Eden Read online

  His brow lowered as he looked at her and his mouth was taut. “You knew we were heading back in this morning. I’d have thought y’all would have food cooked and ready for us.”

  “Give me an hour, John.” She turned her back on him and straightened the screen that shielded the dry sink from the rest of the room. John had bought it one day in the general store, having ordered it from the catalog as a surprise.

  “I’ll help the men get the bullocks penned up and start the fires for branding. That ought to give you time enough.”

  He was gone then, back out the door and onto the porch. She heard his deep voice as Shorty called out to him. Her heart thumped unmercifully in her chest as she remembered his dark looks in her direction, his big fists clenched at his sides as he dictated his needs to her.

  “He’s all in a snit about something,” Jane said from the sink, where she was cleaning the last of the dishes. Her towel flapped as she swung it from her shoulder and turned to Katie. “I didn’t think they’d be back this early, and I’ll bet Berta isn’t ready for them, either.”

  “Probably not,” Katie said with a shrug. If John wanted to be ornery, he could just go right ahead and act like a fool. The last weeks had proved to her that she was a woman to be respected. She wasn’t about to give in to his orders, not today at least. He’d just have to wait till they could put together a meal of sorts.

  In just a few minutes, she was in the big house, listening as Berta stewed aloud over the men showing up so early in the day. “I’ll make them some sandwiches, Katie, and you can slice some of that round of cheese for me. They can settle for that and some fresh lemonade to drink. We’ll pick the beans and make supper earlier than I’d thought.”

  Katie did as Berta told her, lifting the heavy round of cheese from the pantry shelf and using the biggest butcher knife to slice it off into slabs. Whether or not John had any dinner at all, she didn’t care. Her heart was heavy as she considered the disintegration of her marriage from the way it had seemed to exist in the past. John’s anger was all too apparent, and she felt somehow damaged by it. He had hurt her beyond her ability to understand.

  Berta carried a tray full of sandwiches out to the back, where the men had hastily set up a table for the food. A kettle of lemonade was added to the accumulating food there, for Katie had filled a platter with cheese and then found leftover potato salad in the icebox beneath the pantry floor for their meal.

  Plates from the kitchen dresser were carried out, and Katie’s arms ached from the weight of them as she stepped carefully from the porch. “Let me take those, ma’am.” Clay was before her, his arms outstretched for the burden she carried and she merely shook her head and stepped around him to deposit them on the big table under the trees.

  From the barn, she felt the heat of John’s gaze upon her, and she returned it with a somber look, then headed for the cabin. He could eat with the men, and between Berta and Jane, they could tend to the hungry cowhands. She let herself into the kitchen and leaned over the sink, feeling bile rise in her throat. The tension of this morning was more than she could understand, for she’d hoped that John would be back to normal when he returned. Instead he was more wary, his eyes dark with some unknown emotion, and his body taut, his face harsh with anger.

  Gathering up the biggest kettle from her pantry, she went the back way to the kitchen garden and knelt between the rows of green beans, gathering them from the lush plants and placing handfuls of them into her kettle. Moving from one row to the next she was surprised to see Berta stepping between the plants and standing over her.

  “You all right, girl?” the woman asked, squatting before her and lifting Katie’s chin with her blunt index finger. Her brow was furrowed and her voice concerned, and Katie realized she was about three seconds from tears. It would not do, for Berta didn’t need to be involved in the problems Katie and John were struggling with.

  “I’m fine, Berta. I just thought I’d get the beans picked and get them ready for supper while you fed the men. I’ll take them back to the cabin and wash them and snap them before we put them on the stove. Thought I’d put a piece of ham in with them.”

  “That’s good,” Berta said mildly, her sharp gaze on Katie’s face, her concern apparent. “You go on ahead and I’ll take care of things here. Looks like that kettle’s about full enough for supper.”

