LAYLA’S HEART SANK and her face burned as she turned to peer up at the hatted figure of Gregor Lang riding his old, knobby-kneed, gray brown mule. Her mouth opened slightly, but no words came. No one said anything until Charlie looked at Layla, smiling innocently, and said, “Gregor’s here, Layla.”
Layla remained frozen for several seconds. Then, slowly, she climbed to her feet, lowering her head and dusting herself off. Her brothers did likewise, sheepishly. None of them said anything until Lang said in a gruff, even voice, “I’ll take my mule over to the barn. Maybe the boys can unsaddle him for me, turn him into the corral.”
Layla turned to her brothers. “Keith, Charlie ...” she said. Then, face scarlet, she headed for the house.
On the porch, Layla brushed the flecks of hay and dirt from her dress and hair, all the while cursing herself for being such an idiot, for letting Gregor see her acting like a ten-year-old. If the Scotsman had had any doubts about her ability to be a good wife to him, they’d just been validated by the barbaric display he’d witnessed under the cottonwood.
Had he heard Keith yelling “titty”? Oh God!
Layla wasn’t sure she really cared. But then she remembered her father.
She went inside, found her brush, and brushed her hair out carefully. As she returned it to the window shelf, she heard boots on the stoop and knew it was Gregor. She closed her eyes, trying to calm herself. Then she stood and headed for the screen door, one slow, ladylike step at a time. She held the hem of her dress to just above her ankles, and fiddled obsessively with the red ribbon she’d tied in her hair.
When she came to the door, she saw Gregor sitting on one of the stoop’s homemade chairs. He’d crossed his legs, placed his bowler hat on a knee, and was smoking his corncob pipe like a man waiting for a train. The sleeves of his clean, white shirt were rolled up his pale, freckled arms. His thinning hair, the color of cured hay, was carefully combed across his pink scalp.
The smoke from his pipe wafted through the screen, and the aroma made Layla think sadly of her father, who had also smoked a pipe. In fact, Emil Carr had often spent Sunday afternoons right here with Gregor, smoking and talking about cattle prices, the weather, and the coming winter.
Layla’s heart fluttered as she opened the screen and turned to her prospective husband, watching him cautiously.
“Something sure smells good,” he said, turning to her with a mild smile.
The remark was so unexpected that Layla hesitated, unsure how to reply. Wasn’t he going to say anything about the roughhousing beneath the cottonwood?
She cleared her throat. “It’s just chicken,” she said haltingly, unsure of herself. “It should be done in a half hour or so.”
“Smells good. You must be cooking lots of onions with it.”
So they weren’t going to talk about it.
“Charlie and I went out and dug wild onions up a few days ago,” she said, her relief tempered by the oddness of the exchange. “Would you like some lemonade?”
Gregor gave a nod, blowing smoke around his pipe stem. “That would be fine.”
“I’ll bring you a glass.”
He nodded.
She turned back into the cabin, feeling shaken, feeling befuddled and actually worse than if he’d reprimanded her for the horseplay. Well, if he wasn’t going to mention it, fine; she wouldn’t, either.
She poured them both a glass of lemonade, put the glasses on a tray, and carried the tray onto the veranda. She set the tray on the rail, handed Gregor a glass, then sat in one of the homemade, hide-bottom chairs beside him, her own glass in her hand. She felt tensely, painfully uncomfortable, as she always did in the presence of this pious, reticent man. She’d thought she’d eventually grow more comfortable with Gregor, but it certainly hadn’t happened yet, and she wondered now if it ever would.
Gregor sipped the lemonade, smacked his lips. “Well, I suppose you know Loomis is on the rampage again,” he said with a sigh.
“Uh... yeah, I heard.” Layla didn’t want Gregor to know she’d picked up Prophet along the trail and had doctored his wounds. She wasn’t sure how her future husband would feel about her harboring a stranger, especially one who was on the run from Gerard Loomis.
“This man he’s after killed his son.”
“Yeah. In Little Missouri, wasn’t it?”
“In the saloon there,” Gregor said with a nod. “No doubt drink was involved. It usually is, and always causes trouble.”
“Yep.”
“Smoking and drinking: vices of ole Lucifer himself.”
“You can say that again.”
Gregor sipped his lemonade. “Gravelly Hugh came by my place on his way back from the railroad this morning. He’d been by the Loomis place—he cuts firewood for the Crosshatch, you know. Well, he said this fella Loomis is after is still in the country.”
Layla shot a surprised look at Gregor. “He is?”
Gregor nodded. “Gravelly said the man set fire to one of Loomis’s barns last night and shot up a couple of his riders.”
“He did!”
