Dorothy Garlock (38 page)

Owen searched her face for disapproval and found her eyes clouded only with concern. Her fingers were wrapped in a tight fist and pressed to her mouth.

“I’m all right.”

“You fought Procter.”

“Yes.”

“And won.”

“I guess so. He didn’t get up, I did.”

“Good! Oh, good! I bet you taught him a thing or two. Come, let me wash those cuts.”

Her hand slipped into his, holding it gently. They walked across the yard past the clothes line and the washtubs. He had expected her to fuss, to condemn him for brawling, to demand that he tell her what happened. Instead she took it for granted that he did what he had to do. He swallowed and thought her name over and over on the way to the house. Ana . . . Ana—

He sat in a kitchen chair while Ana brought towels, warm water and witch hazel to dress his wounds. She moaned softly when he removed his shirt and she saw the huge angry-looking red lump on his arm. She ran her fingers lightly over the place that was starting to turn blue around the edges and gently lifted his arm to the table.

“What happened here?”

“He hit me with a heavy stick.”

“Can you move your fingers?” she asked with so much emotion he thought she would cry.

“It isn’t broken.”

“You’ll not be able to use it for a while. I hope you gave that awful man a good thrashing! I don’t know him, but from what Soren said, and from what he’s done to you, he’s a rotten, mean . . . louse!” Ana bit back other words that came to her mind.

Owen sat quietly, his heart filled with love for her. She hovered over him and gently washed the cuts on his face and hands. After she bathed them, she dabbed them with a cloth soaked with witch hazel lotion.

“I hope you knocked his teeth out!” she fumed.

“I did.” Owen grinned in spite of his swollen lips.

“I hate him for hurting you like this.”

Owen felt his own heart beating against his sore ribs. It had been many years since he had known a woman’s tender touch when he was hurt. Having her fuss over him was worth the pain.

When she finished, he pulled her between his legs and eased her down on his good thigh. She wrapped her arms about his neck and leaned her forehead against his.

“I need to kiss you,” he whispered.

“I need it, too.” She put her lips to the corner of his mouth and kissed him softly. “I’m afraid that’s all you’re going to get till your poor lips heal.”

He groaned. “I need more than that.”

“Will a lot of little ones do?” she whispered and kissed him again and again, brushing her mouth with his.

He uttered a throaty approval. “Ah . . . hh—”

She searched his face with eyes shining with love. “You’re going to have a black eye.”

“I can live with it if you can.” He put his face in her hair and they sat quietly. He could feel her all through him, and he wanted to hold her forever. The world fell away, and for a moment there was just the two of them. But it had to end.

She tilted his head to see his battered, rugged, almost primitive face. Her eyes held his while her fingers worried the hair over his ears and gently stroked his cheeks.

“Your poor face.”

“It wasn’t much to start with.”

“Don’t talk like that about my husband’s face. I happen to like it.”

“It doesn’t hurt as much as my hands. I’ll have to soak them in warm salt water. I’m afraid I’ll not be able to handle an axe for a day or two.”

“You won’t have to. There are others here to cut wood. I met Foster, Owen. My goodness, he’s shy. I had to drag every word out of him.”

“He’s probably as scared of you as I was.”

“You scared? You were a grouch, Owen Jamison.” She kissed him again . . . lightly.

“I didn’t have much to be happy about then.” He grinned a lopsided grin. “Now I have you. All I’ve got to do is train you to jump when I holler.” His eyes glittered devilishly.

Ana laughed. “You wouldn’t like that. You’d not have anyone to argue with you or call you a stinking polecat, or a pea-brained lunkhead.” She stroked the thick springy hair at his temples.

“I haven’t forgotten about that,” he said and nipped her on the earlobe. “Ah, sweetheart, I wouldn’t change but
one
thing about you.”

“And what’s that, Mister Smarty?” she asked with raised brows.

He rubbed his hand over her flat belly. “You know.”

