Rekindled (28 page)

She squinted her eyes as though trying to decipher the shadows beyond the open stable door, but she seemed hesitant to come any farther.

Larson relaxed a bit at the discovery. Hidden, he studied her again—the tender curves of her face, her eyes the shade of creamlaced coffee. The tightness in his throat made it difficult to swallow. Why was he here at Casaroja? He’d thought it was God’s voice he was following, and yet, at this moment, that didn’t seem like enough. A hot burst of anger poured through him again. And how could God bless her womb with another man’s seed?

His gut twisted thinking of Matthew Taylor, and he winced at the image of him touching her. He hadn’t seen Taylor at all in the two weeks Kathryn had lived here. Did that mean Taylor wasn’t going to claim the child? Or maybe he wasn’t the child’s father after all.

Larson swallowed the bitter taste rising in his throat. He couldn’t seem to shrug off the weight bearing down hard inside him, like a hundred pound load of bricks resting squarely on his chest.

Kathryn turned back in the direction of the main ranch house, and Larson slowly let out his breath. She made her way up the gently sloping rise. He watched her slip a hand behind her and massage her lower back. As she walked away from him, a familiar sense of loss welled inside him.

He rubbed the back of his neck and wondered again how differently things might’ve worked out had he not left so abruptly Christmas morning, and what it might have been like to father a child with his wife. Kathryn’s child. Lost in his thoughts, he turned.

He sucked in a breath at the huge hulk of a man standing next to him.

His heart racing, Larson took a step back and knocked a metal bucket off its peg. It crashed into an empty tin trough. The clangor resonated like a church bell, and Larson put out a hand to steady himself.

“Don’t be scared,” the man said.

Larson tipped his chin up and stared, unable to speak.

“My name is Gabe.” The young man’s deep voice was hushed, and he pronounced his words slowly, giving each syllable emphasis. “Why are you hiding in here?” he asked in a childish half whisper, his thick shoulders hunched forward.

Larson eyed him, taking in the slabs of muscles layering his arms and chest, and then willed his pulse to slow. The pure guilelessness of the man’s voice and manner contrasted with his powerful stature and muscular build. Was he completely daft or simply a bit slow?

“I wasn’t hiding,
Gabe,
” Larson finally managed. “I was . . . working.” It didn’t come out as convincing as Larson would’ve liked but would probably work on this innocent.

A surprisingly knowing look deepened the lines of Gabe’s face. The child giant looked from him over to where Kathryn had been standing, then back again.

Larson experienced an unexpected stab of guilt. “I
was
working,” he said again in defense, wondering why he felt the need to explain himself to this oaf. He picked up the bucket and hung it back on the peg. “I manage the stables here at Casaroja.” Stating his job that way made it sound better than it was. He enjoyed working with horseflesh and training cold backs to be saddle worthy and bridle wise, but his pride was still adjusting to mucking out stalls and filling feed troughs.

The only time he felt even a bit like his old self was when he helped herd cattle or allowed his borrowed mount the lead on miles of open range east of Casaroja’s boundaries. In those brief moments, he could almost glimpse the fading shadow of the man he used to be. Almost. But those pleasures took a heavy physical toll on him now.

“Does it still hurt?” Gabe asked, eying Larson’s face. Gabe took a step forward, and a splinter of sunlight knifed through the rafters and spilled across his face.

Larson had never seen eyes so blue, the purest cobalt, like windows to the soul. He looked away. “You don’t belong in here, Gabe. Only hired help is allowed.”

“But the boss sent me down to help. I can lift heavy things.” He paused and looked straight into Larson’s eyes. “When people hide, it’s mostly ’cause they’ve done something wrong. Have you done somethin’ wrong?”

Suddenly tired of this massive simpleton, Larson attempted a dark look. “I don’t have time for this. And I don’t have anything for you to do right now, Gabe,” he lied. “So you need to leave.”

