Without Words (36 page)

Busy gulping ham laced with vegetables and cornbread, Gunner didn’t answer. He did look up long enough to growl at the sound of the barn door opening and closing but went right back to his food. So Hassie had been unable to resist coming along after all.

The woman who walked into the circle of lantern light wasn’t Hassie. She lifted her scarf off her hair and let it fall to her shoulders. Blonde hair shone gold.

Surprised, Bret stilled in place. “Mary.”

Since breaking their engagement, Mary had never spoken to him except for an occasional polite sentence or two. Once he would have given anything for an opportunity to talk to her privately. Now her seeking him out like this struck him as odd—and made him wary.

“I need to talk to you,” she said.

“Talk to me about what?”

“About your decision regarding the Abbott land.”

Ah, so that was it. Bret leaned down and picked up Gunner’s empty dish, wondering if she had come on her own or if Will had sent her and if either of them really thought she could cajole him into making the decision they wanted, whatever that was.

“Why would you and I need to discuss the Abbott land?”

“Because it’s unfair of you to drag out your decision like this. We all know you’ve already made up your mind.”

“Pretty much,” he admitted. “I planned to talk to Father day after tomorrow. No use getting involved in business at Christmas.”

“You can’t let that Irish gypsy influence you to turn down such a good offer. You know you’ll never get land like that at a price like that any other way.”

Irish gypsy. Even knowing Mary meant it as an insult, the words made Bret smile at the memory they invoked—Hassie running with her arms outstretched, hair streaming behind her.

The smile was a mistake. Mary’s reasonable tone took on an edge he remembered from their arguments before the war.

“So you’re deliberately torturing Father Sterling and Will, making them wait for a decision when you know what you’re going to do.”

“No, I’m waiting until after Christmas to make someone unhappy. It looked to me as if Father wants a yes, and Will wants a no. He sees that land as his already.”

Her eyes widened. “Will doesn’t want you to say no. We
need
that money. How could you possibly think you could quit without warning and not turn all our lives upside down?”

The first signs of temper pricked hot at the back of Bret’s neck. “You had warning. I wanted to quit last year. The farm’s looking as good or better than before the war, but my father and your husband swore it wasn’t producing well enough to keep the lot of you comfortably yet.”

“It wasn’t. It isn’t.”

Bret ignored her protest. “So I went back to hunting thieves and murderers, baking in the sun and freezing in rain and mud, sleeping on hard ground, and getting eaten alive by insects. Oh, and getting shot, let’s not forget that detail.” He tapped the empty dog dish against his bad leg. “And I get home, and what do I find? Race horses. Plumbing to rival the best hotels in Kansas City and Denver.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, you can’t begrudge us....”

“Yes, I can,” he interrupted. “I can begrudge race horses and hot water taps, and I damned well do.”

“I don’t appreciate your language.”

“Well, what the hell do you appreciate?”

“Or your sarcasm. I’d forgotten how unreasonable you can be.”

“Strange. I was thinking the same thing.”

“You aren’t going to do it, are you? You’re going to leave us all with nothing and with a mortgage payment due in January.”

“I’m going to leave you with a farm in better shape than anything else in the state and a bunch of race horses to sell. If you need more, my wife thinks Will should strap on guns and try bounty hunting next year, or maybe he could pick up a shovel and try mining.”

Even furiously angry, Mary controlled her voice and expression. She always had. “So that’s what
Hassie
thinks, does she? You tried for years to buy your way back into Father Sterling’s good graces, and when you failed, you brought home the mute Irish widow to embarrass us all.”

“Now you’re parroting Will.”

“Because he’s right. You never would have married her for any other reason. You’re still in love with me and always have been.”

Mary looked as beautiful as ever in the lamplight. Also cold, controlled, and not particularly lovable. “I loved the girl you used to be. Why don’t you leave and not spoil the memories of her.”

She stepped closer, one hand raised as if to touch him, whether gently or with a slap, he never found out. Gunner growled.

Mary let her hand fall. “Will says he’s going to shoot that dog.”

