On Her Way Home (21 page)

Spitting foully in the dirt at Mac’s feet, with his sallow eyes bubbling, he threatened, “You’ll be sorry for that.”

Mac, rigid with unleashed power, just stared at the man coldly, his eyes like a bleak winter ice storm. From her position, Jo couldn’t see Mac’s expression, but it must have been formidable because a hunted fear flooded the man’s face, and he cowered, slowly backing away from Mac, like prey from a lethal predator. Painful moans arose from the man on the ground as he regained consciousness and rolled to his knees. Chunks of clotting blood dripped from his nose into the dirt beneath his face. The redhead went to his side, and with effort managed to get the battered man to his feet. Under the smeared blood, the man’s eyes and nose were already swollen and distorted in a hideous manner. Dragging him to the car, the redhead shoved him in and slammed the door. With his eyes still jumping cautiously back and forth between Mac and Kirby, he climbed into the car next to his bloody friend.

Mac crossed to the driver’s side door and leaned down as words dripped like cool acid from his tongue. “Don’t forget your hat,” he said, tossing it casually through the window into the whimpering man’s lap. The driver shrank back in his seat and yanked the car into reverse, squealing out of the yard and down the road, dust and rocks flying behind him.

The black car turned the corner and disappeared into the trees while Jo stared after it, her hands gripping the saddle horn tightly. In two long strides Mac walked back to where the man’s blood pooled in the yard, and with the toe of his leather boot scooped dirt into a pile and kicked it over the bright red puddle. The dust turned dark as it absorbed the wet violence. With his hands resting lightly on his hips and his face still flushed and turbulent, Mac contemplated the wet dust as Kirby hobbled off the front porch and out into the yard.

“From the porch I couldn’t hear what that feller said, but he’ll sure think twice ‘bout ever sayin’ it again,” Kirby drawled. His eyes still cloudy with rage, Mac looked up at Jo as Kirby spoke. Jo had never been a witness to such violence before, and she felt shaken. She couldn’t hold Mac’s stare and pulled her eyes away.

“I have a feeling those two will be on the shoot again before long,” Leif predicted with an irritated sigh.

Hopping down from his horse, Charlie called animatedly, “He’ll have to pull his nose out of his eyes first!” Rushing up to Mac, he exclaimed, “You clobbered him. I’ve never seen anything like that before. He was wearing his boots as a hat!” Awed at the now dark dust pile, he asked, “What’s it feel like to wallop a man like that?”

Mac looked at Jo, who was agitated and visibly distressed. Choosing to lie, he answered lowly, “It doesn’t feel that great, Charlie.” However, the truth was his fist connecting with that man’s nose and feeling it crunch along his knuckles had been gratifying. Mac hadn’t always liked to fight, but the war had trained him for it and paid him to do it. Pummeling men had literally become life and death to him, and he’d learned to crave it. If truth be told, he missed the feel of his fists pounding into flesh, the jarring impact of a punch, and the mass of power loaded in his arm. Belting that foul-mouthed piece of trash was bliss, but he would never tell Charlie that, especially not in front of Jo, who was looking pale despite her summer tan.

Steering her horse around, Jo trotted him to the barn and removed his saddle. As she thoroughly brushed the horse down and calmed herself in the process, she heard the fall of Mac’s tread behind her.

“Jo,” Mac uttered the low syllable of her name, concern etching his voice. She turned, plastering a bright smile on her face. She didn’t fool Mac for one minute with her feigned smile; having seen it before, he recognized it for what it was, subterfuge.

Opening the stall door, he entered the cramped wood pen and stood behind her. She could feel his tall presence at her back, like a cave forming around her. In a deep calm voice, he stated, “That man deserved what he got.”

Jo continued brushing the horse, making long sweeps from his neck down to his legs. “I know,” she admitted softly. From behind, Mac placed his hand on her shoulder, his thumb resting lightly against her neck with her soft wisps of toffee hair falling over it. Jo stopped brushing. Letting the comb fall to her side, she remarked, “You liked it though.” Turning around to him, she said, “I saw it…in your eyes. You liked beating that man?”

Mac sighed, admitting the truth, “I’m not going to apologize for liking it. If he hadn’t been unconscious, I would have beaten him until he was.”