Larson limped to the far wall and grabbed his glasses. Ignoring the sharp pain in his lower back, he lifted a bale of hay. He took three steps before the muscles in his arms spasmed. The bale dropped to the barn floor, and he gritted his teeth to quell a curse. Dust and hay particles filled the air around him. He was already breathing heavily, and now his throat felt as if it were coated with sawdust. He coughed and tried to swallow, then reached for the canteen he always kept close at hand. After several swallows, he was able to catch his breath. He took his knife, sliced the thick twine binding the hay, and reached for a rake.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Gabe still standing by the wall, watching silently. Larson wondered why Stewartson, the ranch foreman, hadn’t spoken with him about having hired someone. Larson liked working alone, and this Gabe seemed a bit odd. But at least he wasn’t causing problems. Not yet anyway.

Deciding to let the situation play itself out, Larson swallowed against the burning in his throat and pulled the bandanna around his neck back up over his mouth and nose. He began spreading the fresh hay into the shoveled stalls. The jerky movements made the muscles in his arms and back burn. This job pushed him to his physical limit, but he had to work to live. Being at Casaroja—at Donlyn MacGregor’s ranch—rankled his pride, but the work was steady and the horses and cattle were the finest in the territory. And though most the other hands avoided him, which suited him fine, Miss Maudie treated him well. Last night she’d added an extra portion of pot roast to his plate.

But the real reason Larson was still at Casaroja was because God hadn’t given him permission to leave yet. He’d felt the confirmation to come there and had obeyed. Now he wanted to leave and couldn’t. Hearing movement behind him, Larson’s frustration at Gabe’s loitering breeched the last of his patience.

He jerked his bandanna down and turned. “Look, I told you once that only hired hands are—” The words caught in his throat.

Kathryn stood inside the doorway. Sunlight spilled in behind her, framing her in a soft glow. She took two steps and stopped. A tentative smile played at the corners of her mouth.

“I’m sorry to bother you, sir.”

Weakness washed through him at the sound of her voice, and Larson was thankful for the rake in his hand. Leaning heavily against it, he welcomed the shadows of the stall.

He looked past Kathryn to the far wall. Gabe was gone. Great, just when the big guy might’ve proved useful.

“Sir, I feel rather foolish coming here, but I just wanted to . . .” She glanced down and walked toward him.

He raised a gloved hand to his jaw and suddenly remembered he’d removed his bandanna. He touched his temple and, with relief, felt his glasses. Thinking she might recognize him this close up sent a cold wave through him. It had been dark that night in her cottage. Then in the main house, she’d looked at him only briefly before passing. Seeing her affected him in ways he tried not to acknowledge. Her eyes flashed to his, then took in his face.

Her smile faded slightly. Then a shadow, hardly perceptible, crossed her expression before the lines on her brow smoothed again.

He’d seen the reaction countless times before. People never knew how to act or what to say, even when seeing him for the second or third time. Most resorted to practiced indifference, while others stared outright. But what he hated most was their pity. And pity was something he definitely did not desire from Kathryn. Not after what she’d done to him.

Larson held his breath, waiting for the light of recognition in her eyes. He wondered if she was aware of how her hands traveled over her round abdomen in smooth circles, as though comforting the child growing inside her.

The maternal act did nothing to warm his heart.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you, sir. I can see you’re busy. I should let you get back to your work.”

A shudder of reprieve passed through him, followed by astonishment. Here he was, her husband of ten years, standing before her, and she didn’t see him. How could people be so blind to what was right in front of them? With rash courage, he decided to test the boundaries of his cloak of scars.

“You been here long at Casaroja, ma’am?” he asked, watching for the slightest sign, the subtlest change in her expression at the sound of his voice.

Nothing. Instead, a trace of sadness crept into her eyes.

She shook her head. “No. I haven’t been here long. And you?”

He limped to the far wall and hung up the rake, acutely aware of his stuttered stride and the way her eyes followed him.

“Been here about two weeks myself.” He nodded toward the open doors. “This is a beautiful place. Finest ranch around these parts.”
And the kind of place I wanted to build together with you, Kathryn. That I wanted to give you
.

“Yes, Casaroja is beautiful,” she agreed, slipping her hand into her skirt pocket. He half expected her to withdraw something, but she didn’t. Instead, she surprised him by closing the distance between them. “My name is Kathryn Jennings.”