Gregor looked at her, frowning, vaguely puzzled. Layla checked her emotions. “I mean ... how ... awful. Was he sure it was the man who shot Little Stu?”
“’Parently. Not only that, but Gravelly said this man shot three of Loomis’s men in the Pyramid Park, right back where the whole trouble started in the first place.” Gregor shook his head disapprovingly. “No doubt it was alcohol again.”
“No doubt. Where do they think Prophet is now?”
Gregor turned to her with surprise etched on his fair, sunburned features. “Prophet? That his name? Now ... how would you know that?”
Layla’s shoulders jerked with a shudder. “Oh ... uh ... I think Loomis mentioned it when he rode through here the other day, lookin’ for him.”
“Oh. Never mentioned it to me. Well, anyway... I guess they don’t know where he is. Could be anywhere, I reckon. If I were him, though—and with ole Loomis as mad as Gravelly said he is—I’d just ride out of here and keep on ridin’. I don’t know what he’s tryin’ to prove, hanging around here causin’ trouble.”
Layla couldn’t believe Prophet was still in the country. What was he doing here? She thought he was heading for Montana. She hadn’t realized it consciously, but she’d missed the brawny Confederate, and the idea of seeing him again made her feel giddy with both fear and expectation. Had she fallen in love with the man?
Feeling guilty about her feelings for Prophet, with Gregor sitting right here beside her, and also worried that he’d get himself killed, she changed the subject. “I’ll get supper on the table, if you want to call the boys.” Then she gathered their glasses and headed inside.
It was, as always, a quiet meal. Gregor did not believe in conversing at the table. The food was passed, plates filled, and the only sounds after that were the soft clatter of forks and knives, of chewing and swallowing, of glasses lifted and set back down, throats cleared.
Meadowlarks trilled outside, and the roosters crowed. The cottonwood over the stock tank rustled in a vagrant breeze.
Layla feigned a quiet calm, but inside was a tumult of emotion. Prophet was still in the country. Why? Had Loomis’s men discovered him heading to town and given chase, effectively trapping him in the badlands? Or had he just decided to settle the trouble once and for all?
It would not be unlike him. She’d known him only a few days, but she sensed in him a man who was not used to running from his problems, a man who would always fight when wronged, no matter how high the odds were stacked against him.
Or... had he stayed for her? Maybe he felt the same way about her as she felt about him. The thought made her throat constrict and, busying herself with her food, she quickly banished it from her mind.
About three-quarters of the way through the meal, the heavy silence suddenly struck Keith as amusing, and he snickered, smiling down at his plate.
Almost grateful for the distraction, Layla said, “Keith, you hush.”
The boy bit his lip, but to no avail. He glanced at the sober-faced Gregor Lang, going about his meal very seriously, with no expression whatsoever, and another chuff escaped Keith’s lips. It was followed by several more in quick succession. Layla looked at him severely.
“Keith, what is wrong with you?”
Charlie glanced at Keith, and then he, too, laughed, opening his mouth and guffawing, as though at a joke he suddenly understood.
Gregor Lang’s expression did not change. He dipped his fork into his gravy-drenched potatoes and brought the fork to his mouth, his eyes riveted to his plate. His features were grave, ashen.
“All right, both of you, out!” Layla scolded. “Outside!”
Laughing, Keith ran out the door.
“But, I—I ain’t done yet,” Charlie protested, one cheek bulging with half-chewed food.
Lang suddenly lifted his head from his plate and skewered the lad with a look of extreme acrimony. “Out!”
There was a sudden silence, as though a bomb had just exploded. Frozen, Charlie looked at Lang as though stricken, shocked, as was Layla, by the sudden, clipped outburst. Then he stood and, staring bewilderedly at Lang, followed his brother out the door.
Layla watched Charlie pass through the door and disappear outside. She turned to Lang, who had returned his attention to his plate, as though nothing had happened. Anger nearly blinded her; no one spoke to her brothers that way! But she knew if she said anything, she would yell, and it would all be over.
So, biting her tongue, she finished her meal without tasting a bite.
When they finished, Layla refilled Gregor’s coffee cup and began clearing the table. “If you’d like to go out and sit on the porch,” she said stiffly, “I’ll be along as soon as I’ve finished the dishes.”
“That would be fine. Thank you for the meal.”
“Not at all.”
She washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen in a cocoon of numb perplexity, vaguely horrified by the fact that she would soon marry this man, while reassuring herself that he was not that bad. He might be stern, but what prosperous man on the frontier was not stern? He was a successful rancher. He did his chores and read his Bible. He did not drink alcohol or chew tobacco. He turned in early and was up at first light. His range was some of the best-managed along the Pretty Butte, and his herd had increased to nearly 250 beeves!
