Margaret Brownley Read online

  The delicious smell that filled the cabin made her heady with hunger and her mouth watered. It occurred to her that this strange unpredictable man was already beginning to chip away at her carefully nurtured guard.

  After all the edible meat was on the grill, he cleaned up the leftovers. He then turned to face her, dangling one rabbit foot in the air. “There’s a lot of fur on the bottom. Means a cold winter is on the way.”

  She stared at the foot curiously. “It’s true then? You can tell the weather by an animal’s fur?”

  His eyebrows shot up and down. “Why wouldn’t it be true?”

  “I don’t know. It just seems a bit hard to believe that animals would know in advance how much fur to grow.”

  “If you lived in the wild, you’d make it your business to know how to keep yourself warm."”

  “I suppose.” His simplistic logic surprised her. Partly because he struck her as a complex man, not given to whimsical notion.

  “Do you feel well enough to sit at the table?”

  “I’m perfectly fit to sit anywhere I want,” she said. It annoyed her to be treated like an invalid. She was expecting a baby, not nursing a disease.

  After he set the table with two tin plates and coffee cups she slipped her feet into the oversize moccasins, and padded noiselessly to the table. She chose the chair closest to the fire, and watched as he served out portions of meat and beans onto their plates.

  She waited for him to take his seat and cleared her throat. “Do you mind?”

  “Mind?” He skewered a piece of meat with a small knife and lifted the pointed blade to his mouth.

  Hands clasped she lowered her head and said a prayer of thanksgiving. “Our dear Heavenly Father, thank you for the blessings you have bestowed on us. Help us to follow your ways in all that we think and do. Amen.”

  He was still looking at her when she opened her eyes, and he was chewing.

  Appalled, she clenched her jaw. Never had she seen such lack of good manners.

  “Why aren’t you eating?” he asked between bites.

  “I would if I had eating utensils.”

  He held his knife toward her. “Use mine.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t you have a fork?”

  “Never saw a need for one.”

  She looked at him curiously. “What about a spoon?”

  He picked up a piece of bark. “It does the job perfectly,” he explained. He then demonstrated, scooping up a portion of beans onto the bark and raising it to his mouth.

  She took a piece of bark and followed suit. He grinned at her. “Less utensils, less washing.”

  The bark served its purpose, but the only way she could eat the rabbit was with her fingers. Heaving a sigh she tugged the meat from a bone. She was too hungry to let propriety stand between her and much needed nutrition.

  They finished eating in silence. Once she’d overcome her aversion to eating with her fingers she had no trouble finishing every last morsel.

  “That was most delicious, Mr. St. John.”

  He looked pleased. “There’s more if you like.”

  “I couldn’t eat another bite.” She mulled over the problem of how to apologize for giving him a bad time. “I’m obliged to you for offering me shelter,” she began tentatively.

  He chuckled softly, surprising her. “Makes a man wonder why they call your condition delicate. As far as I can tell, there isn’t anything delicate about it.” He pointed to her plate. “Including your appetite.”

  “It’s most urgent that I reach Centreville before my baby comes. There’s a doctor there.”

  “And of course your husband is there too.” Something is his voice challenged her.

  She lowered her lashes, feeling guilty for the lie. But at the time she told it, she really did believe the man meant to harm her. “Yes, of course.”

  He watched her quietly for a moment. “I’ll see to it myself that you make the next stage.”

  She gave him a grateful smile. “I’m most obliged.”

  After they cleared the table and washed the dishes, she sat in the soft-cushioned chair next to the fire and read from the Good Book that she had carried with her all the way from Boston.

  Mostly she made trips to the outhouse. Numerous trips.

  “Is this normal?” Mr. St. John inquired after he’d escorted her outside for perhaps the tenth or eleventh time.

  She nodded. “I expect so. The way the baby keeps kicking.”

  His gaze dropped to her waist. “It must feel strange. I mean, little feet kicking from inside.” Something in his voice caught her off-guard. A gentleness, perhaps even wistfulness.

  How could she have so thoroughly misjudged the man? “Would…” She bit her lip before continuing. “Would you like to feel the baby?’

  “Now!” He looked shocked.

  “I just thought maybe… It’s really quite amazing.”

  “It doesn’t seem proper for a man’s hands to be touching a woman who’s expecting a little one. I mean….” He looked away. “Unless, of course, it’s to save her life.”

  “It doesn’t seem proper that a man shouldn’t share in a miracle if he has a chance. Seems to me that miracles don’t happen very often.”

  He turned back to regard her. “Never thought about it like.”

  “Well, then?”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, then what?”

  “Do you want to feel a miracle or don’t you?”

  “I think, Mrs. Summerfield, that a miracle would be a mighty nice thing to feel.”

  He stepped forward, gazing into her face, and quickly looked away. After a moment he took another step forward and reached out his hand. She guided his hand to the place where only seconds earlier she’d felt a rippling movement. The warmth of his palm filtered through the buckskin shirt and seemed to radiate inward until it touched some needy part of her.

  She couldn’t remember ever sharing such an intimate part of her life with a near stranger.

