The woman moved fast. In a flurry of shawls and skirts she scrambled to her feet and swept the boy behind her. She raised fear-filled eyes to him and spoke with admirable defiance for one who trembled visibly. “Do not touch me.”
There was a gruesome thought—touching that strangely lumpy and head-to-toe dirty woman. Luke lifted his hands slowly, palms out. “No, ma’am.”
Not a chance. He wouldn’t risk touching her with a stick. She could be anywhere from age fifteen to fifty-five for all he could tell since a thick layer of grime on her face obscured her features. Except for her eyes. Pupils dilated with fear glowed from luminous pools of green, the rich color of summer grass. She blinked as he spoke.
His answer appeared to surprise her, whether because it was delivered in perfect English or the fact that he had no intention of molesting her he couldn’t be sure.
“Y—y—you must leave,” she commanded while maintaining her wobbly warrior stance in front of the boy. “You don’t belong here.”
He folded his arms across his chest and lifted a brow. “And you do?”
Again she looked startled, and this time more than a little annoyed. She straightened and thrust out her grimy chin. “I most certainly do. This is my home.”
“This place belongs to Cyrus Marbury.”
The child, slender and pale with wide green eyes like the woman’s, managed to peer around her wide skirts to ask, “Do you know my uncle Cyrus?”
Luke crouched down to meet the little fellow eye to eye. “Very well. I helped him build this place.”
The child tugged her skirts. “You see, Deborah. He’s not a bad Indian. He’s friends with Uncle Cyrus.”
“If he were friends with Cyrus, then he would certainly know Uncle Cyrus went west and left the house to my father.”
“Went west—?”
“Indeed he has, and if you were any friend at all—What are you laughing at?”
Luke threw back his head and howled. “The old coot. I can’t believe he really did it.”
When she was angry she seemed to forget to be wary. He could hear her foot tapping impatiently beneath the skirts. “Yes, yes, I’m sure it’s all very amusing, but the fact remains, the house is mine, and you don’t belong here.”
“Your father’s,” Luke corrected. Ordinarily Luke wasn’t one to argue, but for some reason, he enjoyed watching the green-eyed woman get riled. “The house belongs to your father. Is he here?”
The child popped around again. “Papa is in heaven. With Jesus.”
“Hush.” She pushed the child behind her before raising her dirty face to Luke. “I want you to go. Now.”
“Fine.” Luke took a step toward her and could swear he saw her blanch beneath the layer of dirt. He lifted his hands to placate her. “My blanket,” he said by way of explanation. “Behind you. On the bed.”
“Oh.” She sidestepped him, dragging the boy behind her, to give him a wide berth.
Luke could feel her eyes on his back as he scooped up the folded blanket and tucked it under his arm. He said nothing as he turned and walked from the room. He was at the back door when he heard the child call out, “Come back for a visit, won’t you?”
Luke could hear the woman scolding the boy in hushed, furious tones and heard the childish voice ring out in protest, “But I liked him.”
Luke smiled as he exited the house.
His horse, a large paint mare, nickered as he entered the darkened lean-to that served as a stall. “Time to go, old girl.”
Luke tossed the worn leather saddle over her back and cinched it. He slid his rifle, which he’d left leaning against the inside wall, into the holster before swinging into the saddle and riding across the yard and out through the broken gate without looking back.
He replayed the short encounter as he rode away. The last thirty minutes had been a novelty for Luke. Not the part about being thrown out. Rejection was as familiar to him as breathing. The unusual part was that someone wanted to see him again. Of course, that someone was a child, too young to know that Indians, more specifically half-breeds, were not fit companions. Still it was a nice feeling to be wanted.
No one wanted Luke. Occasionally someone like Crandall came along, someone with a need who appreciated Luke’s skill with a gun. But with the exception of the small boy back there, no one had ever wanted Luke for Luke.
Except maybe Cyrus.
Ten years ago, Cyrus had saved his life. He had taken in Luke, a starving fifteen-year-old boy, and provided him with food to eat and a place to sleep. It didn’t seem to bother Cyrus that Luke was a half-breed.