True, he wasn’t much of a talker. Layla’s father had admitted that himself. But Emil Carr had gone on to point out that once Layla married him, his prosperity would be hers. And often the most taciturn men were, once you got to know them, quite gentle and loving.
But the look he’d given Charlie had chilled her heart.
She heard the screen door squeak open behind her and suddenly realized she’d been staring idly into her empty dishpan. She turned to Gregor standing on the porch, holding the door open and looking at her expectantly.
“Are you done? I thought we’d take a walk along the creek.”
“Yes,” she said, turning back to the water, pretending there was one more dish to be washed. “I’ll be right out.”
She gave the table a final swab, then removed her apron, smoothed her hair with her hands, dabbed on a little of her mother’s cologne, and went out to the porch, wrapping a light shawl about her shoulders.
“Okay,” she said with a forced smile. “I’m ready.”
Gregor got up from his chair, puffing his pipe, and together they sauntered out around the barn and corral to the creek. The sun was still above the horizon, but it was falling quickly, drawing shadows along the rolling, grassy hills around them, brushing the ridges with pink. The sky was soft and green. Birds were small brown shapes against it, intermittently winking sunlight off their wings.
Grazing cattle watched them strolling along the path, shuffling off when they came too close. Layla wondered how she and Gregor would appear to outsiders. Two lovers strolling along the creek? The thought evoked from her a barely suppressed snort.
She did not love him. How could she ever love him? Oh, why had her father made her promise to marry him? Him, of all people, with his cold, brooding demeanor, his emotionless practicality! She suddenly felt the hollowness of their imminent union. He did not love her any more than she loved him. He would marry her simply to fill his cabin with kids—with ranch hands. He would probably work Keith and Charlie like slaves.
Neither she nor Gregor said anything. Lang smoked his pipe, seemingly at ease with their silence. For her part, Layla studied the ground, glancing occasionally at the darkening hills, wishing she were out riding among them, as she often was this time of the day, to enjoy the quiet and the peaceful beauty of the sunset. Here, walking beside the taciturn Gregor, who kept a decorous foot or so away from her, never touching her, she felt anxious and explosive and as alone as she’d ever been.
Then suddenly she saw herself walking out here with Lou Prophet, hand in hand. In another thought, she lay naked in his arms. The image made her giddy and enervated, and she shook it away.
She and Gregor always walked as far as the second bend in the creek, where the Pretty Butte turned sharply south, its deep, dark slash slithering amid the hills, and tonight was no exception. Layla had found herself hoping that they would walk just a little less far or just a little farther—anything different. But when they came to the bend and to the old, sun-seared hawthorn shrub along the trail, Gregor stopped, sighed, puffed his pipe, and said, “Well, it’s getting late.”
And they started back toward the ranch.
“You know,” he said as they strolled, “we should probably be thinking about setting a date.” His voice whispered up from deep in his chest, taut yet cautionary, as was its customary tone.
“Yes, I suppose we should.” She couldn’t pretend to sound pleased.
“Did you have any particular day in mind?”
“Well...” She swallowed, feeling a shrinking sensation within herself, as though her heart were squeezed by an enormous fist. “No ... I... guess I didn’t.”
They walked awhile in silence, both studying the ground before them.
“I thought Thanksgiving would be nice,” Gregor said.
“Thanksgiving ... ? That would be fine ... I guess.”
That was all either of them said until Gregor had saddled his mule and he and Layla were standing with the mule in the deep shadow the barn cast upon the ground, the moon low and salmon-colored in the east.
“Listen, Layla,” Gregor said, standing before her, “I know you are young and inexperienced in life’s ways, but I want to assure you that I will be a father... as well a husband.”
She looked up at him smiling down at her. She didn’t know what to say to this. Was he supposed to have relieved her anxiousness? “Yes ... thank you, Gregor.”
“And I will be a father to your brothers.” He smiled again. “It looks like they’ve been needing one. A stern hand, eh?”
When she gave no response, he said, “All boys need a stern hand. It makes them tough men. I’ll know how to raise them. That Charlie—we’ll get the silly cobwebs out of that boy’s head in no time.”
Layla wanted to tell him what would happen to him if he ever raised a hand to her brothers, but before she could open her mouth, Gregor took her by the shoulders, lowered his head to hers, and kissed her lips. It was mostly a peck—stiff and awkward—and it was over before she could comprehend it. He’d never kissed her before.
“Well, good night, then,” he said cordially, climbing into his saddle, the leather creaking with his weight.
She watched him ride off, a shadow against the darkening east. When he was out of sight, she felt her lips tremble, and she choked back a sob.