HANGING LAUNDRY THE next morning, Kathryn saw him again from a distance. The man who had delivered her trunk. She recognized him instantly—the knit cap pulled tight over his head, the scruffy beard. And though his scars had been obscured in the shadowed half light, she could never forget them.
As he led a horse from the stable to the fenced corral, Kathryn watched him, staring at the reason why sleep had eluded her the night before. How did a man communicate so much while speaking so little?
Last night she’d gotten the distinct impression that he didn’t want to be in the same room with her. It still puzzled her. Something about him drew her, as it had that first day. Compassion most likely, or at least that’s what she’d originally thought. But as she’d lain awake considering it, remembering his darkened silhouette against the moonlight, she’d figured out what it was.
He reminded her of Larson.
Not so much physically, she decided. It was more his . . . presence. And the way he looked at her.
The man tethered the buckskin mare to a post, then turned her direction and adjusted his spectacles. He stilled.
Kathryn’s eyes went wide. She felt like he’d caught her spying. She managed a half smile, but he chose that moment to turn. If he’d seen her, he didn’t acknowledge it. She hung another sheet over the line and watched him furtively from behind its folds.
He was shorter and definitely older than Larson had been. At least fifty pounds leaner, his build would never rival Larson’s well-muscled stature. And the poor man’s scars . . .
She cringed, remembering how she’d gasped at first seeing them in the daylight back in town. Kathryn pulled another sheet from the basket. A dull ache throbbed inside her, and she briefly closed her eyes. Would missing Larson always hurt this much? And was she destined to continually see him—or the qualities she’d loved about him—mirrored in other men?
When she looked again, the ranch hand was rubbing the mare’s forehead. The horse nudged closer to him and, though Kathryn couldn’t hear what the man said, his lips moved as though he were cooing to the animal. He bent and ran a hand over each of her legs. When he touched her left hind leg, the horse whinnied and shied away. He stood and came close to her again, looking directly into the mare’s eyes. She calmed and moved back toward him.
Such gentleness. Again, a quality Larson had possessed. But not to this extent. . . . Whatever this man lacked in human civility, he certainly possessed with animals. He walked to the fence and picked up a currycomb, the limp in his right leg less pronounced than it had been the night before.
After he’d delivered her trunk, she’d seen him nearly fall on his way back to the stable. But she hadn’t dared approach to help him, certain he would refuse. Was it pride or bitterness, or perhaps both, that kept a person from accepting help from others? Annabelle came to mind, and Kathryn turned back to her work. She could hardly stand in judgment of either Annabelle or this gentle, scarred man. Though she’d faced trials in her own life, she certainly hadn’t endured the same kind of pain. And if she had, who was to say her heart would have been any less embittered than theirs.
That afternoon, Kathryn climbed the stairs leading to the second floor of the main house and looked down the hallway to the closed ornate double doors. The master bedroom was next on her list, but she wasn’t going near that room until she was absolutely certain Donlyn MacGregor was not in it.
She’d overheard a kitchen maid say that Mr. MacGregor had returned home late during the night from his trip. Perhaps today she would have the opportunity to speak with him about his offer to help her keep the ranch.
Placing her bucket of cleaning supplies aside, she polished the marble-topped rosewood table on the landing, then walked down the hallway. She checked inside each of the three unoccupied guestrooms to ensure everything was in proper order.
Miss Maudie had given her a thorough tour of the home the night before. The house was much larger and far more exquisitely furnished than what Kathryn had first imagined. Boasting vintage Chippendale furniture crafted from the finest mahogany with curved cabriole legs and claw-and-ball feet, the pieces rivaled the splendor of those in her parents’ home in Boston. Kathryn wondered if her father even lived in the same house since her mother’s passing.
She ran the dusting cloth along the scrolled edges of a mirror hanging over the table, wishing her mother could have lived to see the child Kathryn carried. The two people most precious to her were gone. She thought of her father and wondered if writing to him now might make a difference. Maybe if William Cummings knew he would soon have a grandchild, he might feel differently toward her. But she’d written him twice shortly after her mother had died and had never received any response. Apparently his interest in her life, or lack of it, remained unchanged.