“Oh, that!” Her face reddened, but she gave him a sassy grin. “That’s your job. You should be good for something around here.”

“Maybe I should start working on that right now.” His hand slid up under her skirt. She slapped it away.

“Owen, behave!”

Owen laughed and rested his face against her for a moment. When he stirred, Ana moved off his lap and stood between his spread thighs. He swallowed, and a wary look came over his face. His shoulders stiffened.

“I told Jens that I’d be there first thing in the morning to bring Esther home.” He watched Ana’s face for her reaction. Her eyes held his while she looped a strand of hair over his ear. The smile she gave him was soft and loving.

“Then we’d better get busy. We have a lot to do today.”

His shoulders sagged with relief. His arms encircled her thighs, pulling her to him once again.

A
side
from the necessary chores that had to be done, every moment of the day was spent on moving Soren and Gus into the upstairs rooms and making the house in the grove ready for Esther. Gus and Soren had kept the house surprisingly clean. Soren and Foster carried the furniture that Esther would use to the small house, and arranged it in the bedroom, while Gus and Owen worked on making the room a place where she would be confined, and safe from herself.

Foster suggested the chicken wire be put on the inside of the windows to prevent Esther from breaking the glass and hurting herself. He also suggested the bedroom door be replaced with a heavy screen door covered with the strong chicken wire that would allow the air to flow through in the summer and the heat from the kitchen stove in the winter. Esther could be seen even though she was locked in the room.

Ana knew Owen was hurting both physically and mentally. He worked mostly with one hand because of his sore arm. And building a
cage
for his sister had to be one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do.

By evening the work was done. Supper had been milk and mush with bread pudding for dessert. No one seemed to mind because they’d had a hearty stew for dinner. Owen sat on the back porch holding baby Harry while Ana fed the chickens and milked the goat. Uncle Gus steadfastly refused to have anything to do with the animal. He and Catherine didn’t get along, especially since she had climbed upon his buggy and gone through the canvas top. He was usually so goodnatured that it was surprising to hear him grumble. “Damn goat ain’t nothin’ but trouble.”

It was twilight when Soren and Foster came from the barn and sat down on the edge of the porch. Soren pulled out his jackknife and began to whittle on the block of wood he was making into a potato masher for Ana. At various times throughout the day, Owen had been forced to repeat to Soren every word that had passed between him and Jens, and every blow exchanged by him and Procter. The subject was still on his mind.

“Owen, do you think Jens will force Lily to marry Procter? That blow-hard bastard ain’t worth as much as a fart in a whirlwind.”

The question had been hashed and rehashed between the two men so many times that Owen felt there was nothing more to say.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t sound very concerned about it.” Soren’s head came up sharply and he spoke testily. “Hell! Lily’s just a kid.”

“She’s eighteen, if I remember right. And I
am
concerned about it. As I said before, I think he’ll try. But he can’t force Lily to say words she doesn’t want to say.”

“Yes, he can. He can let that rutting son-of-a-bitch have a go at her and she’d be so ashamed she’d marry him.”

“Jens wouldn’t do that. She’s—” Owen’s voice trailed. He was not so sure what Jens would do. The man had changed during the last year. There was evidence of a mean streak down his back a yard wide. Lately there had been pure hatred in his face when he looked at him and at Esther. He just might do something to make sure he kept Lily and Hettie with him.

After Ana took Baby Harry into the house, the men sat for long silent moments, each with his own thoughts. Owen wondered what tomorrow would bring. He thanked God for Ana. She had became all things to him—his wife, his lover, his confidante. She shared his most intimate secret. Now he waited anxiously for a decent amount of time to pass. He wanted to give her some privacy to prepare for bed, before he went to her.

Soren waited for nightfall. He was going across the field to the Knutson’s tonight. If Lily didn’t come out, he was going to go into the house and get her. The thought of Procter’s rough hands pawing her filled him with so much rage that he couldn’t sit still.

