The Stranger. Elizabeth Lane
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flannel strip. Robbie lay back on the pillows, quiet now.
“Keep the arm raised as much as you can,” Caleb said. “That will ease the swelling.”
Laura rearranged the pillows to support the splinted arm. “I’m going to make you some chamomile tea, Robbie. You can get up later, after you’ve rested awhile.” She glanced back at Caleb, who was moving toward the bedroom door. “I’m beholden to you, Caleb McCurdy. Why don’t you bring your food into the kitchen and eat at the table. I’ll get you some cold cider and a slice of apple pie to go with the sandwich. That’s the least I can do.”
He hesitated for the space of a breath, as if pondering her offer. Then he thanked her and left the room. Laura covered Robbie with the soft merino blanket that had comforted him since babyhood. Bending, she brushed a kiss across his forehead. “Your father would have been so proud of you, my little love,” she murmured. He gave her a teary smile. She kissed him again and hurried out to the kitchen.
Caleb unwrapped his sandwich and laid it on the chipped bone china plate Laura had placed in front of him. He had sat at the same table five years ago. This time he occupied the place at the end, where Mark Shafton had sat on that day of horror.
Caleb was hungry and the food was well prepared. But his dry mouth had lost its ability to taste. Why had he come back here, to this place, these memories and this beautiful, damaged woman? He should have headed west to California or south to Mexico, where he could put the past behind him. Instead he’d chosen to open old wounds, and he was already bleeding.
Laura stood at the stove, measuring dried chamomile into a porcelain pot. He noticed the way she kept the left side of her face turned away from him, hiding the scar. “We don’t get many travelers out here since they finished the railroad,” she said, making polite conversation. “Where are you headed?”
“Texas. San Antone, most likely. Thought I’d take my time and see some new country on the way.” Another lie, as was everything he’d told her except his name. “I don’t see any hired help around,” he said, changing the subject. “How do you manage out here, a woman alone with a youngster? Wouldn’t you be better off selling the place and moving to a town?”
“I might.” She poured boiling water into the teapot. The flowery aroma of chamomile drifted into the room. “But I stay here to keep the land for Robbie. That’s what his father would have wanted—a legacy for him, his children, his grandchildren…” Her voice broke slightly as she spooned some honey out of a jar and dribbled a little of it into the tea. “I sold off the beef cattle and the spare horses after Mark died,” she said. “I wasn’t up to taking care of them, and I needed the money to live on. Steers and mustangs can be replaced. Land can’t. I’ll wear rags and go barefoot before I sell a single acre.”
Struck by the passion in her voice, Caleb studied the proud angle of her head and the determined thrust of her jaw. He had thought of Laura as fragile. But underneath her porcelain doll exterior was a core of tempered steel. He had glimpsed that steel when she’d turned on Zeke, sunk her teeth into his arm and grappled for the knife that would slash her face. Now he was seeing it again.
He should have guessed he would find her here, holding on to what was hers. So why hadn’t he turned around and left as soon as she opened the front door? Why was he still here, risking the chance that he might be recognized?
“But it doesn’t make sense to sit on the land while your money runs out,” he heard himself saying. “A ranch like this one could make you a right handsome living. You could run a herd of cattle, fatten them up on this good grass and ship them east by rail, or sell them to the army. Sheep would do all right in this country, too.”
She toyed briefly with her thin gold wedding ring. “You sound like my husband. He always said that one day we’d have the finest ranch in New Mexico.”
Caleb’s throat constricted around the piece of bread he’d just swallowed. He willed himself not to choke.
“I became a widow six months before Robbie was born,” she said. “I didn’t know the first thing about running a ranch. It was all I could do to survive and take care of my baby. When my nearest neighbor offered to buy the stock, I agreed to his offer, even though I knew he was getting a bargain. I needed the money.”
Caleb took a sip of cold cider and managed to swallow it. If he had any brains he’d get up from the table, thank Laura for the meal and ride away before he dug himself any deeper. But there was the matter of a small, broken boy who might yet need a trip to the nearest doctor. And there was the matter of this scarred, beautiful woman to whom he owed a monstrous debt.
Caleb’s mother had told him that among her people, if someone died because of another’s actions, the bereaved family had the right of adoption. They could claim the offender to take the place of their lost loved one and help provide for their family. It was a wise custom, one that served both justice and practicality.
Not that Caleb could ever replace Mark Shafton as husband, father and provider. That notion was unthinkable. But if he could teach Laura how to run the ranch, get her started with some cattle and hire some reliable help before he moved on, it might at least ease his conscience.
“You’ve got the makings of a good ranch here,” he said. “But the place needs some work. The windmill, the fences, the sheds…”
“Yes, I know.” She poured the tea into a small blue cup, set it on a saucer and added a splash of milk. “When Robbie’s a little older, I’ll have more time to spend keeping the place up. I’m not as helpless as I look. I can hammer nails and slap on whitewash with the best of them. But right now, I don’t dare turn my back on the little mischief. You saw what happened today.”
“I could help you,” Caleb said, feeling as if he’d just stepped over the edge of a cliff. “For a few good meals and a spot to lay my bedroll, I could have the place looking like new.”
She looked hesitant, and for an instant he felt his heart stop.
“You understand it wouldn’t be a regular job,” she said. “It would only be for a week or so, and I can’t spare the money to pay you. If you’d be satisfied with a bed in the toolshed and three square meals a day—”
Caleb forced himself to grin. “Lady, for pie like this, I’d mend fences all the way from here to California!”
She picked up the cup and saucer in her workworn hands. Again, as she moved toward the bedroom, Caleb sensed her hesitation. He was a stranger. And even if you were kind to them, strangers could turn into monsters.
“Give me time to think about it,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”
“Fine.” Caleb laid down his fork and rose from his chair. “While you’re thinking, I’ll go outside and start on that broken windmill.”
Without giving her a chance to protest, he walked out the front door and closed it behind him. By the time he reached the bottom step, his knees were shaking. What in hell’s name did he think he was doing? If Laura recognized him, he could be a dead man or, worse, on his way back to prison for life. Mount up and ride away, that would be the smart thing to do. Laura was a strong woman. She could manage fine without his help.
But the force that had drawn him to this place was pulling him deeper into Laura’s life. Whether it was guilt, duty or destiny’s unseen hand, Caleb sensed that he’d come here for a reason. Whatever the cost, he could not leave until he understood what that reason was.
Picking up the hammer and nails where he’d dropped them by the corral gate, he strode to the base of the windmill and began to climb.
Chapter Three
Laura had taken extra pains with supper, mixing up a batch of sourdough biscuits, churning fresh butter and adding a pinch of precious ground seasonings to the rabbit stew. Caleb McCurdy had put in a long, hard afternoon, she reasoned. Not only was the corral gate mended, but he’d replaced the missing vanes on the windmill and patched the holes in