Matty should’ve gone directly to the dugout. Fire streaked across his chest. But he was intensely curious about these people whose lives he’d dropped into. And Catherine was terribly tight-lipped.
He went to the barn instead.
The structure was too near the stream. In worse shape than the house. Birds chirped in a tall pine across the creek. Afternoon sunlight slanted through a grove of larches, dappling him with shade. It should’ve been a peaceful setting, but he was too antsy for it to soak in.
He set the water bucket and dipper down near the corner of the building and stepped across the threshold. Inside, the area was split into two sections, separated by crudely constructed walls.
Along one wall there were rows of shelves with nesting chickens. Beside that were two neat and orderly stalls. One where she must keep the mule. A placid milk cow stood in the other. The hay was clean and sweet smelling. Obviously Catherine took good care of her animals.
But on the opposite side of the dividing wall was chaos. A jumble of belongings lay scattered on the floor. A broken plow, harness, wooden pieces, metal pieces. He couldn’t even tell what all was there. It was as if this was where they had collected all of the junk they accumulated since 1871.
Beneath the sweet smell of hay was a strong scent of damp earth, as if the driving rains had soaked into the entire structure.
He chose his steps carefully, curiosity driving him farther inside.
In the back corner behind the jumbled items, the storm must’ve washed away part of the grass and dirt that made up the roof. Sunlight filtered in, highlighting dust motes.
Would his weapon and tin star be hidden somewhere in this mess? Catherine could’ve easily stashed it here.
He could barely find the floor beneath the items scattered at his feet. It would take forever to go through all of those pieces, so he did the next obvious thing and began to examine the walls. There were some exposed boards that they used to prop up the roof. The back wall seemed to be the newest, maybe they’d had some kind of a cave-in or just wanted to reinforce the structure. Those newer boards were wedged tightly together, and he spared a thought wondering if Catherine had done it, too.
Along the outside wall there was a shelf where he found a rusty pocketknife and some old tin cans and other odds and ends. But no tin star and no gun.
A little deflated and a lot exhausted just from the short walk out to the field, he turned to go back to the house.
Something swung at him.
He reacted instantly, twisting his upper body to escape the intruder’s attack. Pain ripped through him.
At the same time, he registered that it wasn’t a person reaching out to grab him but instead an L-shaped construct of two connected wooden boards, swinging out from the corner.
He must have dislodged it when he came inside. Now it dangled over the open doorway.
Gasping with pain, adrenaline surging through him even though nothing was actually wrong, he hobbled to the doorway and ducked beneath the piece of wood
The bright sunlight made his eyes water. Or maybe that was the pain.
Bending over to pick up the water pail had him gasping anew, and he had to brace himself with one hand on the side of the barn. This pain was as bad as it had been when he woke that very first day. It streaked through him, not only centered on his chest, but radiating down to the very tips of his fingers and toes.
He hobbled back to the sod house one step at a time. The pain made him loopy, and he was sure he wobbled several times, but somehow he managed to stay upright.
Neither Catherine or her Pop were anywhere in sight when he pushed open the soddy door. Unable to bear it any longer, he dropped the pail and hoped there wasn’t enough water left in the bottom to splash all over.
The sod house was so small that all he had to do was turn and flop backward onto the tiny cot.
More pain.
He couldn’t help the cry that escaped his lips this time. The last rays of sunlight shone in the door he’d left open and speared his eyes. His head pounded.
Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten out of bed at all. He hated to admit that Catherine might be right. He could only hope he hadn’t made things worse for his healing collarbone.
The pain soared, and all he could do was pass out.
But just before he did, his hazy thoughts coalesced into one distinct fear.
If he would’ve been out here alone, if Catherine hadn’t found him, he could’ve died in that raging water. If Catherine wasn’t helping him now he would have no source of food.
It was just like what happened with his parents all over again. The familiar fear from so long ago crept over him making it harder for him to bear the pain radiating everywhere.
He finally slipped into unconsciousness.
In the night, a rain shower passed over. Catherine woke to muddy drips hitting her cheek where she lay on a pallet on the floor.
The first storm, the one that had caused such bad flooding must’ve washed away some of the soil and grass that made up their roof.