Kathryn came to the last door on the right and stopped, not remembering this room on Miss Maudie’s tour. She’d already cleaned the servants’ quarters downstairs and the guest bedrooms on this level. Could she have missed one? She tapped on the door.
No answer. She quietly turned the knob, and it gave easily in her hand.
Half-opened shutters diffused the sunshine, sending slanted beams of light across a massive desk and leather chair. Rows of books and ledgers lined the shelves on either side of the desk. Kathryn quickly ran a finger along one of the shelves and blew away the dust. She would earn Miss Maudie’s disapproval for certain if she missed this room. Whoever held this duty before had shirked their employer’s office. From her impression of Donlyn MacGregor, his expectations would stand for nothing less than perfection, and she wanted to stay in his good graces. She closed the door behind her, opened the shutters, and pulled the bottle of lemon wax from her apron pocket.
Nearly an hour later, footsteps sounded from the other side of the office door. Atop a stool cleaning the upper shelves, Kathryn paused and looked behind her, waiting for Miss Maudie to breeze in for an inspection and hoping the woman would be pleased.
But whoever it was didn’t come in. Kathryn went back to cleaning.
Piles of neatly stacked papers layered each other on the left side of the desktop. Kathryn carefully lifted each one to clean beneath it. The embossed name titling one of the pages caught her attention. Something about it tugged at her memory and made her look at the stationery more closely.
Berklyn Stockholders.
Why did that name sound familiar? Perhaps a company her father used to do business with? But somehow the memory felt closer than that. She ran a finger over the pressed parchment and scanned the body of the missive. Her eyes honed in on the words Colorado Territory River Commission.
“‘Regarding your inquisition about First Rights of Appropriation on Fountain Creek,’ ” she read, her voice barely audible. Her focus dropped down the page. “‘Your conditional filing will be reviewed—”’ The closing of a door in the hallway drew her head up.
Kathryn quickly returned the business letters and legal documents to their place, her hands suddenly shaking both at the possibility of being caught reading these documents and for having read them in the first place. She grabbed the dirty cloth and hurried from behind the desk. Reaching the door, she glanced back. Were all the stacks in the right order? And what had possessed her to look at them to begin with? It was none of her business, but . . . why was MacGregor inquiring about Fountain Creek?
A footfall sounded again, this time on the stairs. She turned to the door, her heart in her throat.
Moments passed, nothing happened.
Calming, Kathryn nearly laughed out loud at her own guilty conscience. She shook her head, breathed in the lemon-scented air, and admired her handiwork. The shelves and desk fairly gleamed. Surely Miss Maudie would be pleased.
Quickly exiting the office, Kathryn latched the door quietly behind her and noticed the doors to the master bedroom now stood open.
She knocked on the doorjamb. “Mr. MacGregor?” She waited, then called his name again.
Stepping inside, the opulence of the room made her pause, as it had the night before. Everything in this room bespoke money and success. But given the choice, she would still choose the cabin Larson had built for her—if only he were still alive to share it with her.
Pushing aside the awkward feeling that accompanied being in Donlyn MacGregor’s private quarters, Kathryn picked up a pair of trousers and a coat slung over a wingback chair. She walked around the corner to the mahogany wardrobe, lining up the ironed folds of the pants. She heard the bedroom door slam shut.
“Of all the . . .”
Kathryn’s eyes widened at the string of curses that followed, and then she jumped at the sound of breaking glass. Recognizing the thick brogue, she stepped from behind the wardrobe door to make her presence known.
Donlyn MacGregor’s dark eyes shot up, and for a moment, he simply stared. Then a slow smile, one she’d seen before, curved his mouth. “Well, maybe heaven will yet smile on me this day.” His gaze swept her front, then stopped abruptly around her midsection. His eyes narrowed.
For some unexplained reason Mr. MacGregor’s obvious displeasure at seeing her with child pleased her immensely. Apparently Miss Maudie had not shared that piece of news with him. Kathryn’s affection for the woman grew even as she remembered that MacGregor was now her employer—and her sole prospect for keeping her land.