“If you don’t want to be a widow, dissuade him.” Tired of it all, Bret gave Gunner a reassuring pat and picked up the lantern. “Come on. I’ll walk you back to the house.”

“No, thank you. I know the way.” She whirled and melted into the darkness, and Bret let her go.

“I thought you didn’t growl at females,” he said to Gunner.

The dog wagged his tail, no apology on his narrow face.

“You picked a good time to change your policy, but don’t do it again.”

Gunner curled up in the straw, nose to tail. Bret left him there, headed back to the house and his Irish gypsy.

H
ASSIE SIFTED FLOUR
once, sifted again. Leda and the cook were happy to have help in the kitchen, and after gently pointing out that Hassie didn’t need to do the work, Mrs. Sterling had left her to it. Which was good. Reading, sewing, walking with Gunner, listening to Caroline’s chatter, and letting the girl experiment with more and more elaborate hair arrangements only filled so many hours of the day.

Bret had left with his father and brother before dawn, off hunting turkeys for Christmas dinner. Hassie sincerely hoped turkeys were the only ones who returned to the house worse for wear.

Softened butter went into the bowl, quickly turning creamy under Hassie’s attack. It was good that Bret told her how Mary followed him to the barn last night and tried to talk him into agreeing to buy the Abbott land. Bad that it happened. How would Mary like it if Hassie followed Will to some out-of-the-way place for a talk? Not that Hassie had any intention of ever being alone with Will.

Sugar, eggs.

“Slow down, Mrs. Bret,” Leda said. “You only have to mix the dough, not subdue it.”

Hassie smiled and added the first cup of dry ingredients. According to Bret, Will must have sent Mary to the barn, but then why did Will and his father show no sign of knowing what Bret told Mary? Of course Bret was certain once he told his father no, the family would shift from trying to ferret out an answer to trying to change it, so maybe that’s what they were up to right now on that turkey hunt.

The dough stiffened as Hassie folded in more flour, providing a far more satisfactory outlet for her feelings. She’d like to use the wooden spoon on more than dough right now. Bret
said
he and Mary quarreled and he no longer saw much of the girl she’d been in her, that she and Will probably suited, and what did that mean?

The cook set two cookie sheets on the table. “I’ll have the last batch of gingerbread out of the oven in a minute, and then I’m ready for yours.”

Hassie nodded, added the last of the flour, and worked it through the dough.

“May I speak to you a moment, Hassie?” Mary stood in the doorway, a slight smile on her lovely face.

Bret said Gunner growled at Mary last night. Hassie fought an urge to do the same, her hand fisting around the spoon handle.

The cook pulled gingerbread out of the oven. “You go ahead, Mrs. Bret. I’ll finish your cookies. Don’t you worry.”

“Mother Sterling took the children outside to run off some energy,” Mary said. “You and I can have the small parlor to ourselves and get to know each other a little.”

Hassie treated Mary to her brightest smile, blew a fine layer of flour off the surface of the slate, and tucked it under her arm. Whatever Mrs. William Sterling wanted to talk about, she must not want the senior Mrs. Sterling involved. Good. Neither did Hassie.

When they were seated, Mary made polite inquiries about Hassie’s health. Since Hassie suspected if her health failed completely and she died suddenly, Mary’s chief regret would be having to pretend to care, the social niceties did not soften Hassie’s attitude.

Finally Mary got to her purpose. “I know your opinion carries great weight with Bret,” she said. “As well it should. Will told me what Bret said you did in Colorado. You were unbelievably brave.”

Unbelievably. Hassie raised her brows slightly in polite inquiry.

“I wanted to be sure you understand what a great opportunity Father Sterling is offering you and Bret,” Mary continued. “Men are often not good at explaining things, and I know Bret is worse than most.”

“He is very good at explaining. I understand about the land. It is better for us to live farther away.”

“But that’s just the kind of thing we need to talk about. You would have your own home across the road and wouldn’t even see us except at church and perhaps for Sunday dinner if you wanted to. Moving an hour, even two hours farther away wouldn’t make a particle of difference.”

Moving two days away would.
“He told you last night we have decided no.”