“Cath, you getting rained on?” Pop’s low grumble met her ears.
She listened for the sound of the cowboy’s even breathing but couldn’t determine whether he was awake or asleep.
“I’ll have to fix it tomorrow,” she returned quietly.
Another day of work lost because of the storm.
She could hear Pop shifting in his cot, then finally his rustling stopped and his breathing evened out. The cowboy still hadn’t spoken. Maybe he hadn’t woken at all. He’d been laid out on the cot when she’d come in from plowing. Something had happened, because he’d been pale and covered in sickly sweat again, as if he’d reinjured his collarbone, but he hadn’t volunteered any information.
While the cowboy had dozed in a state of pain, Pop had quizzed her over supper, demanding to know what had her shaken up. She’d attempted to divert his attention but had been aware of his questioning gaze throughout the rest of the evening.
Months ago, when she’d told him of Ralph’s pushy proposal, he’d been so angry that he’d threatened to go after the other man with a shotgun. She hadn’t told him of any of the succeeding proposals and wouldn’t tell him of this one.
Ralph would come to see that her rejection was final. He had to.
What man would continue pursuing a woman who was so adamant in her refusal?
Everything was still soggy and muddy the next morning as she climbed carefully atop the dugout roof. The roof likely wouldn’t hold her weight, and the last thing she needed was to fall through, right on top of the cowboy slumbering inside.
Pop had disappeared on one of his rambles. If he kept to his normal pattern, he would be back by lunchtime.
She carefully placed a long flat board across the rooftop, ensuring it stretched from solid ground on one side to the other.
On her hands and knees, she scooted across the board, looking for places where the soil had washed away, clumps of grass or depressions where water was seeping in.
It was tedious work and by midmorning her back and shoulders ached. She squinted against the morning sun even as it warmed her head and shoulders.
“You okay up there?” The cowboy’s casual question made her jump.
It had been muffled through the soil and grass between them, but sounded as if he spoke directly to the room.
She considered not answering, but the last thing she wanted was for him to come outside and watch her as he had yesterday at the field.
“I’m fine. Just trying to do a little patchwork here.”
“I thought you were splashing me in the night.” His voice held the teasing note, one that she didn’t know what to do with.
So she said nothing.
“Actually, it would’ve made me feel right at home, like my brothers were playing pranks on me.”
“Are you the worst of the pranksters?” she asked.
He laughed, a warm sound that made a feeling like hot molasses swirl through her stomach. She braced herself against it. She didn’t even know where the question had come from. She wasn’t curious about him, didn’t want to know more about his life.
“No, that honor goes to my brother Ricky.”
There was a short pause.
“Although Ricky has settled down since he got married. He lives away from the rest of us—his wife’s family has a ranch up north. So now it’s just me and Seb and Breanna left at home to play pranks. Unless one of my older brothers get an ornery idea. Breanna might be the worst of us left at home.”
She hesitated. She wasn’t going to ask but was unable to stop the words from spilling over her lips. “What kinds of things does she do?”
“My ma was pushing her to put a pie in the Ladies’ Society bake sale, and Breanna filled the thing with salt instead of sugar. She said it was on purpose but it could’ve just been a mishap. She ain’t the best of cooks. Of course she also has an aversion to anything Ma might do that has to do with matchmaking. Then there was the time…”
His voice trailed off, almost like he was chuckling to himself, but she couldn’t be sure, not with the roof between them.
“Seb is the youngest of us adopted boys,” he explained. “He’s real sensitive about being outpranked. So one night Breanna gets all these crickets and lets them loose in the bunkhouse. Those things were chirping away, none of us could get any sleep for about a week.”
He grumbled, something low she couldn’t make out.
Her fingers located soft spot in the ground, and she pressed. Soil shifted, loosening beneath her fingers.
“Hey!”
His exclamation told her she must have found a place where the dirt was dropping in.
“I’ll need that dirt to mark where I need to patch,” she called out to him.
A grumble she couldn’t quite make out was his only response.
“I can show you exactly where it’s coming in,” he finally said. Then, “For a minute there I thought talking about pranks turned you a little ornery.”