So she still carried his name. That discovery didn’t soften him toward her. Larson looked down at her hands now clasped at her waist and remembered the silk of her skin . . . and the grotesqueness of his own.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” She reached into her other pocket and pulled out a wrapped bundle. The checkered material reminded him of Miss Maudie’s kitchen cloths, like the ones she draped over his dinner plate before she set it off to the side, keeping him from having to wait in line with the other ranch hands. “Miss Maudie made this last night.” Kathryn pulled back on a corner of the cloth. “She said she didn’t remember you getting a piece last night, so I saved some back for you. It’s her special spice bread.”

Larson reached out a gloved hand, but Kathryn simply stared down at it, then back up at him.

She smiled a little, as though questioning whether he was going to remove his glove. Typical Kathryn. Always direct, but with a femininity belonging only to her.

He tugged on his right glove, gritting his teeth at the soreness in his fingers, then at the pain reflected in her face when she saw his hand.

She gently took his hand in hers, as a mother might a child’s. A sigh escaped her. “How did this happen?”

The empathy in her tone caught him off guard, and Larson was stunned by his physical reaction.

Her face reflected nothing but innocence, but he didn’t welcome the feelings being this close to her stirred inside him. He pulled his hand away.

Surprise lit her eyes.

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all.” He took the small bundle from her and set it aside. “Thank you for thinking of me,” he mumbled, pulling his glove back on.

“You should come up to the ranch house some night. Miss Maudie often doctors the men’s bruises and cuts. I bet she’d have something to help you. I’d be happy to help too, if I could,” she added after a moment.

Larson looked away. He wanted her to leave. He hadn’t expected, nor did he welcome, her compassion. But Kathryn had always possessed a tender heart. She’d been quick to help wanderers when they happened by their cabin, offering them food in exchange for work that she could’ve easily done herself. Anything to help a man keep his dignity.

A thought pierced him. Even if Kathryn hadn’t betrayed him by being with other men and carrying another man’s child, what did he have to offer her anymore? He was a broken shell of a man with a carved out, discarded dream—with no chance of ever waking. Oh, but he had loved her. And she had loved him too . . . at one time— he was certain of it.

“Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

The sound of her voice pulled him back. Disturbed by her being here, yet suddenly not wanting her to leave, he cleared his throat. “You never said what it was you came down here for, ma’am.”

She turned back and shrugged, but she didn’t look him in the eye this time. “I was out for a walk and just wound up down here somehow.” Kathryn paused, then shook her head. “No, that’s not truthful. I came down here specifically to talk to you about something.”

His pulse skidded to a halt.

“You saw me that afternoon . . . leaving Mr. MacGregor’s bedroom. I’ve spoken with Miss Maudie, and she believes me. I really was cleaning his room that day, no matter how it may have looked. I would never do something like that. Mr. MacGregor came back in and shut the door. He didn’t even know I was there, I assure you.”

Larson didn’t answer. Kathryn watched him, unblinking, waiting for his response.

He could easily lose himself in those eyes again. Eyes so warm, seemingly full of compassion. The honesty in them captivated him. He wanted to look away, but some invisible hand kept him from it. Then the certainty inside him wavered, like a candle fighting for flame at the sudden opening of a door.

Was she telling the truth?

But as hard as he tried, Larson couldn’t make it fit the reality he knew to be true.
Lord, she was living in a brothel. I saw her there
. Though his eyes never left hers, his mental focus dropped lower.
And she’s obviously been with another man
.

Kathryn’s eyes filled and she looked down. “You don’t believe me.”

“What does it matter if I believe you or not?”

She lifted her chin and squinted ever so slightly, as though she were trying to penetrate the brown tint of his glasses. “It matters a great deal to me.”

He shifted beneath her scrutiny. Part of him wanted to reach out and brush the tear from his wife’s cheek, but he made his gloved hand into a fist instead.
God help me, I don’t know what to believe right now
. But he was sure of MacGregor’s guilt in the situation. No doubt that man had a hand in Kathryn being at Casaroja, and Larson intended to discover the reason behind MacGregor’s sudden interest. He didn’t have to look very far in front of him to start.