Jo nodded her head slowly, Mac’s frank words washing over her. “I don’t want you to apologize. I agree with you,” she admitted simply, her eyes still filled with distress.

“Why did you run in here then?” Mac questioned. “Like you disapproved…are you scared?” His words were soft and genuine.

“Mac,”–his name rolled off her tongue like a plea—“I’m not scared. You wouldn’t hurt someone for no reason.” She sounded confident.

“I’ve hurt you before,” Mac said, nodding at her hands. Jo clenched her fists involuntarily, remembering the raw blisters.

“You didn’t know about my hands. I did that to myself,” she argued.

Mac smirked, “Typical woman, always changing your mind. First, you judged me too harshly, and now, you are giving me more credit than I deserve.”

Jo shook her head slowly side to side. “I don’t think so,” she said.

“I am what you saw today, Jo. He’s not the first person I’ve beat, and he won’t be the last,” Mac stated flatly, hoping to prompt her into putting some defenses back up; this open, uninhibited Jo was alluring to him.

“I know,” Jo acknowledged, “but that’s not all you are. You’re kind too, and loyal to those who earn it.” She looked at him with wide trusting eyes, and it sickened him. He wasn’t deserving of it. If she knew who he really was, she’d be repulsed.

Jo set the horse brush down on the stool and studied Mac. Stepping close to him, she reached her hands up to his rough face. Cautiously running her hands over the stubble of his jaw, she searched his eyes. Jo couldn’t believe what she was doing. Never before in her life had she acted so impulsively with a man, but his face was warm on her hands, and his whiskers felt like fine sandpaper against her palms. Mac looked at her through starved eyes.

Hunting, Jo probed, “Was it so bad? The war? Is that where you learned to hate people?”

Mac inhaled sharply.

“Everyone says you came back a different man,” Jo continued, still holding his jaw between her hands and searching his eyes to see if they would confirm her guess.

Despite the heaven of her tender hands, Mac sharply pulled his face away, rebelling at her questions, her delving where she didn’t belong. Her blue eyes pleaded with him to open up, beckoned him to reveal all, but he’d never shared those memories with another soul, and he’d be damned if he ever would.

“People change,” he said frigidly, stalking out of the stall and closing it behind him. Locking her in like a prisoner in a cell as if she were a danger to him. “Did you not understand what that man was suggesting?” Mac asked Jo, causing her to color.

It was a ridiculous question. She’d known the man was vulgar before he’d even said a word.

“Some people deserve to be hated, and he’s one of ‘em. It has nothing to do with my time in the war.”

Realizing she’d hit close to the core and that Mac was growing defensive, Jo eased off. She picked up a pail of oats and held it under Captain’s nose, letting him eat noisily while she scratched him behind the ears. Pensive and guarded, Mac leaned against the door, watching Jo silently.

After Captain finished all his oats, Jo handed the pail over the stall door to Mac, her fingers brushing his. “Thank you,” she said sincerely, “for defending me today…and Charlie too.” Her eyes were massive blue lakes in the dim barn light, and looking into them, a stark truth dawned on Mac. He cared for her. He opened his mouth, about to say more, but then stopping himself, he nodded his head and briskly walked away.

***

In spite of the ruckus on the ranch earlier in the afternoon, Charlie and Leif still drove into town that night. At dinner the men had discussed the probability that the two men might come creeping back around and seek revenge. Even though Mac seemed unconcerned and confident, Jo was nervous. The livid anger in the redhead’s eyes kept coming back to her. Jo pushed the unsettling thoughts from her mind by asking Sam about his day. Thankfully, he had been napping this afternoon during his father’s near knife fight.

After dinner Jo spent the remainder of the evening in the garden. With the July sun and her careful tending, the plants were growing taller and hardier every day. Mattie and Kirby had already retired to bed, and Jo had no idea where Mac and Sam were, so she retreated to her room to pen a letter to her Mother and also one to Krissy. Over the last few weeks, Jo had released enough of her hatred for Will that she finally felt free to be happy for them, as well as hopeful, for Krissy’s sake. Wrapping up her letter, she sealed it in an envelope and blew out the light.