She packed dirt in as best she could without pushing more down onto him, but at his words something grabbed ahold of her middle and she mashed dirt down with both hands.
She heard him exclaim, heard him spluttering and spitting like maybe he got the dirt right in his mouth.
Her voice wobbled just slightly as she asked, “Are you all right?”
She could practically feel the steam rising out of his ears from up here.
If it had been Mama down there, she would have tanned Catherine’s hide. Even Pop wouldn’t have understood what made her do that. She didn’t quite understand it herself.
Would the cowboy get angry? Even in pain, he hadn’t lost his temper other than the flash of his eyes when she told him she’d taken his weapon.
But then this really was her fault.
Matty stared up at the underside of the roof, still flat on his back. Still laid out.
This morning his chest felt like a thousand-pound horse sat on it and refused to budge.
He was furious with himself for making his injury worse. He needed to heal up. To get out of here and home.
But for some reason he couldn’t keep the silly grin from stretching across his face. Catherine was teasing.
This was the most she’d said since he’d arrived in her life.
“You’d better watch out next time you come in to have a cup of coffee,” he said. “You might find it filled with mud.” His words tasted gritty from the dirt that had fallen in his mouth.
Light streaming in the window highlighted the dust motes floating through the air.
She didn’t respond, but a trickle of dirt rained down on the pillow where his head had been moments ago. She could make a fool of him once, but he knew how to move.
It chafed knowing she was out there working hard and he was laid up in bed. At least his brothers weren’t here to see his humiliation.
But those same thoughts that had snuck up on him yesterday tickled the back of his brain all over again. If Catherine and her pop hadn’t been here he would already be dead.
How could she stand to live out here so far from other people? Just the thought of what could happen—grave injuries, even death—made him shudder, and he was a grown man.
Out here, there was no one to depend on.
“How often do you get to town?” he called up to her. “I mean when it’s not the busiest part of spring?”
“Never.”
Her one word response was a shock. “You mean you haven’t been in a while? This year?”
“I haven’t been since I was eight years old.”
It couldn’t be true. But he thought to the state of her clothes, the buckskin trousers and homespun shirt.
How did folks survive without going to town?
“But what about—” His mind spun as he searched for the right thing to ask. “What about the tools I saw in the barn?”
She must’ve heard the incredulousness in his voice because her answer emerged sharp. “Traded a neighbor.”
“What if you run short on crops one year?”
He could almost sense her shrug those slender shoulders.
“We make do.”
“But what about friends—”
“I don’t need a friend,” she said. She sounded matter-of-fact, but something—maybe it was just being stuck in this situation. Something made him question whether she could be telling the truth.
“Everybody needs a friend.”
“Not me.”
His sister was one of the most tomboyish females he knew, but even she had friends in Oscar and Sarah’s girls, Cecilia and Susie, and Emma, Fran’s sister. It just didn’t sit right with him that Catherine was out here alone without a soul to talk to except Pop.
She got real quiet. He could still hear her movements and sometimes see dust raining down inside the sod house. His eyes roamed around the place, his innate curiosity going crazy because he was stuck here lying on the cot.
The place was clean and neat, like she took pride in having organized surroundings. Everything in its place.
But he could also see small things that had been left undone, probably due to lack of time.
The stove could use another coat of polish. The rag rug on the floor was badly worn.
His eyes were drawn to the wall right next to the bed. The panels were slightly uneven, making a slight pocket right next to his side. Between the two uneven boards, he could see the smallest corner of something.
He reached for it. As long as he kept his torso still, the pain was manageable. His fingertips brushed against something, but he couldn’t quite grasp it.
He shifted, biting back a gasp when pain fired across his chest. But his fingers closed around it. Holding it up, he saw it appeared to be a leather pouch, brown with age. Medium-size. And something was inside it.
He set it on his stomach and wiggled the pull cord, finally drawing out what looked like…school books.
His fingers tracked idly over the long-ago familiar title of the book in front. A reader. The cover was intact, though badly worn as if someone had opened it over and over again.
Was this the same one that Catherine had owned back when she’s been at the schoolhouse?
If so, why had she kept them?
It seemed such a simple and whimsical thing to hold on to.
And somehow he knew Catherine was an infinitely practical person.
