The Stranger. Elizabeth Lane
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to pay him, the least she could do was serve him a decent meal.
Glancing out through the kitchen window, she could see him washing at the pump. He’d tossed his brown flannel shirt on a sapling and unbuttoned the top of his long johns to hang around his waist. He was bending forward, letting the water stream through his raven hair. Now, slowly, he straightened, raking his fingers through his dripping locks. Water flowed over his bare shoulders to trickle down along the muscled furrow of his spine and vanish beneath the damp waistband of his denims. He was as lean and sinewy as a tom cougar with no trace of fat on his lanky frame. Where the setting sun shone on his wet skin, he blazed with liquid fire.
Turning, he cupped his hands and sluiced water over his chest and under his armpits. The nicks and scars that marred his coppery body spoke of violent times and rough living. Laura’s fingers tightened on the frame of the window. Caleb McCurdy had appeared out of nowhere, like an angel in her time of need. But he was clearly no angel. His dark eyes were too feral, his reflexes too quick. He had all the marks of a wild animal, ready to strike out at the first unguarded moment. She could not afford to trust him—or any other man in this godforsaken, bullet-riddled country.
So why did she stay? Laura had long since stopped asking herself that question. She knew the answer all too well.
Another letter had arrived last week, this one from her sister Jeannie, urging her to leave the ranch and come home to St. Louis. There would be a room for her in the family home, Jeannie had said, and a room for Robbie, where he could grow up safe and happy, surrounded by people who cared for him.
For the space of a breath Laura had been tempted. But who would she be in St. Louis? The scarred sister, hiding from curious eyes in some upstairs room, a prisoner of her own ugliness. And Robbie—he would be the son of a dead father and an unseen mother, dependent on others for a leg up in the world. Here the boy was heir to five hundred acres of fine ranch land. Here he would have his own piece of the earth. He would grow up to be a strong, independent man. For Robbie’s sake she had to stay—to bear the hardship of grinding work and the lonely terror of black nights. Her own life had ended with the flash of a knife and the roar of a pistol. Now she lived for her child and the man he would become.
Caleb McCurdy glanced toward the house. Laura shrank back from the window. Heaven forbid he catch her watching him. The last thing she wanted was to put wrong ideas into the man’s head—ideas that might be there already, she reminded herself. She would be wise to keep the shotgun handy.
He was reaching for his shirt now, thrusting his glistening arms into the sleeves. Soon he’d be coming inside to eat. It was time she fetched the milk from the springhouse.
She had left the milk until the last minute because the day was hot and she didn’t want it to spoil. Besides, there was nothing better than ice-cold milk after a day’s work, especially with hot, buttered biscuits.
Slipping into her bedroom, she took a moment to check on Robbie. The boy had passed a restless afternoon, but an hour ago he’d taken some warm broth and fallen into exhausted slumber. Now he lay curled on his side, his splinted arm resting on a pillow. Aching with love, Laura leaned over the bed and brushed a kiss where one damp golden curl fell across his forehead. He was her boy, her perfect, precious son.
What if she’d lost him today in that terrible fall from the tree? For the space of a heartbeat she’d feared…But no, Laura forced the thought from her mind. Robbie was safe now. His arm would heal, and soon he’d be good as new.
The springhouse, a sturdy log building the size of a very small room, stood just a few steps from the back door. Laura’s husband had built it over the creek, which he’d diverted from its true channel by means of a timber dam, covered with earth and sod. Inside the springhouse there was a perforated tin cool box set into the water, as well as shelves and hooks for hanging meat. It was a clever piece of engineering. Mark had been proud of his work; but after his death, Laura had come desperately close to dousing the structure with kerosene and burning it to the ground. Only practical need, coupled with the danger of setting the house on fire, had stayed her hand.
Even after five years, she could not step into that clammy darkness without feeling sick. Her hand shook as she turned the key in the steel padlock. The door creaked softly as it swung inward.
Her skin began to crawl as she forced herself across the threshold. There was no sound except the gurgling of water, but the buried echo of a gunshot lingered in the wooden heart of each log that formed the walls. The mossy earth was rank with remembered odors—gunpowder, blood, and the awful aftermath of death. Steeling herself against a rush of nausea, Laura bent and lifted the milk from the tin box. The jug was cold and dripping wet between her hands. She hurried outside with it, gulping fresh air into her lungs. For a moment she stood still, letting the twilight settle around her. The fading sun was warm on her face. A rock wren piped from the foothills beyond the tool shed.
Balancing the jug on her hip, she used her free hand to hook the padlock through the hasp and squeeze it firmly closed. Only then did her pulse slow to its natural rhythm. She would be all right now. The horror was locked away…until next time.
A furtive glance told her that Caleb McCurdy was no longer at the pump. An instant later she spotted him at the corral fence, filling the water trough. His arms lifted the big bucket as if it had no weight, pouring the water carefully so that none would spill and be wasted. In the fading light, his wet hair gleamed like polished jet.
Turning, he gave her a nod. “Anything you need?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard across the distance.
“Supper’s on.” She forced the words, her throat so tight that it felt as if she hadn’t spoken in months.
“I’ll be in as soon as I finish here.” He sounded as uneasy as she did. Laura imagined their mealtime conversation as a series of stilted comments on the weather, interspersed with long, awkward pauses. She’d forgotten how to make small talk, especially with a man.
But what did that matter? The only man in her future would be her son. As for Caleb McCurdy, he was nothing but a saddle tramp. As soon as the work ran out—sooner if he grew weary of it—he’d be over the hill and gone like a tumbleweed in the wind. By then, she’d probably be grateful to see the last of him.
In the kitchen, she set the milk on the counter while she checked on Robbie. He was still sleeping, his breathing light and even, his lashes wet against his rosy cheeks. With a grateful sigh, Laura hurried back to the kitchen, poured the foamy milk into earthenware mugs and took the tin of biscuits out of the warmer above the stove. She was arranging the biscuits on a plate when she heard the light rap at the door.
Her heart lurched. Her hands flew upward to smooth back the wind-tousled tendrils of her hair, only to pause in midair like hesitant butterflies.
What in heaven’s name am I doing? Laura forced her hands down to her sides. Arranging her features into a prim expression, she strode across the parlor, turned the latch and slowly opened the door.
The aromas wafting from the kitchen beckoned Caleb to enter. But the sight of Laura, flushed and trembling, stopped him like a bayonet to the heart. He hesitated at the threshold. Her eyes were large and bright, her face glowing in the amber light that slanted through the window. Her mouth, however, was pressed into a grim line, as if her lips had been sealed to keep any emotion from spilling out. Was she frightened, angry, or simply unsure of herself, as he was? For the life of him, Caleb could not read her.
Lord, what was he doing here? What had made him think he could help this woman, when he was part of the nightmare that had scarred her face and driven her wild with terror? If he had any sense, he would turn around, ride away and never look back.
But her lips were moving now, opening like soft pink petals. “Come in,” she said in a taut little whisper. “Your supper’s on the table.”
“It smells mighty fine.” He took a tentative step inside, letting the aromas of meat, onions, and fresh biscuits shimmer through his senses. He was tired and hungry. The food smelled damned good, and he’d earned every bite.
“How’s your boy?”