Kitabı oxu: «Loving Katherine»
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
About the Author
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Copyright
“Sweet stuff?”
Roan dropped his hands from her shoulders and gaped. “Is that what you call it when a man uses a plain little old word like honey instead of just callin’ you by name? Hasn’t anyone ever called you sweet names, Katherine?” he asked softly. “Haven’t there ever been any men hangin’ around, tryin’ to court you or just tryin’ to get your attention?”
Katherine spun back to face him, and her eyes were bleak. “Take a good look at me, Roan Devereaux! Do I look like the sort of woman men come to court? I’m sure not good-looking and I’m too plainspoken for most of the men hereabouts. What have I got to offer a man in his right mind?”
She was serious! By damn, she was! And here he’d been feeling like a randy, apple-cheeked boy around her!
Dear Reader,
In her second book for Harlequin Historicals, Loving Katherine, Carolyn Davidson tells the heartwarming story of an isolated farm woman who meets a man who is determined to overcome her mistrust and draw her out, despite her reluctance. Don’t miss this wonderful follow-up to her first novel for Harlequin, Gerrity’s Bride.
Claire Delacroix continues to delight audiences with her stories of romance, passion and magic. This month’s story My Lady’s Champion, is another captivating medieval tale of a noblewoman forced into marriage to save her ancestral home that will transport you to another time and place.
Whether you’re a longtime fan of Mary McBride or have just discovered her, we know you’ll be delighted by her new book, Darling Jack, the touching tale of a handsome Pinkerton detective and the steady, unassuming Pinkerton file clerk who poses as his wife. And be sure to keep an eye out for multipublished author Ruth Langan’s Dulcie’s Gift, the prequel to the contemporary stories in the Harlequin cross-line continuity series, BRIDE’S BAY.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Loving Katherine
Carolyn Davidson
www.millsandboon.co.uk
CAROLYN DAVIDSON
lives in South Carolina, on the outskirts of Charleston, with her husband, her number-one fan. Working in a new/used bookstore is an ideal job for her, allowing access to her favorite things: books and people. Loving Katherine is her fourth novel. Readers’ comments are more than welcome in her mailbox, P.O. Box 60626, North Charleston, SC 29419-0626
With grateful appreciation, this book is dedicated
to my agent, Pattie Steele-Perkins, who makes me
believe in myself.
And with a heart full of love to my granddaughters, in
the hope that each of them will one day find their own
special hero. To Erin, Rachel, Jennifer Beth, Sarah,
Cherylyn, Karen, Jennifer Lynn and Ashley; and
especially to Katherine, who was but a twinkle in
her daddy’s eye when this story was begun.
Grandma loves you all!
But most of all, to Mr. Ed, who loves me.
Chapter One
He’d been watching her for more than ten minutes, curiosity snagging him after the first glance. He’d meant to assure himself that he was indeed finally arriving at Charlie’s place, hoping to see the familiar figure somewhere about the corral or perhaps coming out of the pole barn. But the sight of the lone figure, kneeling in the garden patch, had caught his eye and he’d settled down to watch for a few minutes. Katherine. It had to be Katherine, he decided.
And as for Charlie, where the hell was he? With no sign of him about, he was probably out in a far pasture, checking on his mares. Roan Devereaux nodded his head at the thought and stretched out his leg to ease the cramp in his thigh, grunting his impatience with physical infirmities.
“Seen the time I could play statue for the best part of an afternoon,” he muttered, squinting against the sun, fast making its way toward the horizon. Lifting to one elbow, he disrupted the smooth line of his profile, the better to observe the woman who worked amid the hills of potatoes and the forest of tomato plants next to the cabin. She’d not glanced about or appeared to catch sight of him since he’d placed himself at the top of the hill just minutes ago.
The ride had been short, coming out from town. It was the days of travel before that had brought to mind the old injury he’d rather have ignored. His hand rubbed instinctively at his thigh and he frowned, his eyes narrowing on the woman who knelt less than two hundred yards away.
Even now, she blended into the garden, half kneeling amid the potatoes she’d been gathering, dropping them into a burlap bag.
Reaching for his hat, he swatted it against his leg before jerking it into place against the dark swath of his hair. The wide brim cut the glare of the setting sun, and his squint eased into a more leisurely perusal of the small figure below his vantage point.
“She looks like a mud hen,” he decided with a rusty mutter. “Bustlin’ around in that garden like a brown mud hen, if I ever saw one.” Heaving a sigh, he contemplated his next move. “Guess I might as well go down and introduce myself.”
His brow furrowed, his hand moved to his thigh as he eased himself to his haunches, and then he froze in place. Rising from her crouch, she lifted her head in a gesture of wary alertness that surprised him. She brushed one hand distractedly against her skirt, then raised the other to shade her eyes as she gazed at him.
Even across the distance that separated them, he felt the piercing touch of her survey and met it with his own dark scrutiny. With a lifting of her chin, she dismissed him and walked the few yards to where a basket of late vegetables lay amid the tangle of tomato vines. Then, as if she considered his presence of no account, she turned, heading with measured, firm steps toward the small house.
He grinned. “You’re a spunky little thing, Katherine,” he said aloud. “Dismissin’ me out of hand and strollin’ away like you don’t give a good goldarn about whether I come or go.” Turning to his horse, tied to a tree just a few feet from the crown of the hill, he hoisted himself into the saddle. His leg protested and he frowned at the reminder, settling into the worn leather of his saddle, his boots gripping the stirrups even as his knees nudged the stallion into motion.