  Katie stood and lifted the utensil between her hands, then nodded briefly at Berta and headed for the small cabin. Inside, she found a bread pan and carried it to the porch, then settled in the rocking chair there. With the big kettle next to her, she picked up a handful of beans at a time and snapped the ends off, then broke them in half and dropped them in the bread pan.

  It was a job requiring little concentration and her thoughts were able to wander as she worked. Only the flash of color at the end of the porch made her aware of the man who watched her from his vantage point. She turned her head and Clay smiled at her.

  “You’ve got yourself quite a job there, ma’am,” he said cheerfully, settling on the end of the porch.

  Katie refused to acknowledge his presence and lowered her head to the pan of beans in her lap. Her fingers were busy with the task she’d taken on, and she looked only at the food she tended, her mouth taut, her lips sealed.

  “You mad at me, ma’am?” Clay’s words were soft, his mood seeming to be one of teasing as he leaned against the upright post and lifted his leg to the porch. He bent his knee and rested his folded hands there indolently, as if he had the whole of the afternoon to watch her at her work.

  “Please go away, Mr. Thomas,” she said bluntly. Her hands moved quickly as she readied the last of the beans for cooking, and then she stood and held the bread pan in one arm as she picked up the kettle with the other hand. Quickly, Clay stood to his feet and hastened to the back door, opening it for her to step inside.

  Her look at him was cold, her eyes filled with anger as he waited for her to draw nearer to his tall figure. He had bent to speak in her ear when she heard John’s voice behind her.

  “Don’t touch my wife, Thomas.” With a swift move, John was on the porch, his hand buried in the front of Clay’s shirt and he swept him from the porch and down to the ground. “I told you before what would happen if you put your hands on her.” His voice was soft, deadly and his face held murderous intent as he lifted the man from the ground and held him before him.

  Clay was silent, his gaze wide, his mouth working as if he would defend himself, but John gave him no leeway, only dragged him toward the barn. Shorty approached and after one look at John’s face, he turned back to the house where the men sat beneath the tree with their food.

  The barn door slid shut and from within the sound of men’s voices were loud, but Katie did not wait to hear the commotion. She went into the house and deposited her pan of beans in the sink, then pumped the water to cover them so that they would be ready for cooking. She lifted them into the kettle and placed it on the stove, then filled it halfway with water before she went to the pantry for the ham bones she had waiting there.

  From the yard, the sound of the hired hands talking back and forth penetrated her solitude and she shuddered at the hubbub of raised voices and sounds from the barn. Behind her, Jane burst into the cabin, her eyes wide, her hands gesturing wildly.

  “John’s gone off the deep end, Katie. He took Clay Thomas into the barn, dragged him inside is what he did, and then he proceeded to beat the livin’ tar out of him. Bill Stanley went out there and put a stop to it, and he told Clay to get his things together and get off the ranch. Then him and John went into the big house and Clay disappeared into the bunkhouse. He was sure a sorry mess, all bloody and tore up.”

  Katie opened the salt box and scooped out a scant handful of salt to put into the kettle of beans. As if she had not heard Jane’s tale, she continued on with her food preparations, then after dumping the bean leavings into the garbage bucket, she washed out the bread pan in the sink.

  “Katie, did yo
u hear me?” Jane stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder, the other on the drainboard, as if she could not hold herself erect.

  “I heard you.” Katie’s voice was dull, empty, as if she were bereft of all feeling, as if her heart had been shattered by the happenings today. John was obviously angry with her, whether he thought she was encouraging Clay’s attentions or not, she didn’t know, but he obviously had taken out his anger on the man.

  She would be his next target and she could only wait here for him to appear. “Go help Berta in the house, Jane,” she said carefully, unwilling to let the other girl know the extent of her fear. “Tell Berta that I’ve got the beans on to cook and I’ll peel a bucket of potatoes next.”

  Jane left, seemingly unwillingly, but inured to doing as she was told, she gave no argument. The door closed behind her and Katie drew in a deep breath. She went to the pantry and brought out the pail of potatoes she had brought from the garden only yesterday, thinking they would last her for two weeks, but now intending them for supper today.

  She sought out her paring knife from the cupboard and settled at the kitchen table, the bread pan half-full of water to hold the peeled potatoes and a piece of brown paper over the oilcloth to contain the peelings.

  She’d finished the biggest part of the pailful when the back door was opened and John stepped into the house. He stood just inside the entryway and his hands were fisted against his hips. “Are you determined to make me out for a fool?” His words were harsh and loud in the small room, and Katie winced at the darkness that filled her heart.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her head bending again over the potato in her hands. Her fingers trembled as she cut a swath of the peeling and then he spoke again, his voice loud directly behind her and to her aggravation her hand jerked and the knife cut deeply into her palm.

  Gritting her teeth against the pain she dropped both knife and potato on the paper in front of her, rising to step to the sink, holding her hand over the empty basin.

  “What have you done?” John’s voice boomed against her ears and she leaned over the sink even farther, lifting the pump handle with her right hand, awkward in her movements as her hand dripped blood into the basin. The cut was long, across the whole width of her palm and gaped widely before her vision, blood running in a steady stream. She felt weakness almost overcome her, knew her knees would give way in a moment, and leaned heavily against the drain board lest she fall to the floor.

  Over her shoulder John peered past her to where her hand was outstretched beneath the water that streamed from the pitcher pump. “Damn. Damn, damn.” His words were harsh and grim against her ear, and she heard them as through a mist, for her head had begun to spin, her legs faltering beneath her weight, and only the clasp of his big hand on her waist kept her upright.

  He reached for a towel and wrapped it tightly around her hand, then led her to the table where he sat her down with little ceremony in her chair. “Put your head down, Katie. Down between your knees.” Pushing at the back of her nape, he forced her to the position he had decreed she take, and then held her hand in his, opening the towel just far enough to see the damage done to her palm.

  “This will need to be sewn up,” he said roughly. “I’ll see if Berta has any silk thread.” He knelt before her, his other hand atop her head. “Are you all right?” His voice sounded far off, as she attempted to lift her head, but he held it against her knees, his hand careful to keep her in the position that would best keep her from losing consciousness.

  Standing, he seemed to change his mind, for he lifted her abruptly, his arms filled with the limp form that seemed to have no strength of its own. He carried her into the bedroom, placed her on the bed and carefully wrapped her hand tighter with the towel, then brought another piece of toweling from the dry sink to wrap around the first one.

  “You won’t want to bleed on the bedding,” he said with a final twist of the towel, adjusting his rough bandage as he settled her beneath the quilt. “I’ll be right back, as soon as I get a needle and thread from Berta.”

  Katie felt her eyes drift shut and she turned her head away from him, toward the window, then heard the faint sound of his footsteps as he left the cabin and saw his shadow pass the window as he ran toward the big house.

  He returned in moments, it seemed, for she had only closed her eyes when she heard the door open again and knew that he was inside the cabin. Accompanied by Berta, he came into the bedroom, and Katie was overwhelmed by the sympathy in the other woman’s voice as she settled on the edge of the bed and took the injured hand onto her lap.

  Berta unwrapped the toweling that bound Katie’s fisted fingers, then her own hands were careful as she straightened each digit and viewed the damage done. “Land sakes, girl, you’ve about cut your hand in two,” she said quietly. “You’ll have to have some stitches in that mess. I’ll lend a hand here and John can sew it up for you. I’ve seen him doing as much for some of the men who’ve been hurt, so he knows what he’s doing.”

  Katie lifted her lashes and looked at the woman who touched her with such gentleness and found it was almost her undoing. That Berta should be so tender, so caring of her pain was an eye-opener, and Katie felt tears gathering as she looked up at the woman who seemed intent on pampering her.