“Mr. MacGregor.” She offered a deferent nod. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d left the room in order for it to be cleaned.”
His mouth drew into a thin line. “Mrs. Jennings. You’re looking . . . in full health today.” His voice grew flat.
She gave a half smile, said, “Thank you, sir,” then quickly hung the pants and coat in the wardrobe, eager to leave.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here yesterday to give you a proper welcome to Casaroja. I would’ve preferred to give the tour myself. But no doubt Miss Maudie did that in my stead.”
“She showed me the house. Yes, sir.”
“But not the lands?”
“No, sir. But Miss Maudie’s a kind woman and I felt welcomed by everyone.” Well, almost everyone. Kathryn glanced out the large window overlooking Casaroja’s stables, but she didn’t see the ranch hand or the buckskin mare. She closed the chifforobe door and turned. “I hope you had a pleasant trip, sir. I’ll come back to finish at a more convenient time.”
MacGregor walked to the edge of the bed and stopped before her. “Now is quite a convenient time for me, Mrs. Jennings. I was hopin’ for the chance to see you again. Though I must admit, I never did dream you’d be so agreeable as to meet in my private quarters.” He glanced down at the bed, then back to her. “You can’t have been in here very long, lass. You haven’t even made the bed yet.” A gleam lit his dark eyes. “Maybe we could be doin’ that together.”
Kathryn’s mouth fell open, her face heated at the insinuation. Was this man always so single-minded? “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. MacGregor. I’ll come back later.” She picked up her bucket of supplies and skirted past him. Something crunched beneath her boot and she stopped. Shards of crystal littered the floor. From the broken remnants and pungent aroma, it appeared to have been a brandy decanter at one time.
“I knocked that over on my way in, Mrs. Jennings.” His tone didn’t even approach believability, and they both knew it. “Would you be so kind as to clean it up for me?” When she didn’t respond, he reached out and brushed the tips of his fingers over the back of her hand. “Please,” he added softly.
Kathryn stared back at him. The ardor in his eyes had been replaced by a challenge.
MacGregor had known he was hiring her—that was clear from what Miss Maudie had told her about her employer having reviewed her letter. Kathryn suddenly wondered if his expectations of her being here at Casaroja extended beyond what she and Miss Maudie had discussed. Better to set that straight right now.
“Yes, I’ll clean it up, Mr. MacGregor. But not with you in the room.” She paused for a beat before moving past him.
He let out a laugh. “It seems you’re always doin’ this to me, Kathryn.”
Reaching the door, she turned, not caring for the sound of her name coming from him. “Doing what, Mr. MacGregor?”
“Walkin’ away from me . . . Mrs. Jennings.” He dipped his head in mock deference. “And especially when we have so much yet to be discussin’.”
Kathryn fought the anger and disappointment tightening her throat. How quickly she’d pinned her hopes for herself and her child on this new position, and how foolish she felt for doing so. “I thought I understood my duties here at Casaroja, but apparently I did not. I’ll let Miss Maudie know I’m leaving.”
MacGregor quickly closed the distance between them and put out a hand to stay the door. Kathryn could smell the spice of his cologne and feel his breath on her cheek.
A moment passed. “Look at me, Mrs. Jennings.”
She wouldn’t.
He sighed. “I was only toyin’ with you just now, lass.” The lilt in his voice thickened. “I don’t know why I do it—you just seem to bring it out in me. I came in here angry, and then you stepped from behind there with no warnin’.” From her periphery, Kathryn saw him shrug. “Frankly, you were a bit of a welcome sight to me, darlin’. Too much of one, I fear,” he added, his voice almost ringing sincere. Almost.
But Kathryn didn’t believe a word of it. Other than the part about him toying with her. She tried to open the door. “I wish to leave now, please.”
He held the door fast. “I apologize for my behavior, Mrs. Jennings. It won’t be happenin’ again, I assure you.”
“Now, Mr. MacGregor,” she said more forcefully.