Mary’s eyes widened slightly. So Mary had expected Bret to keep the fact she had followed him to the barn a secret.

“He bears a grudge over what happened years ago,” Mary said. “He admitted he’s angry over Father Sterling’s horses—and the plumbing of all things. He’s always been a difficult man, but surely you can keep him from cutting off his nose to spite his face—and your face I might add.”

Hassie thought of blazing heat and freezing rain, dust and mud, practicing what to do if surprised by Indians, Bret bleeding on the ground and a man with a gun standing over him. If she had her own gun on her right now, she might shoot a lamp or two.

“He is not difficult. He is a good man.”
Writing that wasn’t enough. Hassie took a deep breath, added, “No,” as loudly as she could, and left Mary sitting with her mouth open.

Upstairs in their room, Hassie tossed the slate on the bed and paced restlessly, thinking of all the things she should have told Mary, including to stay away from Bret. After a few minutes she changed to her boots and headed outside. Gunner was tied in the barn today so he couldn’t follow the hunters. She would take him for a walk. A long walk.

H
ASSIE RETURNED TO
the bedroom, calmer after her walk with Gunner, only to find Bret sitting on the bed staring at her slate. She had to sit beside him and look to remember the last words she’d written there.

“He is not difficult. He is a good man.”

He tilted the slate back and forth. “This looks like you were trying to convince someone. Was it yourself, or someone else?”

Hassie took the slate from him and the chalk from her pocket.
“Mary wants me to convince you to buy the land. They have suffered since the war and are entitled to race horses and hot water. I hope they have to sell the bath tub.”

Bret laughed, and Hassie smacked him with a pillow.

He ran his fingers along the bottom of the words on the slate, smearing them a little. “Did I tell you she called you an Irish gypsy?”

Hassie shook her head.

“It suits you. An Irish gypsy has to be a woman of magic and mystery, the kind of woman who makes a man forget the past and plan for the future.”

“You wanted a future with her.”

“I wanted a lot of things when I was twenty-one that I don’t want any more.”

What he said about magic and forgetting the past was almost as good as admitting love, wasn’t it? Why couldn’t he lie just a little and say, “I love you, Hassie?” Because he couldn’t. He wouldn’t lie, and she really didn’t want him to. She touched the back of his hand. He turned it palm up and closed his fingers around hers, his thumb stroking her knuckles.

“Come lie with me,” he whispered.

She went to him willingly if not eagerly, Belle’s warnings and Mary’s confident tones still echoing in her head.

They lay quiet in each other’s arms. Outside the pale winter sun set and the light faded as night approached.

His heart beat strongly under the palm she spread on his chest. The musky scent of a man who had spent the day tramping over fields and through woods rose around her, tinged ever so slightly with horse, leather, and gun powder.

He was so still, his heart and breathing so regular, he must be asleep. She should get up and cover him against the chill creeping into the room. The thought died when his fingers stroked lightly on the nape of her neck, traced around her ear, across her temple.

His fingers played across her face, and her entire body reacted to his light touch. Her nipples peaked. Heat and moisture rose at her core. Moisture filled her eyes too, and he caught the first tears on his fingertips before she could blink them away.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t cry.”

The tears wouldn’t stop at her command, but they did at his kiss. Uncertainties disappeared. Desire rose. She kissed back with abandon, wanting his mouth and tongue and possession. This was hers, only hers.

He undid her dress, slid it off with expertise she refused to consider.

“I haven’t decided if this is better or worse than getting you out of those wrappings you used around yourself on the trail,” he said, working on the hooks of her corset.

The same. They were both barriers to his hands on her skin and both made her impatient. A soft bed was better, though, especially on a winter night, but she couldn’t tell him so without more light, and she didn’t want him to stop long enough to light a lamp.

The corset yielded. Her chemise and drawers followed it to the floor, his clothes after that. She sprawled on the bed, naked except for stockings. He sat near her knees, lifted a foot to one shoulder, and undid the garter. Her heart hammered in her ears. Removing stockings could not be doing this to her, but it was. She whimpered.