Did the primer have a deeper meaning to her?
He heard scuffling above. Was she finishing with her patching job on the outside?
He doubted she would like to know that he found her hidden books. He carefully slid them back into the leather pouch and pushed it with the tips of his fingertips back into its hiding place.
Catherine entered the soddy, squinting a little as she came out of the bright sunlight into the dim interior. As her eyes adjusted, she saw the cowboy was still laid out flat on his back, his hair tousled against the pillow.
“Still in pain?” she asked.
In all his conversation, he hadn’t offered up what he had been doing when he’d reinjured himself yesterday.
“Only when I move.” He’d obviously wiped his face clean, but there was dirt along his hairline and she felt a moment of uncertainty at seeing it. Maybe she shouldn’t have played the joke.
There were small piles of dirt also at the foot of the bed and on the table. Above each pile, those were the places she needed to patch.
She would deal with the dirt that had landed on the cowboy’s pillow last, that way he didn’t have to move quite yet.
After she’d climbed off the roof, she’d filled a pail with mud down from the creek, a gray shale that dried to a stiff clay.
She carefully stood on the little stool between the table and Pop’s cot, balancing when it wobbled. She wiggled her fingers into the small crack between two of the wooden slats and wedged them apart.
It was awkward work with her hands above her head and balancing on the stool. Made worse because the cowboy was watching.
“Do you have to replace the roof often?”
“Every few years.”
She stood on tiptoe, stretching to push a clump of mud into the opening she’d created between the two slats.
“That must be hard work.”
Backbreaking. The last time she’d had to cut squares of earth and grass and haul them where she needed them had taken a week and she’d been sore for another week after that.
“Haven’t you ever wanted…well, things like normal girls might want? Friends? Frocks? A family?”
“I have a family,” she snapped. Her arms were beginning to ache as she held them above her head. She kept her eyes on what she was doing, but the cowboy was sorely testing her focus.
“That’s not what I meant,” he backtracked. “I meant…like a husband someday. Babies. That kind of family.”
Her ears grew hot. She knew her face must be red, but she hoped he would attribute it to the exertion and not his words.
“Those kinds of things aren’t important to me.” She meant more the former than the latter. The truth was, she did want to have a family someday. She’d always held a secret longing for it. And after Pop passed away, who would she have left?
“I didn’t mean any offense,” he said.
She didn’t respond to that. His entire presence here bothered her, made her ask questions of herself. Made her think things that were dangerous.
She finished her patch and rubbed a muddy hand against her pant leg. Now the only place she had left to patch was right above the cowboy’s head.
He must’ve known where her next target was because even as she stepped off the stool, he was attempting to struggle up onto his elbows. And having a hard time of it.
“Here, let me—” She braced one hand beneath his elbow. The muscles in his arms flexed under her hand as she tugged until he was sitting up. Sweat poured off his brow, and he panted with pain.
“There,” he said. “It’s only the getting upright that’s bad. I’m all right now.” He edged off the bed and onto the stool, far enough out of her way that she could stand on the bed and finish with the ceiling.
His nosy questions made her want to escape. It was safer in the field with the mule.
She worked quicker than she normally would, arms still aching, unused to working above her head for so long. When she attempted to shove the slats back in place, she cut her finger on a ragged edge.
She hissed but made sure the panels were secure before bringing her hands down in front of her. She examined the splinter sticking out of her finger and the blood welling around it.
“You need some help?”
It was as if he had to stick his nose into everything. He couldn’t help himself.
She was irritated with his presence and with herself for being unable to ignore those things that she wanted in the deepest parts of her heart.
“It’s just a splinter,” she growled at him.
Her hands were too muddy to stick her finger in her mouth. She’d have to wash off in the creek before she could do anything about the splinter.
But when she stepped off the bed, her foot went into the bucket and she lost her balance, falling onto the edge of the bed with a whuff! of air expelling from her chest.
It put her face-to-face with the unnerving cowboy. His eyes seemed to see right into her.
He didn’t say anything.
She hiked her chin.
And then he did. “You say you don’t need a friend. But I don’t believe you. For as long as I’m here, I’m praying I can be that friend.”