He removed his hand. But the door opened before Kathryn could turn the knob.
The young maid’s eyes went round. “Oh, excuse me, sir,” Molly gasped. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”
The girl’s assumption was written in her shocked expression. Kathryn reached for her hand. “No, Molly, it’s fine. Mr. MacGregor returned and didn’t realize I was in the room. I’m leaving. I’ll come back later to clean, once he’s through.”
Molly looked from one to the other. “Yes, ma’am. Of course.” The girl nodded, but suspicion crept into her eyes before she turned and hurried down the hall toward the stairs.
Kathryn followed her into the hallway.
“I’ll take care of clearing up the misunderstanding,” MacGregor said close beside her.
“No. You’ve done quite enough already. I’ll speak with Molly myself.”
“As you wish. But we still need to discuss my business proposal. Beginning immediately, I’d like to lease your land for grazing my cattle. That would provide you with a steady income from the ranch land while giving us time to discuss other options. Or are you no longer interested in my offer?”
Kathryn studied him. Donlyn MacGregor was a powerful man—in every sense. And certainly not the most trustworthy. Did she dare pursue a partnership with him? But if she wanted to keep the ranch, did she have a choice? And his offer to lease the land was generous. She thought about the course of events that had placed her here at Casaroja. Certainly that was God’s hand, right? So was it her own selfishness that was driving her now, or God’s will?
Swallowing her pride, she finally nodded. “Yes, I’m still interested and want to speak with you about it. But not in your bedroom,” she added quickly, putting more distance between them.
“Give me your requirements for our next meeting, madam, and I’ll meet every one.”
His smile looked sincere enough, but not wanting to encourage further teasing, Kathryn kept her tone serious. “A more public place would be nice. And next time, leave the door open.”
He didn’t answer for a moment; he appeared to be considering what she’d said. “Your every request is my pleasure, lass,” MacGregor finally said softly, then let his focus slowly move beyond her.
Kathryn turned. The bucket nearly slipped from her hands.
At the top of the stairs, Miss Maudie and two ranch hands stood staring. Kathryn heard the bedroom door close behind her, and with it, the sealing of her apparent guilt.
Miss Maudie’s eyes were wide and displeasure lined her expression. The taller ranch hand with curly dark hair grinned in a way that left no doubt as to his assumption. But the other man’s attention seemed to be burning a hole straight through her.
Kathryn couldn’t see his eyes through the smoke-colored glasses, but he wasn’t smiling. Neither did surprise register on his face. Yet his condemnation was tangible. Her cheeks burned with it.
“Where have you been, Kathryn?” Miss Maudie’s voice sounded unnaturally bright. “I came lookin’ for you earlier.”
Kathryn blinked and drew a quick breath. “I was working, Miss Maudie.” Heat prickled from her scalp to her toes. “I was cleaning in the—”
“Very well, Kathryn. Finish your chores downstairs, then wait for me in the study, please.” Miss Maudie turned to the ranch hands. “It’s the second bedroom there on the right. There’s a wardrobe that needs to be carried downstairs.”
Kathryn kept her eyes downcast as she passed, afraid they would mistake her tears for an admission of guilt.
Later that afternoon after finishing her duties, Kathryn sat in the study, waiting as Miss Maudie had instructed. Regardless of her innocence, she still felt the sting of guilt. And hearing the other servants whisper behind her back hadn’t helped. Molly had obviously wasted no time in retelling the tale. Kathryn cringed again when remembering the look on Miss Maudie’s face. She so wanted to please the woman, and to keep this job.
The door opened. She jumped to her feet.
“Be seated, Kathryn.” Miss Maudie’s tone held a hint of benevolence, as did her eyes. She sat in the chair opposite Kathryn. “Tell me exactly what happened this morning.”
Kathryn quickly summarized the events, from knocking on Mr. MacGregor’s bedroom door to the moment when Miss Maudie saw her leaving the room. Remembering the pride in Maudie’s voice when she spoke of Mr. MacGregor, she chose to leave out the part about his crass suggestions. Sharing that would only raise more suspicion, and besides, he’d promised not to do it again. “I assure you nothing happened. Mr. MacGregor came back into the room unexpectedly, that’s all.”