***

“Jo,” a whispered voice slipped under the crack of her bedroom door, barging its way into her peaceful sleep. Hazily, she ignored it, rolling on her side away from the disturbing sound. “Jo.” The voice was deeper, more insistent now. “It’s Mac.”

Muddled, Jo sat partially up in her bed, the bright colors of her quilt hidden in the darkness. She peered toward the door, wondering if she’d imagined it. Hearing nothing, she sank down into the bed and cuddled deeper in her blankets. A quick low rap sounded on her door and then the scrape of the squeaky door jamb. Jo rolled onto her back in the middle of her fat bed. A beam of light, as wide as the cracked door, spilled into her room and over the floor to dance along the corner of her bed.

“Jo,” Mac called again, peeking his head in the doorframe.

“Umh,” Jo managed groggily from her pile of sleepy bliss. More light flowed into the room as Mac pressed the door open further and entered. Jo squinted at him from her cloud of tangled blankets and pillows. A long braid draped over one of her creamy bare shoulders and puddled into the slinky white slip she was wearing as a nightgown. Too incoherent to think of modesty, Jo spread liquidly across the bed to grab her clock from the night table, the yellow lamplight casting a buttery glow over her naked calf and thigh. The lacy edge of Jo’s slip inched higher and higher as she stretched across the bed. “What time is it?” she mumbled.

Tearing his eyes away from her leg, Mac answered tightly, “It’s almost midnight. I need your help with a calving.”

Jo rubbed her eyes, then yawning loudly, she stretched her arms high over her head, causing the gauzy slip to press tightly to the front of her and cast seductive shadows upon the wall.

Forfeiting to the temptation, Mac drank her in. She was warm and rosy from sleep, and Mac fought the urge to climb into the appealing bed and search out her limbs amid the crisp white sheets. Clearing his throat and bolting toward the door, he said gruffly, “I’ll meet you in the barn.”

Jo climbed out of bed and lit the lamp. Her dungarees were lying on the floor precisely where she’d left them when climbing into bed a few hours ago. Leaving them where they lay, she went to her closet and pulled a soft blue day dress over her head, then wrapping her robe around her again, she reluctantly left her cozy room and walked downstairs and out the door to the barn.

The night was still and breathy; the scuff of Jo’s boots upon the ground and the distant howl of coyotes were the only sounds within miles. Glittering stars domed the pitch-black sky, glowing and guarding the earth with their heavenly presence. Jo slid the heavy barn door open enough for her to slip through and followed the path of light to the back of the building. Mac was pitching fresh hay into the biggest pen at the back, and a very large, uncomfortable-looking cow mooed lowly in the shadows.

Noticing her, Mac turned. “I’m sorry I had to wake you, but this one,” Mac nodded to the cow, “isn’t going to calve easily. She’s been at it for a couple hours now with no progress.” Jo was adorable standing there drowsily in the barn light, with her robe draping open to her knees and her unlaced black boots looking two sizes too big for her. “Have you ever helped deliver a calf before?” Mac asked.

Jo shook her head.

“All right,” Mac said, spreading the hay around with his fork. “Grab that other bale and spread some straw over there by the cow, layer it nice and deep near the rump.”

Jo scuttled over to the bale of straw and did as Mac requested, nearly tripping over her untied laces when she picked up the heavy bale. The cow was clearly agitated, pacing back and forth, and mooing loudly from her corner. Jo scratched the fur between the cow’s eyes, offering it the measure of comfort she felt every animal in labor deserved.

“How soon do you think she’ll have her calf?” Jo asked.

Mac had finished readying the pen for the new calf and came over with his pitchfork to help Jo. Tossing straw behind the cow, he said, “I’m going to give her another thirty minutes, and if she hasn’t made any progress, we’ll have to help her out.”

With fresh straw laid out to welcome the new calf, Mac positioned himself on the milking stool a short distance away from the laboring cow and flipped a shiny milk pail over for Jo to use as a chair. She sat down, resting her back against the wall, and picked up a piece of straw to fiddle with. Jo watched Mac, as he rested his head against the wood stall with his eyes closed. His long legs stretched lazily out before him, his feet ensconced in work-worn leather boots, with his wide calloused hands resting across the hard surface of his stomach.