To Tame a Wolf. Susan Krinard
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I am.” The woman shaded her eyes and looked toward Kavanagh. “Welcome. This is my daughter, Beth. Mr. Bryson is up in the canyon, but if you boys would care to take some refreshment…”
“Thank you, ma’am. That’s most kind.” Tally heard the faint brush of Sim’s steps behind her and stood a little straighter. “My name is Bernard—Tal Bernard. This is Mr. Kavanagh. We’ve come from Tombstone, looking for my brother André. Have you by any chance seen a light-haired young man with two mules passing this way?”
“My goodness,” the woman said, gathering her apron between her hands. “We do see a few miners and lumbermen, though most are on the other side of the mountains. Tombstone, you say? We usually go to Willcox for supplies.”
“I saw him,” Beth said. “Mother was in the barn tending Daisy when he rode by. Father invited him to stay, but he was in a hurry, like someone was chasing him.” She regarded Tally and Sim with bright, curious blue eyes. “Why are you looking for him? Are you really his brother?”
“That’s enough of that,” Mrs. Bryson said. “Go inside, Beth, and make up a fresh pot of coffee. You boys will want to rest a bit and talk to Mr. Bryson. I expect him back any time now.”
Tally glanced at Kavanagh, whose face was devoid of expression. “We’re grateful, ma’am,” she said.
“Then see to your mounts and come on in. If you’ll excuse me, I have a pot on the stove.” She bobbed her head and bustled back through the door.
“It’s a good thing we ain’t outlaws,” Kavanagh muttered, passing Tally with Diablo in tow.
“Hospitality is the custom in the Territory,” Tally said. “Most people welcome visitors.”
“You better hope you don’t get more hospitality than you bargained for.”
He moved ahead before she could ask him what he meant. She followed him into the barn, empty of occupants save for a lone milk cow. Tally stripped Muérdago of his tack and treated him to a measure of oats from her saddlebags. Sim did the same with Diablo.
Beth arrived at the barn door, breathless and flushed. “Mother wanted me to tell you…supper’s almost ready. Father should be here any moment.” Her gaze darted from Tally to Kavanagh. “Mother also wanted…will you be…?” Her flush deepened. “We can heat water if you want to wash up.”
Kavanagh gave a bark of laughter. Tally imagined how nice it would be to have a mule’s hind leg for just long enough to give him a good swift kick in the posterior.
“That’s very generous of you, miss,” Tally said. “But we won’t impose. We’d planned to keep riding until—”
“Mother wouldn’t hear of it,” the girl said with some spirit. “Neither will Father. We have an extra room we keep for my brother, George. He’s in the army.” Her pretty face took on a wistful cast. “Will you tell me about Tombstone, Mr. Bernard?”
Tally’s stomach chose that moment to rumble like a steam engine. “Well, I…”
Beth turned toward the door and looked back expectantly.
Tally saw no way out. The Brysons clearly intended to make the most of their unexpected guests. They wouldn’t only insist on providing a meal and a clean bed, but they would also ask a hundred questions about the doings in Tombstone and throughout the Valley. Tally would have to maintain her disguise under the most trying of circumstances…and then there was the problem of Sim Kavanagh. Beth had mentioned only one extra room.
In her heart, Tally knew she couldn’t keep up the masquerade forever, nor could she continue to hide at Cold Creek, avoiding contact with the other homesteaders. Safety was an illusion. Sooner or later someone would discover that the younger Bernard brother was female. Maybe it was time to drop the pretense.
But not just yet. Not while she rode with Sim Kavanagh.
She followed Beth into the house, half listening for Kavanagh’s panther-soft tread. Her own boot heels clicked on the smooth puncheon floor. The scent of simmering meat and vegetables filled the cabin’s central room, which contained both the kitchen and a parlor with a fireplace. The parlor boasted an overstuffed sofa that must have been brought by train from the East, ruling grandly over the more humble homemade chairs and parlor table. A colorful quilt hung on one wall.
“I hope that venison stew suits you,” Mrs. Bryson said from the stove, pushing damp hair from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Please, sit down.”
Tally sat in one of the chairs at the dining table between the kitchen and parlor, admiring the braided rag rug that covered much of the floor. Kavanagh stalked in a slow circle like a beast in a cage.
Beth rushed into the room with a pitcher, spilling water on the kitchen floor. “Father’s home,” she announced. Kavanagh paused by the fireplace and lifted his head, nostrils flared.
“He always knows when supper’s ready,” Mrs. Bryson said with an indulgent laugh. She opened the stove’s heavy door and pulled out a pan of biscuits, perfectly browned. “Get the butter, Beth.”
The girl hurried to obey, and a few moments later a big man with salt-and-pepper hair strode into the cabin. His face was damp, and he wore much-patched but clean clothing, as if he’d made some effort to make himself presentable for his guests. Tally got to her feet and took his offered hand.
“Miles Bryson,” he said, nearly crushing her fingers. “Glad to have you, Mr. Bernard.” He looked over her shoulder. “Mr. Kavanagh.”
Sim nodded without moving from his place by the hearth. Tally smiled all the wider. “I hope we aren’t putting you to too much trouble, Mr. Bryson.”
“Not at all.” He released Tally’s aching hand, joined his wife by the stove and gave her a hug about the shoulders. “Mrs. Bryson loves to show off her cooking.”
“Now, Miles.” She feigned affront, but her eyes gleamed with pleasure. Beth arrived with the butter and began to set the table. The plates were china, chipped but lovingly preserved from some former, more genteel home. Soon the table was piled high with a crock of savory stew, a plate of biscuits and a steaming pot of coffee.
Kavanagh still hadn’t moved, and Tally was about to risk calling him when he sat down next to her. Bryson took the head of the table, and once Beth and Mrs. Bryson had finished their serving duties, they sat in two of the three remaining chairs.
Bryson bowed his head, and his family did the same. Sim stared at the ceiling. Tally lowered her eyes to the table’s painstakingly polished surface, reciting the prayer through stiff lips. If Mrs. Bryson had any notion of who was sitting next to her innocent daughter…
“Amen,” Bryson murmured. Without another word he dug into the food, passing bowlfuls of stew to Tally and Kavanagh before serving his family. Mrs. Bryson watched Tally expectantly until she took a bite and made the appropriate noises of satisfaction. Kavanagh ate with single-minded attention and never once looked up from his plate.
Tally found it hard to swallow, though the food was as good as anything Miriam made at home. Beth’s curious glances were more shrewd than those of her parents. Maybe she’d guessed something was not quite right about “Mr.” Bernard. But Kavanagh earned her most fascinated stares, and it was all Tally could do not to shout a warning.
Stay away from men like that, ma bonne fille. Wait and find a boy your own age. Don’t throw away what good fortune has given you….
She pushed her plate aside and patted her stomach. “Ma’am, I don’t think I’ve tasted anything quite so fine in years. If he were more of a talker, I’m sure Mr. Kavanagh would say the same.”
Kavanagh looked up from his cleaned plate. His pale eyes settled first on Tally, then quickly moved to Beth and Mr. Bryson. “Good,” he said.
“Your friend does talk, Mr. Bernard,” Bryson said with generous good humor.