Miss Maudie studied her for a moment, then sighed. “I believe you, Kathryn.”
“You do?” she asked, feeling immediate relief. “Thank you.”
“But you must be more careful in the future. Gossip spreads quickly at Casaroja, and an incident such as this does a lady’s reputation little good.”
Kathryn nodded in understanding and started to rise.
Miss Maudie put out a hand. “There is one more thing, Kathryn dear. Mr. MacGregor’s office was cleaned earlier today. Was that your doin’?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kathryn answered, looking at her hands in her lap. She smiled, secretly glad for the chance to redeem herself.
“Was cleanin’ Mr. MacGregor’s personal office on your list of duties today?”
Kathryn blinked at the crisp turn Miss Maudie’s voice had taken. “No, ma’am, it wasn’t,” she answered softly. “But when I saw that it hadn’t been cleaned in a while, I thought that—” She fell silent at the look in the older woman’s eyes. “No, it wasn’t on my list.”
“I appreciate your willingness to work hard, Kathryn. It’s quite commendable. But Mr. MacGregor has strict rules about who’s allowed on the second floor, and into his personal office, for certain. So, keep to the list that I give you, my dear, and you’ll do well here at Casaroja.”
Larson watched her from the shadows of the barn stall, his heart pounding. Kathryn stood just beyond the double-planked doors— near enough for him to see the soft shimmer of highlights in her hair and the crinkle of her brow. What was she doing down here at the stables? And in the middle of the afternoon? He looked at his glasses that lay on a workbench a few feet away.
He’d seen her every day since having caught her leaving Mac-Gregor’s bedroom. He’d said nothing to anyone, but word had traveled fast among the other ranch hands. Within two days, the whole episode was common knowledge. Within a week, they knew she’d lived in a brothel back in town and were labeling her child as the product of the place. They used a word Larson knew well and a label he’d spent most of his adult life trying to escape.
Earlier that morning he’d been working with the buckskin mare when a group of wranglers rode by. They yelled things at Kathryn as she was hanging laundry. She acted like she didn’t hear, but Larson knew from the stiff set of her shoulders that she’d heard every word.
Kathryn took a step closer into the stable, and he pressed back against the timbered wall. The hay crunched softly beneath his boots. She was so beautiful it almost hurt. Her delicately arched brow, her dainty mouth, the clouds of silken blond curls falling over her shoulders. . . . He took in the full swell of her black skirt and the tenderness inside him waned.
She squinted her eyes as though trying to decipher the shadows beyond the open stable door, but she seemed hesitant to come any farther.
Larson relaxed a bit at the discovery. Hidden, he studied her again—the tender curves of her face, her eyes the shade of creamlaced coffee. The tightness in his throat made it difficult to swallow. Why was he here at Casaroja? He’d thought it was God’s voice he was following, and yet, at this moment, that didn’t seem like enough. A hot burst of anger poured through him again. And how could God bless her womb with another man’s seed?
His gut twisted thinking of Matthew Taylor, and he winced at the image of him touching her. He hadn’t seen Taylor at all in the two weeks Kathryn had lived here. Did that mean Taylor wasn’t going to claim the child? Or maybe he wasn’t the child’s father after all.
Larson swallowed the bitter taste rising in his throat. He couldn’t seem to shrug off the weight bearing down hard inside him, like a hundred pound load of bricks resting squarely on his chest.
Kathryn turned back in the direction of the main ranch house, and Larson slowly let out his breath. She made her way up the gently sloping rise. He watched her slip a hand behind her and massage her lower back. As she walked away from him, a familiar sense of loss welled inside him.
He rubbed the back of his neck and wondered again how differently things might’ve worked out had he not left so abruptly Christmas morning, and what it might have been like to father a child with his wife. Kathryn’s child. Lost in his thoughts, he turned.
He sucked in a breath at the huge hulk of a man standing next to him.