  The baby kicked and Logan yanked his hand away. He stared at her stomach in amazement.

  “I felt that,” he said, clearly awed. “No wonder you have to…you know…” He tossed a nod in the general direction of the outhouse. “How do you sleep with all that goings-on inside?”

  She laughed and was surprised at the pleasure she felt. How long had it been since she’d laughed or even smiled? “It’s not easy at times.” His gaze dropped to her middle as if he expected to see some movement or change as they talked. “Do you want to feel it again?’

  He lifted his eyes until they met hers. “It don’t seem right to be putting my hands all over a baby’s cave like that.”

  “I don’t think the baby will mind,” she said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Almost sure.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched upward. It wasn’t a smile, exactly, but it softened his granite-like features and her pulse quickened.

  Once again, he lifted his hand and laid it gingerly on her middle. This time a full smile spread across his face.

  “I felt it!” he exclaimed. “He must be wearing boots.”

  His enthusiasm warmed her. “It could be a girl.”

  He looked at her dubiously. “I don’t think a girl would carry on like that, do you?”

  “She might.”

  “Do you mind?” he asked, and when she nodded her consent, his fingers worked across her belly once again, gentle, this time, as a breeze on a warm sunny day. He’d saved her life and for that she was grateful. Still, feminine vanity made her wish he had seen her when she still had a waist.

  A look of reverence suffused his face. She felt special and, strangely enough, even beautiful. The latter shocked her. She’d never felt beautiful in her life. Her mother was the beauty in the family, as was Libby’s sister Josie. So why on earth should she feel beautiful now? In the presence of this man? This stranger? This wild trapper?

  He glanced at her parted lips and yanked his hand away from her as
if the intimate nature of what they shared suddenly occurred to him. Without a word of explanation, he turned on his heels and stomped outside, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Libby stared after him. What a strange man: one moment so friendly, the next so brusque. The thought made her laugh. Lord Almighty, he could very well be thinking the same about her!

  She couldn’t remember having met a man like him. He was so different from her husband. A blacksmith’s son, Jeffrey had a wild streak that she once loved but later came to loathe. She wanted a home and family but Jeffrey wanted adventure. She followed him to the California gold mines like a dutiful wife and hated every moment spent in shabby hotels and rowdy boarding houses.

  Even with a baby coming Jeffrey showed no interest in settling down. Jeffrey’s death in a house of ill-repute should have shocked her but it didn’t. She hated to admit it but her marriage was already over. The bullet only made it final. Now she had no choice but to return home to the tune of “I told you so,” but it was a small price to pay for her baby’s security.

  *****

  It was late afternoon when she was awakened abruptly by gunshots and wild hoots and hollers. Clutching the blankets to her chin she sat up on the pallet and glanced nervously at the door.

  Mr. St. John sat at the table, his head bent over what appeared to be a sheet of soft fabric. “Just the miners returning to town, is all. Letting off a bit of steam.”

  He seemed totally unconcerned by the mayhem waging outside his walls. Obviously, such wild behavior was common practice among the residents of Deadman’s Gulch. As bad as the rumors and tales had been about this town, nothing had prepared her for the reality of it.

  Rapid gunfire lambasted the air, followed by a silence that was no less frightening, and only made the blasts to follow seem that much louder. She needed to use the facilities again, but she’d die before setting a foot outside the cabin.

  Mayhem continued for the remainder of the afternoon; horses stampeded past the cabin, shaking the very walls around Libby. Gruff male voices bellowed, guns fired.

  Sakes alive, if it didn’t sound like war. Not that she knew what war sounded like, of course. But she did remember her father vividly describing his own experiences and death of his brother during the War of 1812.

  Fearing that a stray bullet would enter the cabin she sat huddled on a chair against the wall farthest away from the road. As was her usual habit during moments of anger or fear, she talked incessantly.

  “I’ve never heard such rowdiness in all my born days. It’s a wonder they haven’t killed each other by now. Why…”

  She continued expressing her indignation and disgust, not to mention fear, for a full half hour without as much as a breather.

  *****

  Logan couldn’t help but laugh at the stern angry face tilted in his direction. She looked like an angry magpie. He never knew anyone could talk so much. He’d heard that women in a “delicate condition” ate for two, but never had he heard tell that they talked for two.

  At last he interrupted her tirade to ask, “Do you need to…” He indicated in a way that had come to be understood by both.

  Tearing her gaze away from the direction of rapid gunfire, she gave him a scowling look. “There isn’t any way I’m going outside.”

  He shrugged and hesitated before adding, “I have something for you.” He lifted the fabric he had been working on and shook it out in front of her.

  It was a buckskin dress that was long enough to reach clear down to her toes. “It’ll keep your legs warmer than my shirt,” he said. “It’ll also fit better.”

  She stared at the dress, her eyes incredulous. “You made that for me?

  He nodded. “As soon as I finish lacing up the seams you can try it on.”

  She looked close to tears again. “I’m most…obliged to you. I only wish I knew how to repay you for your kindness.”

  “There’s no need,” he said. It surprised him that she considered the garment a kindness. He deemed it a necessity; more so for him than for her. A man could take only so much temptation.

  He gave his full attention to the dress despite the escalating fracas outside. The entire time he worked she fretted and fumed over the “shocking behavior” of town residents.

  He responded to any direct question in a polite voice that showed no more concern than if they were discussing the weather. But mostly he let her talk unimpeded, although he did cast a speculative glance at her on occasion. He wasn’t at all certain that a woman in her condition should be getting herself so riled up. Why didn’t she settle down and rest? Why did she persist in asking him the same questions after every gun blast, and then think it necessary to restate her unfettered opinion of the town and its inhabitants as if he didn’t already know it by heart.

  “Did you hear that, Mr. St. John?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Just like the last time.”

  “I’ve never heard such unbecoming behavior in all my born days!”

  “So you said.”

  “And I’ll tell you another thing…”

  He found it utterly amazing that she could ramble on so long without once stopping for air or taking the time to gather her thoughts. This probably explained why she kept repeating herself.

  The daylight had begun to fade by the time he stood, shook out the finished garment and held it up for her inspection. “You can try it on now, if you like.” He tossed the gown onto her lap. “I’ll go outside while you change.”

  “Don’t do that!” she exclaimed. He looked at her in bewilderment and she blushed. “I mean…Do you think you should? With all that gunfire? You might be hurt.”

  “One of the requirements for living in this town is to learn to dodge bullets.” He donned his fur-lined coat and lifted the hood over his head. With an empty wooden bucket in each hand, he headed for the door.

  “You really don’t need to leave. I trust you not to invade my privacy.”

  His back to her, he hesitated. “It doesn’t pay to be too trusting.” He jerked open the door and was gone.

  *****

  Libby listened anxiously for any gunfire, but to her relief all was quiet. She quickly pulled off the buckskin shirt. After examining the bandaged wound on her shoulder she then wiggled into the dress.

  The dress molded her body perfectly, allowing just enough fullness to accommodate her bulky shape without binding. Not only did the dress fit her widthwise; the length was also perfect.

  Feeling less awkward she glanced around in search of a smooth surface in which to see her reflection. She’d not had the luxury of a looking glass since leaving Boston. Never again would she take such things for granted.

  She could well imagine what her prudish parents would say if they saw her now. The thought made her laugh. Her mother was always so particular about fashion and considered appearances of prime importance. Not one thought had been given to the practical nature of a garment.

  As a result of this upbringing, Libby was ill prepared for her trip west. Her velvet traveling suits and satin gowns had been quickly replaced with sturdy calicos. She could only imagine what her mother would think upon seeing her arrive back in Boston dressed in buckskins!

  As amused as she was by this last thought, memories of her family caused her spirits to sink. Sighing, she reached into her valise for her silver-handled hairbrush and worked the soft bristles through her tangled curls until her hair fell in smooth waves around the shoulders.

  Her parents warned her against marrying Jeffrey. If only she had listened.

  Chapter 6

  Logan finished chopping wood and then carried the two buckets to the swift-running creek that zigzagged behind the cabin. Dipping first one bucket and then the other into the icy waters, he filled each one to capacity. Water sloshed over each brim as he carried the buckets back and set them on the porch to be used as needed.

  He paused momentarily to stare at the cabin door. So she trusted him not to invade her privacy, did she? The woman gave him mo
re credit than he deserved. He hadn’t wanted to leave; he wanted to watch her undress. He wanted to touch her abdomen once again and to feel the soft rippling movements of the baby beneath his hands.

  It never occurred to him that a woman could be so beautiful while carrying out nature’s purpose. How could such an astounding truth escape him all these years?

  He backed away from the house and glanced up and down the street. The town was relatively quiet, with no sound of guns or angry voices to break the solitude. It was only a temporary quiet; the miners would soon be racing through town again, guns blasting.

  Overhead, heavy clouds darkened the sky. The wind had picked up considerably in the last hour or so, bringing with it the smell of rain and maybe even snow.

  Logan absorbed all the subtle and not so subtle storm warnings as easily as a flower absorbs the sun. He listened to the birds, watched a squirrel frantically forge for acorns, and sensed the heaviness in the air. Reading the weather was not a gift; it was a skill taught him by his father, who had learned it from his own father, Logan’s grandfather. Predicting the weather was the first step to learning how to survive in the wilderness.

  He estimated that the approaching storm would last anywhere from three to five days. It was his habit to stock supplies to see him through a storm. He had enough fresh meat stored in the tiny smokehouse behind the shack, but he was running low on staples.

  He didn’t want to admit to himself that it wasn’t supplies he needed as much as time for the strange inner fire to run its course.

  He shoved his hands down into the warmth of his pockets, and traipsed to the tiny general store squeezed between two tented saloons.

  The wind blew against the canvas store walls with such force the nails began to pull away from the rough wooden frames. A red-hot brazier provided some heat, but only if a person stood up close.

  Seemingly oblivious to the impending collapse of his store, the store’s proprietor, Hap Montana, looked up from his three-month-old newspaper and grunted. A short man with a bushy beard and head as bald as a hen’s egg, he wasn’t particularly friendly or talkative and that’s exactly how Logan liked it.