With the ease of a man familiar with his saddle, he allowed the horse to find his own way down the slope, and within moments they rode past the neat, even rows of the garden. The scent of ripe tomatoes and the musty smell of the overturned earth in the potato patch met his nostrils and he inhaled it with a sense of nostalgia. It’s been years, he thought. Years since he sneaked out to help in the kitchen garden and got swatted for his trouble when his mama caught him with dirty knees.
Saddle leather creaked and the horse snorted once, his ears flicking as he answered a nicker from the barn beyond the house. One hand easy on the reins, the other resting on his thigh, the man directed his mount, approaching the wide front porch that stretched the length of the unpainted house.
It was uncanny, she decided. The sense of unease haunting her had once more proved itself to be valid. She’d known someone was watching. But it wasn’t an evil gaze. Not like the spine-chilling surveillance of Evan Gardner, invading her privacy last winter.
This time…She considered the man who rode toward her house. He was far from harmless, she thought, noting the erect posture, the easy hand on his reins, his watchful eyes. But not a danger. Yet.
It had been a frightening few moments, turning her back on him as he rose to his feet there on the ridge, a tall figure in dark clothing. She’d counted the steps it took to gain the safety of the house, her arms aching from the weight of the basket she carried and the digging and toting she’d done all afternoon.
Now she watched from behind the white lace curtain as he drew back on the reins and settled deep in his saddle, his unsmiling face shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. Her fingers gripped the stock of her father’s shotgun, and she took a deep, shuddering breath as she wondered uneasily if she could fire it.
Oh, the ability was there. For hours—days—she’d hit cans and scattered rocks until she was as good a shot as the man who’d taught her. But that same man had warned her to be prepared to aim for vital parts if the time ever came for her to prove her skill.
“I will if I have to,” she muttered beneath her breath as she moved to the door and lifted the latch.
“Good afternoon, ma’am.” The hands were in plain sight, his own weapon sunk into the leather scabbard that fit behind his saddle.
Even that was not immensely reassuring, she decided. If she were any judge of men, he could have it pointed in her direction in jig time and the lazy ease in his greeting could turn just as quickly to a threat.
“What do you want?” she asked, putting dark, warning venom into the question.
The husky voice was a surprise. He’d expected a gentle, womanly tone. Perhaps even a waver or a breathless quiver in her words.
“Just to ask a few questions, ma’am.” He lifted one hand slowly, tipping the brim of his hat in a gesture of courtly awareness.
Her eyes followed the movement and her lips tightened. “Ask away, stranger,” she told him after a moment.
She was a sturdy little thing, this daughter of Charlie Cassidy, he thought, the low, throaty sound of her voice once more teasing his hearing. Or maybe Charlie’d taken a wife. The thought was unappealing, he decided, watching her closely. No, she had to be his daughter. She had something of the man about her. Perhaps that stubborn chin or the tilt of her head.
Her gun rose in silent menace as she allowed her index finger to slide into better position “Speak up, stranger,” she said abruptly, her impatience with his dithering at an end.
“Charlie around?” Even as he asked, he sensed the solitary presence of the woman here.
She shook her head in silent negation. “What do you want him for?”
He shifted in the saddle and felt the warning she offered as the weapon lifted a bit higher. Her arms must be getting weary. That old shotgun was a heavy one and she wasn’t much of a size to carry it, let alone hoist it into firing position and hold it steady.
“Charlie told me once, if I wanted a good piece of horseflesh, to look him up.” His hand stroked the neck of the stallion beneath him as if in apology, and a shiver of pleasure ran over the flesh of his animal. The long tail swished once, then, black and thick, it settled into immobility again.
“Charlie won’t be selling you any horses.”
His lifted brow disputed her statement. “He out of stock?” As if mocking his question, a horse nickered once more from the barn. His lips curled even as his eyes hardened. “Or are you doubting my word?”
“No.” She looked down, gripping the stock of her weapon, her index finger easing from the trigger.
She’d turned a bit pale, he thought, and leaning a bit, he looked at her more closely. “You all right?” he asked, looking past her at the half-open door that led into the house. “Is something wrong here?”
She shook her head. “No, nothing’s wrong here.” She raised her eyes once more to look at his face. Brown and dingy, her dress hung straight from the shoulders, caught up only by a leather thong, keeping it from the ground, forming it loosely about her waist.
Her hair was long, a heavy braid hanging to her waist, as thick as his wrist where it left the nape of her neck. Sort of a mahogany color, he decided, amused at his own fanciful description. She’d shed the shapeless hat that had successfully hidden her face from his view earlier, revealing strong features. Her skin was tanned from exposure to the sun and her stubborn chin reminded him of Charlie’s.
It jutted forward now as she faced him without a sign of fear. “The only thing wrong here is the unwelcome company, stranger. I told you Charlie isn’t here. Now move on out.” A movement of her gun barrel provided urging. Then it dipped just a bit and she frowned as she brought it back into line with his leg.
His bad leg. The leg that had been cut and sewn every which way already and sure as shootin’ couldn’t withstand another assault. He shook his head at the thought, his mouth twisting derisively as he considered her.
“Can I at least get down off my horse long enough to get a drink of water?” He leaned one hand against the horn of his saddle, shifting against the leather and easing his right foot from the stirrup.
“Canteen empty?” she asked, nodding at the leather-covered flask that hung from his saddle.
His eyes met hers with a level look that was no answer at all. Even as he swung his leg over the back of his mount, his narrowed gaze clung to her. And it wasn’t until he stood before her, dark and unyielding, that she realized her query had gone unanswered.
Her mouth tightened in annoyance and she tipped her head in the direction of the well just across the yard from where he stood. From her vantage point on the porch she watched as he turned away, his eyes almost reluctantly leaving the shapeless mass of fabric that enclosed her.
With stiff movements that spoke of sore muscles, he reached to pull the bucket from the depths of the well, his back wide beneath the worn cotton of his shirt. Deliberately opening his flask, he turned it up to allow a few drops of liquid to fall, and then, with a deft hand, he tipped the bucket to fill it.
“Who are you?” she asked, her eyes intent on his every movement.
“Roan Devereaux.” He lifted the dipper hanging from a length of binder twine and scooped it into the bucket, then drank thirstily while he soaked in her silence. With a twist of his wrist, he dropped the wooden pail back to the depths of the well and turned to face her.
The look of stunned surprise on her face had not had time to fade and he allowed a small smile of satisfaction to ride the corners of his mouth.
Her shotgun was pointed at the wide boards of the porch she stood on. As he watched, she straightened her shoulders a bit more, lifting her head, enabling him to see the fine color staining her cheeks.
“I owe you, Roan Devereaux,” she said quietly. “My father spoke of you more than once after he came home from the war.”
His nod accepted her words. “Is he ill?” His survey of the place revealed the signs of neglect that told him Charlie’s hand hadn’t been felt here for a while. Yet, there were horses on the place.
“He…no, he’s not ill. My father was healthy till the day he died.” She waved a hand at a small rise that began just to the north of the house, where a nondescript picket fence enclosed a plot of ground. “He’s buried there.”
“What happened?” Abrupt and harsh, his voice demanded details and the woman shrugged, turning back to the door.
“I’ll offer you supper before you leave, Mr. Devereaux.”
She’d turned her back on him, and without a by-your-leave stalked into the house, carrying the heavy shotgun by its barrel. His lips firmed as he tended his horse, loosening the cinch and leading the animal to the trough next to the well.
Waiting till the stallion had drunk his fill, he looked around once more. The bars of the corral delineated the enclosure where Charlie’s horses ran. Several tossed their heads now, all fillies by the looks of them, eager to kick their heels. The barn was good-sized, probably triple that of the house, he estimated. Charlie’d always taken good care of his animals. His daughter looked like she needed some tending, though, Roan thought with a grim-lipped smile. Plain as a gray mourning dove, she was. No wonder she didn’t have a man about. With that forbidding look she wore, it would take a needy specimen to try for her affections.
“I’ve dished you up some stew, Mr. Devereaux.” She spoke from the open doorway, and he tipped the brim of his hat, leading the stallion toward the hitching post at the side of the porch.
“I’ll be right in, ma’am,” he offered, rolling up his sleeves as he headed back to the trough to wash up.
She was at the stove when he ducked to walk in the door. There was room to spare, but his height had given him the habit of allowing a bit of space over his crown. She waved her hand at the towel hanging on a peg by the wooden countertop.
“You can dry off with that,” she said, turning to him with coffeepot in hand. A heavy china mug sat on the table, hugging the full bowl of steaming food she had served him. With spare movements, she filled the mug almost to the brim and then glanced at him, her manner hesitant.
He met her eyes. They were blue, darker than he’d thought, widely spaced beneath a fine forehead. Her gaze was penetrating, assessing, and he waited for her judgment.
“Want some milk, too?” she asked finally, nodding at her own brimming glass.
“Coffee’s fine,” he allowed, aware that she’d deemed him safe.
Nodding, she turned back to the stove, the pot clattering against the metal as she slid it to the back corner to keep it warm.
“Sit down.” The words held a measure of courteous warmth, as if she had finally remembered he was a guest in her home. Her own place held a bowl of the stew, and between them reposed a plate of sliced bread, side by side with a round of butter, moisture gleaming from its smooth yellow form.
“You churned today?” he asked.
She nodded, chewing on the first bite of food. “Once a week.”
“What do you do with it?” He selected a slice of bread and cut into the slab of creamy spread, smoothing it back and forth as he cradled the crusty heel in his hand.
“Sell most of it in town. Along with the vegetables and my extra eggs.”
“You alone here?” His voice was lazy against her ears, the faint drawl softening his words.
She stiffened and stirred the stew with her spoon. “Looks like it, doesn’t it?”
“Your brother around, Katherine?” The woman glanced up, her blue eyes widening with a faint trace of alarm.
“If you’re Roan Devereaux, you should know to mind your own business where my brother’s concerned.”
“Your pa spoke of him.”
“Did he now?” Her words were flat, disbelieving, as if such a possibility were doubtful.
Up against the wall of her distrust once more, he heaved a sigh of disgust. “You’re not what I expected, you know,” he said with a grunt of exasperation. “Your pa would have had me believe you were the best thing to come along in his life. ‘My daughter, Katherine,’ he used to say.” His voice was a close imitation of her father’s Irish lilt.
“Well, I am what I am,” she said, grinding out the words. “My pa’s dead and buried, and I owe you for dragging him off a battlefield in Virginia, Mr. Devereaux. If I can repay you in some way, I’ll do what I can. But we won’t be discussing my brother.”
“What happened to your pa?” he asked quietly, his spoon midway to his mouth as he listened to her terse speech.
She pursed her lips and clasped her hands at the edge of the table. “He was breeding a mare and the stud went crazy for a minute. Pa didn’t move quick enough. If he’d been just a few inches one way or the other, it mightn’t have happened, but one hoof caught his temple and he never woke up.”
“Were you here alone?” He watched as she brushed her fingers along the smooth edge of the table, intent on their progress as she touched the worn wood.
“Yes, I was alone.” She rose abruptly and reached for his bowl. “Would you like more stew?”