His heart racing, Larson took a step back and knocked a metal bucket off its peg. It crashed into an empty tin trough. The clangor resonated like a church bell, and Larson put out a hand to steady himself.
“Don’t be scared,” the man said.
Larson tipped his chin up and stared, unable to speak.
“My name is Gabe.” The young man’s deep voice was hushed, and he pronounced his words slowly, giving each syllable emphasis. “Why are you hiding in here?” he asked in a childish half whisper, his thick shoulders hunched forward.
Larson eyed him, taking in the slabs of muscles layering his arms and chest, and then willed his pulse to slow. The pure guilelessness of the man’s voice and manner contrasted with his powerful stature and muscular build. Was he completely daft or simply a bit slow?
“I wasn’t hiding, Gabe,” Larson finally managed. “I was . . . working.” It didn’t come out as convincing as Larson would’ve liked but would probably work on this innocent.
A surprisingly knowing look deepened the lines of Gabe’s face. The child giant looked from him over to where Kathryn had been standing, then back again.
Larson experienced an unexpected stab of guilt. “I was working,” he said again in defense, wondering why he felt the need to explain himself to this oaf. He picked up the bucket and hung it back on the peg. “I manage the stables here at Casaroja.” Stating his job that way made it sound better than it was. He enjoyed working with horseflesh and training cold backs to be saddle worthy and bridle wise, but his pride was still adjusting to mucking out stalls and filling feed troughs.
The only time he felt even a bit like his old self was when he helped herd cattle or allowed his borrowed mount the lead on miles of open range east of Casaroja’s boundaries. In those brief moments, he could almost glimpse the fading shadow of the man he used to be. Almost. But those pleasures took a heavy physical toll on him now.
“Does it still hurt?” Gabe asked, eying Larson’s face. Gabe took a step forward, and a splinter of sunlight knifed through the rafters and spilled across his face.
Larson had never seen eyes so blue, the purest cobalt, like windows to the soul. He looked away. “You don’t belong in here, Gabe. Only hired help is allowed.”
“But the boss sent me down to help. I can lift heavy things.” He paused and looked straight into Larson’s eyes. “When people hide, it’s mostly ’cause they’ve done something wrong. Have you done somethin’ wrong?”
Suddenly tired of this massive simpleton, Larson attempted a dark look. “I don’t have time for this. And I don’t have anything for you to do right now, Gabe,” he lied. “So you need to leave.”
Larson limped to the far wall and grabbed his glasses. Ignoring the sharp pain in his lower back, he lifted a bale of hay. He took three steps before the muscles in his arms spasmed. The bale dropped to the barn floor, and he gritted his teeth to quell a curse. Dust and hay particles filled the air around him. He was already breathing heavily, and now his throat felt as if it were coated with sawdust. He coughed and tried to swallow, then reached for the canteen he always kept close at hand. After several swallows, he was able to catch his breath. He took his knife, sliced the thick twine binding the hay, and reached for a rake.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Gabe still standing by the wall, watching silently. Larson wondered why Stewartson, the ranch foreman, hadn’t spoken with him about having hired someone. Larson liked working alone, and this Gabe seemed a bit odd. But at least he wasn’t causing problems. Not yet anyway.
Deciding to let the situation play itself out, Larson swallowed against the burning in his throat and pulled the bandanna around his neck back up over his mouth and nose. He began spreading the fresh hay into the shoveled stalls. The jerky movements made the muscles in his arms and back burn. This job pushed him to his physical limit, but he had to work to live. Being at Casaroja—at Donlyn MacGregor’s ranch—rankled his pride, but the work was steady and the horses and cattle were the finest in the territory. And though most the other hands avoided him, which suited him fine, Miss Maudie treated him well. Last night she’d added an extra portion of pot roast to his plate.
But the real reason Larson was still at Casaroja was because God hadn’t given him permission to leave yet. He’d felt the confirmation to come there and had obeyed. Now he wanted to leave and couldn’t. Hearing movement behind him, Larson’s frustration at Gabe’s loitering breeched the last of his patience.
