The Horseman's Frontier Family. Karen Kirst
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should forbid him to say her name. The way he said it—all hushed and reverent as though she were a queen or something—made her want to touch the top of her head to see if there really was a crown up there.
How utterly ridiculous, she chastised herself.
Still, she wouldn’t let him run her off just yet. She wasn’t ready to return to her lonely fire and even lonelier bed.
“Don’t you think it’s strange that in all of Oklahoma territory, both of our families chose to settle in the same start-up town?”
“You don’t want my opinion on that, and I know I don’t want yours.” Again he snatched an arrow and, after fitting it against the bow, let it fly. Thwack.
“I’m curious. Why did the illustrious Thorntons choose to take part in the land rush? Wasn’t there enough land and wealth to go around in Kansas?” she baited him.
The fact that they had financially benefited from the war while most of their neighbors had suffered great hardship was one of the chief reasons for her parents’ hostility.
Grief gripped his features. “We were ready for a change,” he pushed out on a heavy sigh. “A fresh start.”
Questions bubbled up to the surface. What had happened in Kansas to make him so bereft? So closed off? So tense?
Don’t ask, Evelyn. No matter what misfortune he’s endured, you can’t afford to feel sorry for him. Sympathy will only land you in a heap of trouble.
Feigning a yawn, she mumbled, “It’s late. I’ll leave you to your target practice.”
Turning, she was a few paces away when he spoke.
“Good night, Evelyn. Sweet dreams.”
She faltered. With a wince and a mental shake, she forged on ahead. Sweet dreams? On the contrary, she feared her dreams that night would consist of a certain cowboy calling her name.
* * *
Gideon scrubbed the scrambled-egg remains from his cast iron skillet, unable to block the sounds of Evelyn’s voice and Walt’s soft giggles floating downstream. Like him, they were finishing up breakfast. But while their meal was a shared experience, he’d eaten alone. In silence. A silence that didn’t use to bother you, he reminded himself. Not until they came along and invaded your territory.
Their presence only served to remind him of what he’d lost, what he could never recover.
Unbidden, images of his and Susannah’s modest one-room cabin assaulted him, memories of past mornings spent at the breakfast table with his wife and daughter. While Susannah hadn’t been at her best at that early hour, Maggie had awoken with a smile and bright sparkle in her blue eyes, eager for the day’s adventures. His little girl had been generous with her hugs and kisses and declarations of love.
Shutting his eyes tight, Gideon shook his head to dislodge the memories. Where was his ironclad control? Remembering only brought him pain and a piercing longing that refused to be assuaged. His daughter was gone. She was never coming back.
With a growl, he flung the skillet to the ground and strode for the stable. He needed a distraction. He needed action, tasks to occupy his mind and hands. Hard work and the blessed exhaustion it brought was the only relief from this incurable grief. A shame the relief was temporary.
He had almost reached the corral when a blur of brown and white barreled into his path, skidding to a stop before him and kicking up bits of dirt and grass. Walt. His small chest heaving, his hair mussed, he gazed up at Gideon with shy appeal. He pointed to the horses making their way to the fence.
No, God, I can’t— He halted the mental plea, convinced asking God for help was an exercise in futility.
Where was Evelyn? Surely she would swoop in and rescue her son from his objectionable company?
Craning his head, he caught her staring in their direction. Good. He waited for her to put down the stack of dishes and storm over to rescue Walt. Only she didn’t. Instead, she waved and turned back to her task.
His jaw dropped. Now she was extending him her approval? Now, when his insides felt as if they were being ripped apart each time he peered into Walt’s innocent eyes, and he wished with everything in him it were Maggie standing before him?
The boy’s tiny fingers pressed into his palm and tugged. Careful to blank his expression, Gideon reluctantly looked down. Walt was pointing to the horses again, his curious brown gaze fixed on Star.
The boy is hurting and can clearly use some extra attention, a voice inside him prodded. Not only had his father been ripped from his life, but this dispute had separated him from his uncles. No matter Gideon’s opinion of the Chaucer men, he couldn’t deny they appeared to genuinely care for the boy. He’d witnessed the affection that had passed between the gruff men and Walt that first day.
He cleared his throat. “Would you like to help me water the horses?”
A shy grin curved his mouth, and his head bobbed up and down.
“Let’s go get some pails and fill the trough.”
Walt followed him to the stable and accepted his pail with a bounce of excitement. How that emotion didn’t spill over into speech he hadn’t a clue. A five-year-old boy who didn’t talk was downright unnatural. Pitiful, too.
Gideon determined then to question Evelyn—his no-questions rule be hanged.
They made several trips to the stream. Walt carried his half-filled pail with pride, and if most of the water landed in the dirt beneath the trough, Gideon pretended not to notice. Evelyn at last made her way over as he was introducing Walt to Peanut, a gentle mare he’d acquired from another settler the day before the land rush.
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