The matter was closed. Her movement, her pinched expression and her pursed lips told him she would speak no longer of the death of Charlie Cassidy.
He handed her the heavy bowl and nodded. She might not be overly friendly, but the woman sure could cook. “What kind of meat you got in that stuff?” He tilted his chair a bit as he watched her brisk movements.
“Rabbit.”
His brow rose. “You shoot it?”
Her glance withered him effectively. “No, I hit it with a rock,” she said dryly.
He grinned. Perhaps with a little luck, he could get a new horse here after all. Apologies to the stallion he’d picked up for a song just outside of Lexington, but the horse wasn’t what he wanted for the long road he’d soon be traveling.
And maybe with a small dose of gentlemanly courtesy, he’d even find a bed hereabouts for the night. Anything would be better than the hard ground he’d been sleeping on lately.
The canvas cot he found in the barn was too short, and he grumbled loudly as he awoke for the third time since midnight. It creaked ominously as he shifted once more, turning himself over gingerly as he sought a modicum of comfort. The other choice had been the hayloft; even given the presence of mice, it might have been the better of the two, he decided glumly, staring into the darkness.
She’d offered the shelter of the barn without much prompting. In fact, her brisk words had come as a bit of a surprise as he’d leaned back in his chair, his appetite eased by the rabbit stew.
“You’re welcome to stay out back if you need a place for the night.” Busy at the sink, scrubbing at the empty stew kettle, she’d spoken over her shoulder offhandedly, then swung back to her task.
Hesitating only a few seconds, he’d answered, “That’s kind of you, ma’am. I’d be obliged to take you up on the offer.” His elbows rested on the table, and leaning forward, he watched her. “Maybe we can talk about those horses out in the corral, come morning.”
She was silent, but her movements slowed as she appeared to consider his words. Then she lifted the clean kettle from the soapy water and rinsed it with a small dipper. With deliberate motions, she wiped the inside dry with the towel she’d flung over her shoulder earlier.
“I’ve got nothing to sell right now.” She put the pan on the stove with a resounding clang, and its moist surface sizzled on the hot metal.
“Noticed a nice-looking mare that was a good size,” he observed idly, his eyes narrowing as he caught a glimpse of slender ankles beneath her swaying skirt.
“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” she’d said dismissively.
“Well, it’s morning now,” he muttered. “Pret’ near, anyway.” With one last turn, he kicked at the blanket that covered him and rose from the narrow cot. In the depths of the barn, he heard the rustling of straw as an animal stirred.
Probably the cow, he decided, getting anxious the way cows usually do about dawn. Time for milking soon. He wondered if Katherine was up yet, if that rope of hair was loose or already braided up and hanging down her back. Shoving long legs into his pants, he reached for the shirt that lay over his saddle, next to where he’d spent the night.
He shook the image of her from his mind as he buttoned and tucked his shirt, tightening his leather belt above his hips before he pushed open the barn door. The sky was pink, there on the eastern horizon, and an owl swooped low in a final flight before the sun sent him to his perch. From the corral, he heard the soft nicker of a horse and the answering call from within the barn. His stallion hadn’t taken to being put in a stall when three fillies were just outside the upright slats of the wall next to him.
Roan Devereaux knew the feeling He’d sensed the same yearning last night, just for a moment, when Katherine Cassidy had risen on tiptoe to light the lantern hanging over her table. The movement had drawn the fabric of her dress tautly against her form, and he’d felt a twinge of response as he watched her. Beneath the shapeless dress was a woman’s body, and his own, needy as it was, had answered in a predictable manner. Something about the sun-ripened skin of her cheeks and the length of her slender neck appealed to him. Or maybe it was the intelligence that dwelt in the depths of her gaze as she glanced in his direction, silently weighing him and his purpose here. At any rate, the little brown mud hen was a complex female, he’d decided reluctantly.
“One thing’s for sure, she’s off limits to you, bucko,” he said between gritted teeth, shoving a hand into his back pocket.
The memory of Charlie Cassidy was fresh in his mind and the respect he’d felt for the man spilled over onto the woman who was his daughter. Seeking out an old friend, more for the sake of friendship than the hope of buying a horse, he’d allotted only two days for this detour.
Louisiana was due south, and that was the general direction he’d be heading come tomorrow, if all went well. Katherine Cassidy might be a mite richer when she sold him a mare, but if she ever thought of him again, once she’d seen the last of him, he’d be remembered as a gentleman from the word go. He’d leave the lady as chaste as he’d found her, that was for sure.
Chapter Two
Katherine’s eyes widened in disbelief, and a mocking smile curled the corners of her mouth. The sight of Roan Devereaux milking her cow was not what she’d expected to see this morning. But she’d been properly set back on her heels as she halted in surprise just inside the barn.
“Good morning, Katherine.” His voice was low and husky.
“Eyes in the back of your head, Mr. Devereaux?” she asked dryly, leaning one arm against the doorjamb.
“No, ma’am. Just recognized your step, the way your skirt swished.”
She looked down quickly at the telltale garment and frowned. “Could have been someone else,” she argued idly.
He turned his head from the task he’d assumed and his eyes flashed a humorless message. “No. If it’d been someone else, I wouldn’t have been sittin’ with my back to the door, waitin’ to be ambushed.”
She nodded, accepting the mild rebuke, and stepped closer. “About done there?”
“About.” His hands efficiently stripped the udder of its last drops of milk, and he lifted the bucket to one side before rising from the three-legged stool.
“Where do you want this?” he asked, inclining his head toward the results of his early morning chore.
