit your throat.”

He opened them. His left hand felt his face. Smooth and clean. It felt good. “I didn’t think you would,” he said.

“Then why …?”

She’d been honest with him right from the beginning. It was time he was honest with her, as honest as he could be.

His gaze met hers. “It felt too good. Better than I deserve.”

She tipped her head slightly, studying him. “It’s an improvement.” Then she hesitated, “Are there wanted posters?”

“I doubt it,” he said. “At least not current ones.”

Her eyes narrowed in question.

“I don’t think anyone saw me,” he said. “They’re probably just looking for any strangers, especially those with a hole in them.”

“How did you kill … that miner when you were shot that badly? He couldn’t have shot you after—”

“I managed with my left hand,” he said, biting off each word. “You can do anything if you want it bad enough. And he was out of ammunition. And scared.” That, he thought, should silence her.

But it didn’t, although her face paled slightly. “He killed your son?”

“And my wife,” Wade said. “He was one of three, and he was the last to die.” He watched her, then said deliberately, “And you can stop being polite. My wife was a Ute, my son a … half-breed. He was six years old when those men slit his throat after raping and killing my wife. Of course, most would say that it was no great loss. Two less Indians.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“Are you? Are you, really? I saw your eyes when you brought that bridle in.”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean, Mr. Foster,” she said defiantly. “I’m sorry whenever a child is killed. But I’ve also seen white children killed by Indians. My friend was killed, and my sister was taken by Comanches when I was seven. We never found her though my father never stopped trying, not even ten years later.” She snapped her mouth shut and rose. “Breakfast will be ready shortly.”

Wade watched her leave, regretting his angry words, regretting the flush he’d brought to her face and the old grief to her eyes. He was so good at hurting those around him. So damn good.

Jeff finished washing off Jake with pails of water from the well. Jake shook himself, dousing Jeff, then gave him a lick as if to forgive him for the indignity of a bath.

“Now don’t do that again,” Jeff scolded him. Jake slunk away dejectedly.

Jeff quickly dried himself with a towel, then skipped up the steps to the porch. His stomach was growling, and he wanted to talk more to the stranger.

His mother was frying eggs on the stove, and he smelled ham again. Golden biscuits already lay on the table, and Jeff’s nose wiggled with delight. He’d told the stranger the flat-out truth. His mother was the best cook in Texas. And Colorado, too.

She plopped a piece of ham on a plate. “Cut that up for Mr. Foster,” she said, “and butter those biscuits. You might put some of those apple preserves on them.”

Jeff was glad to do it. It was good to have another man in the house. He loved his mother, but he missed the Rangers and all the attention they had given him. They had taken him fishing and hunting, and talked to him as if he were a grown-up. Treated him like one too, giving him responsibilities in caring for the horses. He knew a lot about horses.

Jeff wanted the stranger to stay, wanted Wade Foster to share things, man to man. His mother still treated him like a child. Worried when he was gone too long, when he got lost in his own thoughts while meandering down along the stream or riding his horse.

He didn’t blame her. Jeff understood that he was the only person she had. Ty used to explain it to him when he’d complained about too many hugs. She needed a husband, Ty had said.

Jeff didn’t want just any old father. But he was impressed by the stranger, by the way Jake liked him. Jake didn’t take to just anybody. And Mr. Foster didn’t talk too much or try to make anyone like him. He wore his gun right, the way Jeff’s pa had and he’d been sad about his horse dying.

Those things added up to a lot for Jeff.

He’d completely disregarded the sheriff’s words about cold-blooded killing. As his mother said, if the stranger killed anyone, he had a reason, and Jeff was not a stranger to that line of thinking.

It made him wonder, though, if the stranger had ever been a lawman. Or in the army. Jeff had so many questions, but his ma had warned him against pestering their guest.

Jeff didn’t think he would be pestering, though. Just a few tiny questions, like about his son. Jeff had been surprised to hear about the son. Mr. Foster said it real sad but angry like, too, and Jeff had guessed something awful had happened. The stranger had hurt, just as Jeff had hurt when his pa died, and then Ty.

Jeff finished cutting the meat while his mother prepared the tray, adding a glass of milk along with a cup brimming with coffee.

“You take it in to him,” his mother said. Jeff was a tad surprised, but then she had been stiff and tight-lipped since she’d come out of Mr. Foster’s room a little earlier.

Jeff picked up the tray and was halfway across the room when his mother spoke again. “Tell him to eat as much as he can, Jeff. And don’t ask him any questions, please. I think he’s had a bad time, and he doesn’t need reminders.”

He turned around to face her. She looked worried, and she hardly ever looked worried. “I won’t,” he said, thinking, though, that it wouldn’t hurt if he just sort of stuck around a few moments in case the stranger wanted to talk. Maybe he was lonely, the way Jeff sometimes was.

He entered the bedroom and was amazed to see the stranger standing. He was wearing trousers, but his chest was still bare and Jeff saw scars. Though clean-shaven now, the stranger still looked dangerous.

But not mean, Jeff thought, as Mr. Foster’s mouth quirked a little when he spied the food-laden tray.

He sat back heavily on the bed, as if he could no longer hold himself up. His eyes didn’t leave Jeff, and Jeff felt like dropping the tray and running from the intensity of his gaze.

But he didn’t. He held himself straight and looked straight into the stranger’s eyes. “Ma said for you to eat as much as you could.”

“I’m obliged,” the stranger replied hesitantly, as if unused to the words.

“Ma fixed it,” Jeff added. He put the tray down and started to leave.

“Jeff.”

He turned back to the stranger.

“Tell your mother … tell her … hell …” Jeff could see the clenched muscles in the stranger’s face. “Tell … her I’m …”

Jeff grinned. “I’ll tell her you said thanks.” He spun out the door before the stranger could protest Jeff’s liberal interpretation of what he was trying to say.