Foster, too, had thoughts of his own. He was fidgety. He perspired. He trembled. His nerves screamed for a drink of whiskey.
He couldn’t go through the night without a drink.
He had bedded down with a bottle every night for fifteen years except for the time he spent here. Now it was too late to try to do without. Hell, he was too old to change. What had possessed him to come back here in the first place? He’d brought his misery to the only people in the world who cared for him. Thank God he’d been sober enough to hide his spare bottle in the bushes at Knutson’s before the big German had flattened him. As soon as everyone bedded down, he’d go get it and head back toward the river taverns where he belonged.

“Are you going over to see Lily tonight?” Owen asked as Soren folded his jackknife and put it in his pocket.

“You’re damn right I am.” He answered belligerently as if he were mad at the world. It was unlike Soren. “If that flop-eared jackass has touched her or Hettie, I’ll nail his balls to a stump.”

“If he’s as sore as I am, you may not need but two or three fellows to help you.” Owen waited for Soren to reply to his teasing; when he didn’t he said, “I think I’ll call it a day. I want to be over there by first light.”

“I’ll be with you.”

“Tell Lily if she and Hettie want to come here to live, we’ll bring them in spite of Jens. You may have to marry Lily yourself, Soren.” Owen tried once again to get a rise out of his cousin.

Soren ignored the remark. “If we got rid of Procter, Jens would settle down.”

“Don’t count on it. He’s got a bone to pick with the Jamisons and he’s going to pick it clean.” Owen thought he knew why, but he didn’t voice his suspicion. Jens might know that it was Eustace Jamison who had taken advantage of Hettie, and that Lily was Owen’s half-sister.

Owen put his hand on Foster’s shoulder. “You know where your room is. It’s yours for as long as you want it. Ana and I are glad you’re with us.”

“Thanks. I think I’ll . . . sit a bit.” Foster silently cussed Soren up one side and down the other for being a “damn lovesick, stubborn Swede.” He’d have to wait until he came back from seeing Lily before he could go over there and retrieve his bottle. Hellfire! Soren would be sure to see him searching the bushes alongside the back porch. There was no one more disgusting than a reformer trying to save someone from himself. Lordy. He wished he’d never come here.

Owen made a trip to the outhouse. When he returned, the porch was empty. A light shone from the upstairs room that was now Uncle Gus’s bedroom. He wondered where Foster had gone, then lifted his shoulders in resignation and winced as pain shot through his upper arm. Soren and Foster had their own demons to fight. He just wanted to be with Ana.

As soon as he opened the screen door he noticed the air in the darkened kitchen was heavy with the spice Ana had used in the bread pudding. One more reminder of how she had made this house a home. He paused only long enough for a long drink from the waterbucket, then headed for the bedroom where light spilled out into the hall through the half-opened doorway. He had waited all day for this time alone with her and didn’t want to waste a minute of it.

“How’s your arm?” Ana asked as soon as he entered the room and closed the door.

“Sore, but all right. The baby asleep?”

“Yes. He’s such a good little boy.”

“Are you tired? You worked hard today.”

“We all did, including Foster. I like him. He looks so sad at times.”

“He looks bad. I’m thinking one of these days he’ll not come back.”

“He’s wasting his life.”

They talked of everyday things, calm on the surface, but excitement simmered within each of them. Ana, in her modest, high-necked nightdress, brushed her hair while Owen sat down on the edge of the bed and unlaced his shoes. When he stood to take off his shirt, their eyes caught in the small mirror over the writing desk and she saw his sweet, hesitant smile. Color came up in her cheeks and the hand holding the brush paused halfway through a sweep of her hair.

As if unable to delay a minute, Owen came up behind her and lifted her hair. His lips brushed the nape of her neck, moved around to the side beneath her jawbone and stayed there. A delicious shiver sliced through her and the brush slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor.