Dorothy Garlock - [Wyoming Frontier] (8 page)

“No, I’ve only been here for about five years. I came out after the war.”

“I’ve been in Denver for the past seven years, but I’m home now to stay,” she said smiling, and pulled her hand from his.

“That’s mighty good news, Miss McCall.”

“I’m glad to know there’s a lawman in the area. You’re welcome anytime, Mr. January.” Mara glanced past the marshal and saw the look of agitation on Cullen’s face. Let the little weasel squirm, she thought, and smiled sweetly at Ace January. “I’d invite you in, but I’ve just finished mopping and my floor is wet. The next time you come this way, stop by and I’ll bake you a layer cake.”

“I’ll not let you forget that, ma’am.” The lawman’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. They seemed reluctant to leave her face. She was the softest, most wholesome-looking woman he’d seen in a long time. How in the hell could she be related to two no-good bastards like Cullen and Aubrey McCall? No matter, he thought. Her presence would not deter him one bit if he got proof the man he was looking for was here. He’d swoop down on this place and burn it out regardless of the girl and that poor crippled wife of Aubrey’s just as he’d had to burn out other outlaw nests.

Mara stood on the porch and watched the posse leave the homestead. She had the feeling the lawman didn’t like her cousins and that they didn’t like him. Well, no matter. He seemed to be a nice man doing his job. The next time he came this way, the house would be put to order and she wouldn’t be ashamed to invite a guest into her home.

“Cousin Aubrey,” Mara called. “Will you please ask someone to move this pile of wood from the porch and carry it to the back of the house where it belongs?”

Aubrey glared at her but didn’t answer.

A half hour later, Travor and Cullen, sullen and silent, moved the wood and piled it around a stump at the back of the house.

*  *  *

By the time the day ended Mara wasn’t sure she was equipped to handle so much as one more abusive word or pull one more pail of water from the well behind the house. She had had a run-in with Travor when she asked him not to walk on her clean floor until it was dry. Cullen had demanded to know how long Pack Gallagher intended to hide behind her skirts, and Aubrey had refused to talk to her about the financial state of the property. Her pride and her body had taken a beating. She was exhausted, too exhausted to move her things upstairs, too exhausted to do more than wash in the washpan when she longed with all her heart to sink down into a nice warm bath and let the tension flow out of her. In Denver all she had to do was request that the tub in the small room at the end of the upper hall be filled with warm water. Being here was like being in another world.

Mara pulled her nightgown over her head, loosened her hair from the coil, and crawled into bed. Tomorrow, she told herself, tomorrow she would work on the upstairs rooms, and then Trellis or Aubrey could have this one. She fell into a deep sleep almost immediately.

Something aroused her from that black, peaceful void. She stared into the darkness, shivered, and lifted her head from the pillow. After a long moment, she threw back the covers and went to the window to look out. The shimmering glow of the moon illuminated the landscape. Nothing stirred on the slope in front of the house. She went to the other window and looked toward the bunkhouse. All was quiet there. She was returning to her bed when she heard a hoarse whisper coming from Brita’s room and tiptoed to the door to listen.

“Ma! Ma . . . wake up.”

Mara lit the lamp, checked to see if the buttons on her nightdress were closed, then opened the door between her room and Brita’s.

“Ma . . .” Pack’s voice rasped out weakly.

In the soft glow of the lamp, Mara could see that he had thrown back the cover until it barely covered his privates. She placed the lamp on the bureau and went to the bunk.

“I’m burning up.” He moved his hand down to pull the quilt up to cover himself. “Can I trouble you for a drink of water?”

Mara felt his forehead with her palm. “Oh, my. You
are
hot! You’ve got an awful fever!”

Brita roused. “Mara? What’s the matter with Pack?” she asked anxiously.

“He’s taken a fever. I’ll get cold water and wash him down.” Forgetting about being barefoot and in her nightgown, Mara hurried to the kitchen and the water bucket that sat on the shelf.

“Bring vinegar, child,” Brita called. “Put the kettle on for sage tea.” Brita could hear the stove lids clang and knew Mara had stuffed the firebox with wood and was putting the teakettle on.

Mara came back into the room carrying the water bucket and a pan. She placed them on the floor beside the bunk.

“Towels? Oh, I’ve got some in my trunk.”

Pack’s feverish eyes followed her. She floated out of the room and then back in like an angel out of a dream. She came to him, bent over him, and lifted his head to help him drink from the cup she held to his lips. He drank gratefully and sank back. She wet a large towel and laid it across his bare chest, wet a smaller cloth for his forehead.

“You’ve got to drink more water, Pack.” Mara refilled the cup, slid her arm beneath his neck, and lifted his head. “Drink as much as you can.” There was a concerned tone in her voice that he had not heard before. Her hair fell forward onto his chest. He could feel the softness of her body against his upper arm. He closed his eyes. Ah, her face, her sweet face. He had not thought he would ever be this close to her. As he drained the cup, she pulled her arm from beneath him.

On her knees beside the bunk Mara began to sponge his shoulders, then his upper and lower arms. She flipped the hair back over her shoulder and bent over the big oak of a man, and he suddenly stopped his restless movements and lay still. She touched the wet cloth to his bruised face, his torso with its hundreds of cuts and scratches, and shuddered at the pain he must have endured. His shoulders and arms bulged with muscles, yet the fever made him so helpless that he lay placidly still beneath her hands. When his eyes looked directly into hers, she was startled to see that they were blue, midnight blue, and the expression in them was soft, questioning.

“Mara Shannon,” he whispered weakly, “you shouldn’t be doin’ for the likes of Pack Gallagher.”

“Be quiet, Pack Gallagher,” she said with gentle tyranny.

“You’re walking on these splintery floors with naught on your feet.”

“My feet be no business of yours, Mr. Gallagher.” Her whispered words were soft, without censure, and her eyes were shadowed with worry.

“Ye can call Trell—”

“Mara Shannon is not a squeamish woman. Ye just lie still. I be doing what has to be done to get the fever down. Then you’ll be drinking the sage tea I’ll be brewing.” Unconsciously both of them had lapsed into Irish brogues.

Mara turned to dip the towel in the basin again. Her hair spilled over onto Pack’s hand where it lay on the bed. His spread fingers combed through the silken strands when she turned back to lay the cloth once again on his forehead. The lamplight shone on the rich darkness of her hair, turning the strands to flame. The eyes that looked into his were soft emerald green, shadowed with concern. He liked what he saw in her eyes and longed to have it last forever.

Pack had never been so close to heaven, and never had he been more painfully aware of the difference between them. He could smell the feminine, sensual aroma of her woman’s body, see the mysterious movements of her breasts beneath the cloth of her high-necked, modest gown. Mara Shannon was beautiful, proud, well-acquainted with all the social graces. He, Pack Gallagher, was a freighter, wild and rough, earning money with his fists, and could scarcely write more than his name. Pack closed his eyes, and the low moan that came softly from his swollen lips had nothing to do with his aching body and his pounding headache. It came from deep within his soul.

Stubbornly Mara stayed beside Pack and sponged his hot body, first with vinegar and then water. She held his head and forced him to drink cup after cup of the lukewarm sage tea. When the lamp began to flicker, she hurried to the kitchen for another lamp before the fuel ran out, leaving them in total darkness.

Brita watched helplessly, thanking God for Mara. The girl worked tirelessly through the long night hours as Pack dozed and became quiet, then roused and moved restlessly. Finally he slipped into a deep sleep.

“He seems cooler, Brita.” Mara stood and looked down at his bruised face and the nose that leaned slightly to one side. She wondered what Pack Gallagher would look like when his face healed. He would not be handsome—his features were too craggy for that—but he would not be ugly.

“Dry him, lass. Dry ’n cover him.”

Mara removed the wet towels and gently dried Pack’s face and chest. She pulled the blanket up over his shoulders and tucked it in. She had never known anyone like him, had never before touched a man so intimately. Her palms had moved over the hard flesh of his shoulders and arms and her fingers had slipped beneath his thick wrist to lift his injured hand. Mara had sponged his chest, surprised to see the pink nipples nestled in the soft hair that ended where the bandage was wrapped about his middle.

Thank God the one time her forearm brushed against the soft bulge covered by the quilt he was asleep. She had jumped as if she had touched fire. After that she tried to avoid looking at the area below his hard, flat belly, but she knew that what was there was in proportion to the rest of him.

Pack was a rough man, yet he had been concerned about her, and more than one time during the last few hours he had urged her to rest before she wore herself out, to put on her shoes, to stop lifting the bucket of water.

Mara studied his face, his dark rumpled hair, and listened to his even breathing. It was a miracle that his ribs were not broken considering the bruises along his sides. It had taken more than one man to do this to him. She wondered if he would seek vengeance when he was well again.