She shook her head. “It’s enough that you beat me to the chores. I’ll take care of the rest of the job,” she told him briskly, bending to pick up the pail of foaming milk.
His big hand halted her, his fingers grasping her wrist, circling it easily. “I always finish what I begin, Katherine. Just tell me where it goes.”
The warmth of that callused hand was a revelation, she decided, her eyes riveted on the place where his flesh met hers. She almost flinched, felt her muscles flex beneath his palm as his touch transmitted a strange, pulsing heat to her skin. Then his hand slid up to grasp her elbow and her eyes rose to meet his, apprehension tightening her jaw and flashing momentarily in her gaze.
“I don’t need your help,” she said firmly, her chin lifting proudly.
His grin was one-sided, tilting the corner of his mouth in a suggestion of mirth that was gone before the smile could be fully formed. “Didn’t say you did.” His nod just escaped mockery. “Let’s say I’m a little late earnin’ my supper from last night.”
Turning her by the hold he kept on her elbow, he effortlessly lifted the bucket, careful to keep the warm milk from sloshing over the sides. “Now, tell me where this goes, Katherine.”
It was worth more to keep her dignity intact, she decided as she walked through the wide doorway. Arguing with the man would only be practical if it involved something of greater importance than a bucket of milk. She bowed her head in acquiescence and waved her free hand toward the milk house, a small wooden shed, one of several outbuildings.
“There. You’ll find a fresh cloth to cover it with. I’ll take care of it after breakfast.”
“You’re cookin’ breakfast already?” His words were hopeful.
“I’ll feed you before you leave,” she said flatly, pulling from his grasp and heading for the house.
Behind her, he halted, the half grin in residence for a fleeting moment. “We haven’t talked about a horse yet, ma’am,” he reminded her.
Her gait was brisk, and only a man with a quick eye would have noticed the hesitation his words inspired. Roan Devereaux had always prided himself on the accuracy of his eyesight, and he allowed the smile to widen his mouth just a bit. Beneath the brush of his dark mustache, his teeth gleamed for a moment.
“Ma’am?”
Her stride lengthened as she left him behind. Her back was rigid, and chestnut-hued hair hung between her shoulder blades, barely moving against the dark fabric of her dress. Tied with a leather thong at her nape, it reached to her waist. It looked like the silky tail of a Thoroughbred, he noted with absurd pleasure.
Her hand grasped the railing as she stalked up the three steps to the porch. Then, turning to face him, there where he waited, watching her, she spoke, her voice low, her enunciation precise.
“I already told you, Mr. Devereaux. I don’t have any horses ready for sale right now. I don’t mean to be rude, but after breakfast, I’ll expect you to be on your way. I’m sure you’ll be able to find an animal suitable for your purposes in town. The livery stable has a good selection. Thurston Wellman will be most happy to sell you a horse.”
She lifted one hand to shield her eyes from the rays of sunlight shining from above the horizon in the east. He watched her silently, with a measuring look that gave little indication of his thoughts, and she responded with a calm appraisal of her own.
Her eyes swept his form, lingering briefly here and there as she measured his considerable length. His clothing was well-worn but sturdy, she decided, his denim pants clinging to the strength of his thighs like paper on the wall. His shirt was faded to a nondescript color, but intact, neatly tucked into place, hugging the breadth of his wide shoulders, then tapering to the narrow measure of his waist. Long-legged, his stance casual and relaxed as he watched her, he bore her scrutiny well. The mouth that had twice twitched with amusement at her expense was almost hidden now, his lips pressed together beneath the brush of his mustache. His eyes were narrowed and dark. High cheekbones made her think of an Indian brave, and the straight blade that formed his nose was centered in a face too strong and rugged to be considered handsome.
“You can wash up at the well,” she offered finally. “Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes.” Briskly, she turned to open the door, and her skirts swayed as she disappeared into the house.
He ate four biscuits, smothered with pale gravy and flanked by several eggs. She’d risen twice to fill his mug with coffee and was surprised to see him add a generous dollop of cream to the dark brew. It was a crack in his spare demeanor, this small luxury, she thought, watching his fingers move the spoon about in the heavy white coffee mug. Katherine silenced the admiration that surged within her as she acknowledged the raw, dark beauty of the man across the table. Roan Devereaux, her father’s friend, was not what she had expected.
She ate sparingly, aware of his presence in her kitchen, of each movement of those lean hands as he ate, only the small sounds of their silverware against the thick china plates marring the quiet of early morning. And then she nodded at the murmur of his appreciation as he finished the meal she’d prepared.
Pushing his chair back, he lifted his coffee to drink the last of it, savoring it slowly, watching her over the rim of his mug. “Fine food, ma’am. I’m much obliged,” he said, replacing the empty vessel on the checkered tablecloth.
She rose briskly and was up and about, clearing the dishes and removing herself from his presence. He’d been the soul of good manners, she decided, eating the food she prepared and using his utensils with skill and ease. Sometime in his life, someone had taught him well, she thought, wiping up crumbs from the red-and-white oilcloth. Aware of his gaze upon her, she moved quickly, uneasy beneath the cool, measuring eyes that paced her movements.
She rinsed the dishrag and hung it to dry over the edge of the sink, then she set the dishes to soak in soapy water. Closing her eyes, just for a moment, she took a breath and, turning toward him, motioned to the door.
“I’ve got a heap of work to do, Mr. Devereaux. I need to be up and at it.” She’d given him a bed and meals to boot. Roan Devereaux or not, Charlie’s friend notwithstanding, she didn’t need the strangely disturbing presence of this stranger here. Now to move him on his way, out of her house and on down the road.