The thought of Cyrus brought a smile to Luke’s face. Cyrus had always been a loner, not by necessity as Luke was, but by choice. He was a quiet, gentle man who preferred the wide-open spaces and sounds of nature to the noisy confines of a settlement. Yet he had welcomed a sullen teenager with open arms.
Luke reined in his horse and swiveled in the saddle to look back at the house. He and Cyrus had built that house, log by log. For months they’d labored together in an odd kind of companionship that didn’t require many words. For Luke it had been a comfortable time, though he couldn’t have said which he liked more—the acceptance of another human being, or having a full stomach and warm bed.
But Luke hadn’t stayed. The restlessness within him, like an itch that needed to be scratched, kept him moving. Cyrus understood. He’d let the boy go, to find whatever it was he sought, with the knowledge that a warm bed and hot meal always awaited him.
It had been several years since Luke had been back the last time. Evidently the tide of settlers from the East was enough of a threat to Cyrus’s solitude for him to continue west. Luke hoped he’d find the peace he needed. He’d miss Cyrus.
Luke kicked up the horse and rode on, away from the memories of Cyrus and the only home he’d ever known. A home that now housed Cyrus’s people.
They’d never make it, the lumpy woman and lame boy. Texas was a wild place. Life was hard, luxuries few. He’d give them a week before they’d had enough and packed up their wagon and headed back for wherever they’d come from.
Good riddance. It wasn’t as if they were his problem.
Luke rode another few yards before his conscience stopped him. The memory of a half-starved kid wandering up to a campfire and his warm reception by Cyrus clung like a burr in his mind. He hadn’t been Cyrus’s problem, yet Cyrus had clothed him and fed him.
Could Luke do any less for Cyrus’s people?
Luke sighed. At times like this he hated the strong sense of justice that reared up in him. He didn’t know where it came from, only that it forever had him stepping into fights that weren’t his or sticking his nose in other people’s business to right wrongs that weren’t any of his concern.
Cyrus had said it was honor. Luke thought it was crazy. Still, he knew better than to resist it. He knew from experience it’d plague him till he finally acted.
Luke sighed again. He’d have to take care of Cyrus’s folks.
He was no fool. He knew the woman didn’t like him. She’d never willingly accept his help. There seemed to be a lot of pride lurking beneath all that dirt. Pride and fear. Any assistance from him would have to be anonymous.
Their biggest need would be protection. The twosome would be easy prey for anybody looking for trouble. The sorry state of Cyrus’s house was evidence that drifters had been using the place as home. They might take exception to the new owners.
Even as the thought surfaced, Luke grimaced. He’d been in such an all-fired hurry to leave he hadn’t thought to ask if they had a gun to defend themselves. Not that it would do them much good. He could almost smile at the picture of the woman pointing a shaky gun at an intruder.
Resolved to carry out what he knew to be a thankless mission, Luke redirected his horse, heading southeast toward the small tree-covered rise he and Cyrus had called home over the months it took them to build the main house. They’d nailed a few rough boards together to provide basic shelter. It’d been years since Luke had thought about the shack, but if it still stood, it would be perfect for his needs. It was far enough from the house they’d never know he was there, and protection enough to keep out the rain should they be lucky enough to get some.
Minutes later he topped the rise. For a long moment he scoured the landscape, looking for signs of the shack. Finally he caught a glimpse of a weathered gray board from behind a stand of mesquites and he rode over to investigate.
Even standing just two feet in front of the building, he’d never have noticed it had he not known it was there. Thick vines entangled with other vegetation completely covered the small wooden structure. This was perfect. His presence would go undetected.
Luke dismounted and walked to where he knew the door was located. With the knife he wore in a sheath tied to his thigh, he cut through the weeds and vines and pulled them off, discarding them in a pile. Then he pried off the boards he and Cyrus had nailed over the door to keep out varmints. Finally he could push open the door and step inside. Inside the shack, the air was cool and stale. Threads of light sifted through the tiny cracks between the boards and shone on the thin layer of dust blanketing the room.
He left the door open, allowing the breeze to cleanse the air. The single room wasn’t fancy, but no worse than many of the places Luke had stayed over the years. Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d be here very long. In a week he’d be back on the road, seeking answers to ease the restlessness within him.