He jerked his bandanna down and turned. “Look, I told you once that only hired hands are—” The words caught in his throat.
Kathryn stood inside the doorway. Sunlight spilled in behind her, framing her in a soft glow. She took two steps and stopped. A tentative smile played at the corners of her mouth.
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir.”
Weakness washed through him at the sound of her voice, and Larson was thankful for the rake in his hand. Leaning heavily against it, he welcomed the shadows of the stall.
He looked past Kathryn to the far wall. Gabe was gone. Great, just when the big guy might’ve proved useful.
“Sir, I feel rather foolish coming here, but I just wanted to . . .” She glanced down and walked toward him.
He raised a gloved hand to his jaw and suddenly remembered he’d removed his bandanna. He touched his temple and, with relief, felt his glasses. Thinking she might recognize him this close up sent a cold wave through him. It had been dark that night in her cottage. Then in the main house, she’d looked at him only briefly before passing. Seeing her affected him in ways he tried not to acknowledge. Her eyes flashed to his, then took in his face.
Her smile faded slightly. Then a shadow, hardly perceptible, crossed her expression before the lines on her brow smoothed again.
He’d seen the reaction countless times before. People never knew how to act or what to say, even when seeing him for the second or third time. Most resorted to practiced indifference, while others stared outright. But what he hated most was their pity. And pity was something he definitely did not desire from Kathryn. Not after what she’d done to him.
Larson held his breath, waiting for the light of recognition in her eyes. He wondered if she was aware of how her hands traveled over her round abdomen in smooth circles, as though comforting the child growing inside her.
The maternal act did nothing to warm his heart.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you, sir. I can see you’re busy. I should let you get back to your work.”
A shudder of reprieve passed through him, followed by astonishment. Here he was, her husband of ten years, standing before her, and she didn’t see him. How could people be so blind to what was right in front of them? With rash courage, he decided to test the boundaries of his cloak of scars.
“You been here long at Casaroja, ma’am?” he asked, watching for the slightest sign, the subtlest change in her expression at the sound of his voice.
Nothing. Instead, a trace of sadness crept into her eyes.
She shook her head. “No. I haven’t been here long. And you?”
He limped to the far wall and hung up the rake, acutely aware of his stuttered stride and the way her eyes followed him.
“Been here about two weeks myself.” He nodded toward the open doors. “This is a beautiful place. Finest ranch around these parts.” And the kind of place I wanted to build together with you, Kathryn. That I wanted to give you.
“Yes, Casaroja is beautiful,” she agreed, slipping her hand into her skirt pocket. He half expected her to withdraw something, but she didn’t. Instead, she surprised him by closing the distance between them. “My name is Kathryn Jennings.”
So she still carried his name. That discovery didn’t soften him toward her. Larson looked down at her hands now clasped at her waist and remembered the silk of her skin . . . and the grotesqueness of his own.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” She reached into her other pocket and pulled out a wrapped bundle. The checkered material reminded him of Miss Maudie’s kitchen cloths, like the ones she draped over his dinner plate before she set it off to the side, keeping him from having to wait in line with the other ranch hands. “Miss Maudie made this last night.” Kathryn pulled back on a corner of the cloth. “She said she didn’t remember you getting a piece last night, so I saved some back for you. It’s her special spice bread.”
Larson reached out a gloved hand, but Kathryn simply stared down at it, then back up at him.
She smiled a little, as though questioning whether he was going to remove his glove. Typical Kathryn. Always direct, but with a femininity belonging only to her.
He tugged on his right glove, gritting his teeth at the soreness in his fingers, then at the pain reflected in her face when she saw his hand.
She gently took his hand in hers, as a mother might a child’s. A sigh escaped her. “How did this happen?”
The empathy in her tone caught him off guard, and Larson was stunned by his physical reaction.
Her face reflected nothing but innocence, but he didn’t welcome the feelings being this close to her stirred inside him. He pulled his hand away.
Surprise lit her eyes.
“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all.” He took the small bundle from her and set it aside. “Thank you for thinking of me,” he mumbled, pulling his glove back on.