“Katherine.” His voice reproved her gently.
Her mouth tightened at his reluctance. The sense of unease he inspired within her had to do with that husky inflection in his voice as he spoke her name, she thought. As if he knew all there was to know about Katherine Cassidy and found her lacking. As if he sought to peel away the stark surface she wore like a coat of mail, seeking the softness of the woman beneath the brown drabness. The same warmth she’d felt at the touch of his hand on her flesh earlier reappeared as she listened to the sound of her name on his tongue. He’d rolled it within his mouth, making it appear a many-syllabled word. Not like Pa, who’d more often than not called her Kate or sometimes Katie, when his eyes regarded her with tenderness.
“Katherine,” Roan repeated, rousing her from her wandering thoughts. “Can we talk about a horse now?”
She pursed her mouth and frowned at him, disturbed by her meanderings. “Like I said before, I don’t have any stock ready to sell.”
He shrugged and tipped the sturdy chair back to balance on the back legs. “Can I take a look?”
She shook her head at his persistence. “It wouldn’t do you any good. They’re all halterbroken, of course, but I’ve only put a saddle on two of them. They’ve not been ridden yet.” Her pause was significant before she added her final words on the subject, as if to emphasize their import.
“And you can’t have my mare.”
He shrugged off the edict with a casual grin. “Where’s your pa’s stud?” he asked lazily, watching her hands bury themselves in the pockets of her apron.
She flushed and her eyes shifted from his gaze. “I had to sell him.” The admission was painful, and her mouth tightened.
“You don’t have any stock breeding now?”
“Maybe my mare.”
He frowned, considering. “I didn’t notice.”
“If she took, she won’t drop her foal till March,” Katherine said shortly. “She was in season when I had to let the stud go, so I let him in with her just before…before I sold him.”
He drew in a breath, shaking his head. She was really something, this small woman who spoke of the breeding of horses as if it were not fraught with danger. “You’re not big enough to handle a stallion like your pa’s,” he said. “You’re lucky you got it done without getting hurt.”
She shrugged, dismissing his words with the lifting of her shoulders. “You do what you have to. He was strong and a good size, and he’d carried my pa to war and back. I wanted another colt from him before I let him go.”
“Could be a filly,” he reminded her.
Her gaze was fiercely determined and she shook her head, negating the idea. “No, I need a stud. And I’ll have one, give him a couple of years.”
“How many are you running in your pasture?” he asked. “Thought I saw a yearling or two.”
“Three, actually,” she admitted. “The results of last year’s breeding. My father had great hopes for them.”
“You make it sound sorta dismal, Katherine. Surely the dreams didn’t die with Charlie, did they?”
She shrugged off his taunt. “I’m not made of the same stuff my father was, Mr. Devereaux. Someone had to be practical, and Charlie Cassidy was somewhat of a dreamer.”
“That’s not all to the bad.” He dropped the front legs of his chair to the floor with a thump. To his way of thinking, Katherine Cassidy looked like she could use a little dreaming to brighten up her life. As a matter of fact, he decided with a long look at her stiff demeanor, the woman in front of him looked like she’d had all of her dreams shattered. From the top of her smoothly scraped-back hair to the scuffed toes of the shoes showing beneath her dark dress, she looked like a woman who’d buried more than her pa. She was about at the end of her rope, Roan thought. What am I gonna do, Charlie?
Rising from the chair purposefully, he reached for his hat, hanging on a peg just inside the door. Easing it into place, he settled it with a final tilt of the brim His fingers slid into the pockets of his denim pants, thumbs hooked over his belt and his elbows thrust behind him.
All he needed was a gun belt and he’d look like a gunslinger for sure, Katherine thought, her eyes ranging over the man who was thoroughly upsetting her equilibrium this morning. She struggled against the tension that had gripped her upon his arrival yesterday and had remained deeply seated in the depths of her being. His touch had not eased her disquiet any, either, she reflected grimly. Whether it was a natural reaction to a stranger or some individual sense of danger attached to this particular man was the problem.
The former she could handle. The latter, which was more likely to be true, could create a situation she’d gone to great lengths to steer clear of over the years.
His eyes pinned her in place, taking a leisurely journey over the dowdy length of her, and she began to bristle instinctively. He had no right, she thought with rising indignation. No right at all to come in here and make himself at home and then question her about her livestock as if he could pick and choose.
His next words only added to her turmoil. “What are you gonna do with the three mares out in the corral?” he asked mildly, as if he sought to salve her obvious tension.
Her reply was abrupt, snapped off irritably. “Work with them.”
“I’ll take one off your hands,” he offered easily. “Give me a few days to get in the saddle and I’ll be out of your way.”
“My four-year-old is too small. In fact, I don’t have anything big enough for you. Just a three-year-old and she’s…” Her eyes softened as she hesitated.
“Doesn’t pay to make pets of animals you’re bound to sell off, Katherine,” he said gently.
Once more her chin tilted as she glared at him. “She’s not a pet. But she sure isn’t ready to have a saddle thrown on her back and a two-hundred-pound man digging his heels in her sides.”
“She’s a horse,” he said bluntly. “She was bred to be ridden.”
“Said like a man,” she returned with icy disdain, anxious to be rid of this reminder of her own frailty.
“Any man in particular, Katherine?”
She glanced at him quickly, assessing the question.
He pushed for an answer. “Who made you so prickly?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But something tells me you’re a mite touchy about that sassy little filly of yours.”
“That’s the key word, Mr. Devereaux. She is mine and I intend to keep her.”
He smiled agreeably. “That’s your right, ma’am.” His head nodded in the direction of the barn as he changed the subject with alacrity. “Thought I’d spend a couple of hours out there to pay for my keep.”
