Married by Christmas. Karen Kirst
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her, she’d been driven to create things.
When they were young, her endeavors had been simple. Dandelion necklaces. Animals crafted from leaves, pinecones and acorns. He’d lost count how many times the teacher had reprimanded her for drawing on her chalkboard instead of listening to his lecture. Caleb had winced with every strike of the ruler across her delicate knuckles. One particular time he hadn’t been able to contain himself and, bolting to his feet, railed at Mr. Jones for punishing her for something that was as natural to her as breathing. Caleb had received a lashing for that outburst, but it had been worth the look of hero worship in Becca’s wide eyes, fleeting though it had been.
As a teenager, she’d experimented with pottery making, basket weaving and rug hooking. And while she was good at those, sketching and painting were her true passions. The evidence of her talent adorned the walls. Light streaming through the windows on either side of the cabin door set the paintings alight with color. There were more than he remembered. Birds and flowers dominated, with a couple of mountain landscapes thrown in.
She pivoted, and he noticed the traces of paint smudging her faded blue skirt. Her play clothes, she’d jokingly called them.
“What day is it?”
“Tuesday.”
“What?” He immediately sat up, the bed coverings pooling about his waist. His leg screamed in protest. “How many days have I been here?”
“I found you Friday morning.”
Five days. Becca looked troubled and well she should. That was five days the gang had had to search for him. He had no idea what direction they’d gone, no clue if they’d noticed the trail of blood he’d left or if they’d glimpsed his scar. Certainly they’d be on the lookout for a horse with Rebel’s markings.
“I’m leaving. Now.”
Shoving off the heavy quilt, he glanced down and saw that his pant leg had been cut away. Not normally a man prone to blushing, embarrassing heat climbed his neck and stung his ears. Quickly covering himself, Caleb couldn’t meet her eyes.
“I have an extra pair of trousers in my saddlebags. Would you mind bringing them to me?”
“As a matter of fact, I do mind.”
That brought his head up. The set of her jaw brooked no argument. Still, he speared her with a dark gaze. “You’re aware of the danger I’ve put you and your sister in by winding up here. I need to speak with Shane Timmons.”
The sooner he left, the sooner the distress would disappear from her beautiful eyes. She could rebury the past. Once again pretend he didn’t exist.
The thought of leaving her, of never seeing her again, made him inexplicably sad, something he refused to dwell on. He had no rights where she was concerned, no claim to her company. He hadn’t even allowed himself to think of her these past couple of years. Every time he got a flash of Becca laughing or dancing or sitting alone in a field of wildflowers with her paints and easel, he’d redirected his thoughts to the sight of Adam falling, of his twisted body buried beneath the planks. He didn’t deserve her attention. Didn’t deserve a crumb of her kindness.
Sliding the bowl and spoon onto the bedside table, she jammed her fists on her waist. “You’re not ready to travel, Caleb.”
“How’s it look outside?” He gestured to the windows.
“It hasn’t snowed since Sunday, but the days have been overcast and the temperature hasn’t risen above freezing. The snow hasn’t had a chance to melt.”
“Rebel could make it to town.”
“Yes, I’m certain he could. You, however, haven’t eaten solid food in days, and I have a feeling you’re not taking into account what riding astride would cost you.”
The logic rankled. “Tell me, Becca, just how long are you planning on holding my pants—and effectively me—hostage?” he drawled.
Her eyes flared. Spinning about on her heel, she stormed to the corner where she’d stowed the bags and, digging through his things without a care for his privacy, retrieved said trousers and dumped them on the bed.
“There—” she jerked a hand toward the door “—you’re free to go. Happy now?” Her chest heaved with indignation.
He sighed. “Look—”
Amy chose that moment to barrel inside, stomping on the rug to rid her boots of wet clumps of snow. “Mr. Harper is here....” She trailed off as her gaze landed on him. “You’re awake.” She stared wide-eyed at her sister. “He’s awake.”
“Yes, so he is.”
Head bent, seeming to take an inordinate amount of interest in the floorboards, Becca refused to look at him. No doubt his determination to reach town in spite of his injuries struck her as reckless and foolish. Her fear was not unfounded—it wasn’t without risk. What she failed to realize was that their well-being took precedence over his own.
“Hello, Amy.” He nodded, inwardly wincing as fatigue washed over him. “Thanks for letting me borrow your bed.”
She paused in the unbuttoning of her purple coat, a shy smile appearing. “It was nothing.”
Becca’s little sister had experienced a growth spurt since he’d seen her last. Her hair was longer and darker, her elfin face had thinned out and, while taller than before, she hadn’t developed the grace and confidence that came with young adulthood. He supposed she’d put away her dolls for more worthwhile pursuits. Adam had teased him mercilessly for indulging the girl.
Hooking the coat collar on the one-inch prong, she approached with her hands clasped behind her. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. We prayed for you.”
We? Did that we include Becca? He found that difficult to believe.
“Mr. Harper.” Becca went to greet their neighbor coming through the doorway. “Good news. Your medicine worked. His fever broke this morning.”
“Praise God.” Louis Harper’s astute gaze raked Caleb from head to toe. “Your folks will be relieved.”
His eyes squeezed shut. His folks. He hadn’t thought of them since the night he was shot, uncertain whether or not he would make it. Here he was again, about to cause them more grief.
“I’ll be happy to take them a message for you.” Harper’s no-nonsense voice held a note of sympathy. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to know you’re all right.”
All right? That was up for debate.
* * *
“Let’s go outside for a minute.”
A serious-bordering-on-stern man, the disquiet stamped in Louis’s round, fleshy face made Rebecca uneasy. What was bothering him? What couldn’t he say in front of Caleb and Amy?
Emerging from her room, where she and Amy had waited while Louis helped Caleb get cleaned up, her gaze immediately sought out the bed on the far side of the room. Her patient lay with his head turned to the log-and-chinking wall. She could see the damp sheen in his gorgeous black locks, the clean shirt the color of rich buttermilk encasing his lean torso and impossibly broad shoulders. The hands folded atop his chest struck her as strangely vulnerable and, as it had since the moment she’d turned him over in the snow, compassion warred mightily with long-nursed resentment.
On the porch, Rebecca wound the striped wool scarf that had once belonged to her father about her neck. For a moment, Louis’s gaze snagged on it, and he heaved a heavy sigh. She imagined his thoughts ran along the same line as hers—what would her father say about the predicament she found herself in?
“Caleb told me what happened,” Louis said. “He’s worried about you. I reminded him not to underestimate your strength. You’ve got a level head on your shoulders, just like your ma.”
Rebecca blinked fast. The kind words were