“Come lie down, Mara Shannon. Like Pack says, ye must be wore out. Lie beside me. I’ll wake ye if ye’re needed.”

“I think I will, if you’re sure I won’t bother you.” Mara lay down on the far edge of the bed. “I don’t know how you can be so kind and so patient, Brita. Don’t you just want to scream sometimes?”

“Aye. Arthritis is what the doctor be callin’ what ’tis cripplin’ me. At first I be feelin’ sorry fer meself. I be angry fer bein’ locked in a crippled body. Now I got to be sayin’ ’tis God’s will.
He
don’t be puttin’ more burdens on a body than they be able to bear.”

“Who did this terrible thing to Pack?” Mara asked, tilting her head on the pillow so that she could see Brita’s face.

“I don’t be knowin’. Pack says ’twas not Cullen, so we can’t be blamin’ him fer
that.
”

“Where does Pack live? How does he make his living?” Questions she would not have asked in the daylight seemed perfectly reasonable to ask now.

“Sometimes he goes to Cheyenne, sometimes to Laramie or Denver.”

“To Denver? What does he do there?”

“Pack’s got a freight line, lass. ’Tis business what takes him there. My Pack, he be not afraid to work or take a risk. ’Twas haulin’ cats to the mines what paid for his wagons ’n mules.” Laughter shone in the blue eyes of the gentle-faced woman.

“Barn cats? Why in the world would he haul cats to the mines?”

“Mice ’n rats were eatin’ up the grub he be takin’ to the mining camps. There not be a cat in sight fer them to fear. Pack built cages atop his wagons ’n put the word out he’d pay twenty-five cents fer any cat what was brought to him. ’Twas not long till he had two loads a cats. He took them to the camps ’n they sold fer ten dollars each.”

“That’s robbery!”

“Not a’tall, lass. The next load went for more. ’Tis what was needed. The cats ate the mice ’n rats. ’Twas a tidy savin’ on the grub.” There was a proud smile on Brita’s face. “My Pack, he be knowin’ how to make money.”

“Then how is it that he doesn’t have a proper home? What does he do with his money?”

“Pack be a grown man. I wouldna ask him, child.”

There was a long silence, then Mara asked, “Does he come here often?”

“Once, twice a month. Pack be wantin’ me to go to Denver to see the doctor. But ’twould be fer naught.” Brita turned her head so she could look at the girl lying beside her. “Mara Shannon, I asked Pack to head ye off at Sheffield Station. Ye can be seein’ why. ’Tis a hard life out here. Things be goin’ on that I don’t be knowin’ about. Trell ’n Pack know, but they . . . not be wantin’ me to . . . worry.” Brita moved her arm until her crippled hand lay on her chest, and she sucked in great gulps of air into her lungs.

Mara raised up. “What’s the matter, Brita?”

“ ’Tis nothin’. I get a pain at times. ’Tis from layin’ abed.” She closed her eyes and pressed her lips tightly together. As the pain eased her face relaxed. “Don’t be tellin’ it to Trell ’n Pack.”

“I won’t. Does it come often?”

“ ’Tis naught to worry ’bout, darlin’. It comes with the sickness.”

Mara lay back down. A question nagged at her. Was Brita’s heart about to give out? Her mother had complained of pains in her chest before she died. Mara reached out her hand and touched Brita’s arm. Please, God, she prayed, don’t take Brita.

“I’m glad I came home, Brita,” she whispered. “I wish I had come sooner. I’ll take care of you now.”

“Ye’re a sweet child like yer mother.”

“I’ve been lonely. It’s good to talk to someone who knew my parents. Being Irish, I wasn’t really accepted by the other girls at the school.” Mara paused, remembering her loneliness when parents came to visit the students. Graduation had been held on the lawn in front of the school. A crowd of people were there, but not one of them had come to see her get her diploma. “I was considered a good teacher for a shanty Irish lass. Miss Fillamore thought I had risen far above my station in life. She couldn’t understand why I wanted to leave the school. But Brita, I could see myself growing old and narrow-minded just as she was,” Mara whispered. “Old, without ever knowing the love of a husband and children.”

“Aye, ’tis why God made a woman. ’Tis lucky a woman be to have the love of a good man. I be one of the lucky ones. Me Gallagher was a big man, like Pack. He loved with all his heart . . . and hated the same. He was dear to me heart.”