“It’s not necessary,” she countered swiftly. She’d felt the warmth creep up into her cheeks as the play of words had swirled between them, and she felt a sudden letdown as he turned from the fray so easily. For a few minutes, she’d felt alive and vital sparring with Roan Devereaux and, in an odd way, enjoying it
His index finger rose to tilt the brim of his hat in a courtly parody, and he headed for the door with long strides that carried him out onto the porch and down the steps before her protest could be enlarged upon.
She watched, almost unwillingly, yet drawn by the sight of him. Slim-hipped, he walked with a lithe swing that spoke of long years in the saddle and an ease with his own body. Only a slight hitch betrayed him, and Katherine’s gaze narrowed as she analyzed the hesitation that marred his easy stride. Then her father’s words came back to her, jolting her with the image of savage warfare they had painted.
“Roan paid for my life, girl,” he’d said grimly. “That leg of his will wear scars for all of his years. He dragged me when he could hardly make it himself…till both of us were so covered with muck and mire you couldn’t make out the pair of us from the mud we crawled through. Him pullin’ and tuggin’ on me, one hand holdin’ my belt and the other clawin’ for a good grip on the side of that hill.”
Charlie Cassidy had spoken often—and well—of the man who’d saved his life in the midst of battle in Virginia. Her eyes softened as they focused on the barely discernible hesitation in Roan’s step now as he strode across her yard.
“I owe you, Roan Devereaux,” she whispered with reluctance in the silence of her kitchen. Her shoulders lifted as an indrawn breath shuddered through her. “Maybe I can figure something out.” And maybe she’d better quit lollygaggin’ around and get busy, she thought, shaking her head as she reluctantly turned her back and headed for the cookstove to bank the fire.
Charlie had left a fine legacy. Although where the mares were concerned, who had produced these charmers was anyone’s guess. The yearlings frolicked about the pasture with long-legged freedom, heads tossing and tails flying, performing as though they sensed the admiration of their audience. Oblivious to their antics, a chestnut mare grazed, her nose lifting as she turned her head momentarily in his direction. The man who’d hooked one boot on the bottom rail, leaning casually to watch the animals gambol about in the pasture, was more than just an admiring audience. Roan had earned his respite, the sweat that drew his shirt to cling to the muscles of his back was a damp testimony to his morning’s work.
He’d walked the boundaries of the pasture, checking and repairing several weak places in the old fencing, tight-lipped as he considered the amount of work that needed to be done. The condition of the posts and wire had disturbed him, and he was aware that his nailing up sagging wire and shoring up fence posts could only be considered a temporary measure.
Charlie’s homestead was not what he’d expected. The horseman who’d befriended him in the last days of his service to the army had not been cut out to be a farmer, it seemed.
Charlie’d been more suited to be a roaming man, Roan thought. More geared to training horses and moving on his way than settling down here on green Illinois pastureland.
And then there was Charlie’s daughter. Roan’s quiet laugh broke the silence and one of the fillies tossed her head at the sound.
“Yeah, Katherine…” His voice caressed the name and his mouth twisted in a wry grin as he considered the woman. Unyielding at first glance, stiff and unbending with that old shotgun aimed in his direction, she’d glared her best at him. She was still glaring, he thought, only not quite as convincingly.
He’d glimpsed her uncertainty earlier, when he’d touched her arm. Sensed the withdrawal as she shrank from his hand. There was a lot of woman there, he decided, hidden beneath the coarse homespun dress she wore like armor against his gaze. But not just his. She made it her business to look dowdy.
“Doesn’t look to me like you’ve earned your dinner yet.”
He spun to face her, his hand brushing against his thigh in an automatic gesture. One her eyes followed with cynical awareness.
“You’re lucky you haven’t lost these horses before this,” he said roughly, his head inclining toward the pasture. “I mended several places that were just one good shove from collapsing.”
Katherine nodded. “I’ve been meaning to check it out. It was on my list,” she said dryly.
Along with a hundred other chores, he thought, aware of the unending job she’d taken on when Charlie died.
“Well, what I did will hold for a while. But it was only a lick and a promise. Some of those posts are rotting where they stand. You’re gonna have to replace them.”
Her sigh was tinged with defeat. “I do what’s most needed. And right now, training those horses in the corral is the most important thing.”
“Who are you gonna sell them to?” He’d lay money she hated the thought of parting with any one of the sleek mares she was so fond of.
“My mare’s not for sale to anyone,” she told him, nodding at the chestnut animal approaching them. Katherine’s hand reached out to stroke the white blaze that flashed through her mare’s forelock and slashed like a narrow sword down the length of her nose. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
Roan nodded, admiring the picture before him…the woman caught up for a moment in her pleasure with the creature she fondled. “I like the looks of the tall bay,” he said, glancing back at the corral Charlie’d attached to the barn.
“The three-year-old? Well, I haven’t decided about her. The four-year-old is going to the banker’s daughter in town, soon as I finish gentling her real good. The black’s mine,” she said, her voice soft as she turned to watch the horses in the corral closer to the house.
“Charlie teach you how to train?” he asked as they began to walk back to the house.
She nodded. “Ever since I was big enough to snap on a lead rope and drag a six-week-old foal around in a circle.”
They walked side by side, their attention caught by the mares who stood in the shade offered by the barn.
“My pa bought this place from the man who cleared the land and built the house. Matter of fact, we moved in just a while before he left for the war. He’d been fretting about sitting on the sidelines, and one day, he just got on his horse and told me to take care of things till he got back.”
“Just like that?”