  Berta regarded John, her gaze sober, her eyes seeming to take in the needle and thread he held in one hand. “You got some whiskey to put on it and maybe a little dish to soak the needle and thread in? You’ll want to be sure they’re as clean as a whistle so’s this little girl don’t get any red lines running up her arm.”

  Jane stuck her head in the door. “I’ll bring a little dish for you to use, John,” and at his nod of agreement, she turned to the kitchen cabinet and found a dish that would do the job. Berta pressed on the wound with a clean section of the towel, keeping the blood flow to a minimum and Katie turned her head away, the sight of her riven flesh making her feel ill suddenly.

  “Don’t be looking at this mess, girl,” Berta said, holding the piece of towel over the wound. “You look like you’re about halfway to a dead faint.”

  “It’d be easier if she passed out cold,” John said gruffly. “I could stitch this thing up without her feeling it.”

  Katie met his gaze from where he stood beside the bed, noting the color in his cheeks, aware that his eyes were dark, seeking hers with a message she could not decipher.

  “I won’t make a fuss, John,” she said softly, determined not to cry out no matter how great the pain of his stitching. She’d borne pain from whippings that surely were harsher than what pain John might deliver to her rent flesh, for his hands would be careful, his touch gentle. No matter how great his anger with her over the attentions Clay Thomas had shed on her person, he would not cause her more distress than was absolutely necessary, and that she would stake her life on.

  Jane held the small dish, looking down at the needle and black silk thread it held. Berta had cut off a length for John’s use, probably a foot long and it coiled in the bowl, soaking in a half cup or so of whiskey. The needle was a fine one, for Berta had apparently searched out her smallest from the assortment she kept in her sewing box. And now John neared the side of the bed where Katie lay, his face drawn as if he dreaded the chore to come.

  He sat beside her, a pillow on his lap and a clean towel over it to soak up any blood that might be shed during his task. With a clean cloth, he soaked up some of the whiskey and then looked into Katie’s eyes. “This is gonna burn like hellfire, Katie. I can’t do much about it, but if I don’t clean this out good you might get an infection and we don’t want that.”

  “Go ahead, John.” She’d thought her voice was strong, but the sound that came from her was strained and sounded puny even to her own ears. She turned her head aside, knowing that she could not watch as he sewed up her hand and waited for the first touch of the needle. But she had forgotten the whiskey-soaked cloth he would use on her hand first and at the first
touch of the fabric against her open wound, she cringed and cried out, smothering the sound with her uninjured palm.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I just wasn’t ready for it, John.”

  He looked up at Berta and Jane then, and his voice was ragged as he spoke his request. “Could you both leave us alone for just a minute. I want to talk to Katie before we do this.”

  Berta nodded, as if she were not surprised at the words he spoke, and Jane backed into the kitchen without a murmur. They closed the door behind them and Katie looked up at John questioningly.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, still fighting the tears that begged to be shed. The whiskey had burned more than she’d been expecting and she was ashamed of her cries, unwilling for John to think her a coward. “I’m sorry I made a fuss over the washing out of my cut, John. I just didn’t think it would burn so bad.”

  “That’s not what I want to talk to you about, Katie. We need to get something straight between us before I do this. I don’t want you to think that I’m gaining any revenge on you by causing you pain. The fuss we’ve had over Clay is to be forgotten for now. We’ll talk of it later, but right this minute, he’s the furthest thing from my mind. And I want you to know that I’ll do everything I can to make this easy for you, even though it’s gonna hurt like hell. There’s not much I can do about that, but I’ll be as quick as I can with it, and if you’d like a couple of swallows of whiskey for the pain first, we’ll wait a few minutes for it to work.”

  “I don’t want any of that stuff in my mouth, John. It stinks and reminds me of Jacob and I don’t think I could swallow it anyway. I know you aren’t going to cause me any more pain than necessary, and it never even entered my mind that you would take out your mad on me this way.”