“You should come up to the ranch house some night. Miss Maudie often doctors the men’s bruises and cuts. I bet she’d have something to help you. I’d be happy to help too, if I could,” she added after a moment.
Larson looked away. He wanted her to leave. He hadn’t expected, nor did he welcome, her compassion. But Kathryn had always possessed a tender heart. She’d been quick to help wanderers when they happened by their cabin, offering them food in exchange for work that she could’ve easily done herself. Anything to help a man keep his dignity.
A thought pierced him. Even if Kathryn hadn’t betrayed him by being with other men and carrying another man’s child, what did he have to offer her anymore? He was a broken shell of a man with a carved out, discarded dream—with no chance of ever waking. Oh, but he had loved her. And she had loved him too . . . at one time— he was certain of it.
“Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
The sound of her voice pulled him back. Disturbed by her being here, yet suddenly not wanting her to leave, he cleared his throat. “You never said what it was you came down here for, ma’am.”
She turned back and shrugged, but she didn’t look him in the eye this time. “I was out for a walk and just wound up down here somehow.” Kathryn paused, then shook her head. “No, that’s not truthful. I came down here specifically to talk to you about something.”
His pulse skidded to a halt.
“You saw me that afternoon . . . leaving Mr. MacGregor’s bedroom. I’ve spoken with Miss Maudie, and she believes me. I really was cleaning his room that day, no matter how it may have looked. I would never do something like that. Mr. MacGregor came back in and shut the door. He didn’t even know I was there, I assure you.”
Larson didn’t answer. Kathryn watched him, unblinking, waiting for his response.
He could easily lose himself in those eyes again. Eyes so warm, seemingly full of compassion. The honesty in them captivated him. He wanted to look away, but some invisible hand kept him from it. Then the certainty inside him wavered, like a candle fighting for flame at the sudden opening of a door.
Was she telling the truth?
But as hard as he tried, Larson couldn’t make it fit the reality he knew to be true. Lord, she was living in a brothel. I saw her there. Though his eyes never left hers, his mental focus dropped lower. And she’s obviously been with another man.
Kathryn’s eyes filled and she looked down. “You don’t believe me.”
“What does it matter if I believe you or not?”
She lifted her chin and squinted ever so slightly, as though she were trying to penetrate the brown tint of his glasses. “It matters a great deal to me.”
He shifted beneath her scrutiny. Part of him wanted to reach out and brush the tear from his wife’s cheek, but he made his gloved hand into a fist instead. God help me, I don’t know what to believe right now. But he was sure of MacGregor’s guilt in the situation. No doubt that man had a hand in Kathryn being at Casaroja, and Larson intended to discover the reason behind MacGregor’s sudden interest. He didn’t have to look very far in front of him to start.
Larson tried to sound convincing despite his doubt. “I do believe you, ma’am.”
She wiped her tears and the tension eased from her expression. “Thank you,” she whispered, then tilted her head to one side. “I just realized . . . you never gave me your name.”
“Jacob.”
The edges of her mouth twitched. “A biblical name. It suits you.”
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment. Jacob deceived and cheated his brother out of his birthright, then lied to his father.”
Her brow rose. “You’re familiar with the Bible?”
Larson shrugged and reached for a shovel, needing something to occupy his hands. “I’ve read certain parts.” It unsettled him how much he enjoyed talking with her again, especially when nothing could ever come of it.
She took a small step closer to him. “While Jacob had his faults, he was also a very determined man. A man willing to work long and hard for what he wanted.”
“But his methods weren’t always respectable.”
“No, they weren’t. But, then, whose are?” She smiled as though enjoying the exchange as well. “Well, I need to get back to work. It was good to meet you, Jacob.”
“Same to you.”
Larson stood at the door for several minutes, watching her walk back to the main house. She’d looked so sincere. Had she been telling him the truth? And if so, then what about the brothel? And Matthew Taylor? None of it made any sense. He sighed and went back into the stable.
But over the next few days, he decided that a trip back to the brothel was in order. If only to find out once and for all what Kathryn had been doing there.