Her nod was abrupt. “Just like that.”
“What did you do?”
“I’ve always been a dutiful daughter, Mr. Devereaux. I did as he asked. I took care of this place till he did come back. It was a good thing he’d waited so long to go to war. Things had piled up on me by the time he showed up again. I pampered that four-year-old mare and delivered the three-year-old and bought the black with the last of Pa’s hidey-hole money. A neighbor lost his mare birthing that one and sold her to me real cheap. He didn’t want to waste his time raising her by hand. I spent a lot of hours with a play titty on a bottle till I got her to eat by herself.”
They’d reached the pole fence that surrounded the corral on three sides, and he leaned his elbows on the top rail. The image of Katherine, here alone, struggling with the day-to-day work of caring for a farm and all the animals involved, was an overwhelming idea.
“I don’t see how you handled it all,” he said finally.
“I managed. We all do what we have to.”
“And then?” he said, urging her. “Then he came home?”
“He came home.” She took a deep breath, and her smile was tender with the memory. “He rode that big stallion up to the porch one afternoon and called me out of the house, just as if he’d only been gone for a day or so. ‘Katie, my love,’ he said. ‘Your father’s home.’ Just like that,” she told him with emphasis on the words. “Just as if he’d been to town for supplies.”
“Was your brother here at all while Charlie was gone?”
“No. I haven’t any idea where Lawson was.” She glanced at Roan soberly. “I told you, I don’t talk about him.”
“Charlie—” he began.
“I need to go to the house.” Her dismissal was abrupt. “Dinner will be ready shortly.”
Katherine’s retreat gave him pause, and he watched as she left his side to walk with long, hurried strides across the yard to the small house. You were right, Charlie. She’s small, and fierce, and ready to do battle at the drop of a hat. Not an inch of give to her.
He followed her, stopping long enough at the well to pump fresh water. Within minutes, he was ready to eat, sleeves rolled above his elbows, hair damp and smoothed back from his forehead. He carried his hat with him into the house and snagged it on the peg inside the door as he passed.
She’d already set the table and was pouring a tall glass of milk as he came in.
“I like milk at noontime,” she said, looking his way.
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” he agreed, sliding into the chair he’d used the night before.
He ate his fill before he spoke again, his stomach welcoming the chunks of roasted venison and the abundant array of vegetables she’d prepared.
“Someone sure taught you how to cook, Katherine.” Moving his chair back, he crossed one booted foot over the other knee.
She allowed her eyes to rest on him for a moment. He looked contented and well fed, sitting across the table. Deceptively idle, for even in repose, there was the look of a hunter about him, a faint menace that set her on edge. He was handy with fence-mending tools, though, she reminded herself, and for that she had to be grateful.
“I found early on if you don’t cook, you don’t eat,” she said finally, uneasy with his compliment. “My pa was never one to lend a hand around a stove, so after my mother died, I learned in a hurry how to put a meal together.”
“I wouldn’t mind havin’ dinner here on a regular basis for a while,” he said easily. “Fact is, I’ve got sort of a deal in mind to offer you.”
“I’m not much for making deals. The last time a man tried to make a deal with me, he came close to getting shot for his effort.”
“What did he want? The three-year-old mare?”
She caught the amusement in his voice and flushed. “No, he wanted the whole kit and caboodle. The farm, the horses and me.”
“I take it you weren’t agreeable.”
“It wasn’t any bargain from my point of view.”
“Well, maybe I can strike a better deal than he tried for. It’ll involve some of my time and more work than I’d planned on doing right now, but it might pay you to listen up.”
“Are we back to my three-year-old?” she asked suspiciously.
“She’s a good-sized horse and she’s ready to be saddle-broke,” he said firmly. “If she’s bred from Charlie’s stud, I’d like to have a go at her. I can be in the saddle in a week or so, and you can have a hell of a lot of work done around here in the meantime.”
“I’m not in the market for a hired hand, Mr. Devereaux.”
He flicked her a doubtful glance. “Looks to me like you could use a little help, Katherine. That barn needs some work, and your tack’s in bad shape.”
“I’ll get to it. I can’t afford to hire you.”
“I’ll do a pile of work for a chance at that mare,” he said bluntly.
She looked at him, lips pressed together, holding back the refusal it was her inclination to give. “She’s worth more than a week’s work,” she said finally.
He shrugged. “Set a price. Tell me what you want.”
“I’ll have to think about it.” She hesitated, wondering if she could abide letting the spirited mare go to this man. He was right, she acknowledged to herself. She’d made a favorite of the sleek filly, and now she’d pay the price.
“You’ll stay in the barn,” she said warningly. “I haven’t room in the house for you.”
“I expected as much.” It had been too much to hope that she’d offer Charlie’s bed. It sure had to be better than the cot he’d fought with all night long.
“She’s probably worth more than you’ll want to work out. I won’t give her up easy. I’ll want some hard cash to boot.”
“I don’t blame you. She’s a good-lookin’ horse.” He leaned back in the chair once more. “Do we have a deal?”
She pursed her mouth and glared at him, impotent in her need. “I’ll run you ragged for a month, and then we’ll have to settle on the money end,” she said finally.
“Agreed.” He held out a hand across the table and she reluctantly placed her palm against his.
“Agreed?” he repeated, prompting a reply, his fingers wrapped about hers.
She flushed, aware only of the warmth of his flesh and the strength of the hand she touched. Looking at him quickly, she nodded, tugging her fingers from his grasp.
“Yes…agreed.” She plunged her hand into the pocket of her apron, only too conscious of the triumphant gleam that lit his gaze.
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.
