muslin, with soft blue flowers and double rows of black-and-white lace edging along the puff sleeves, the bodice and the hem. It was one of her best dresses.
"Delilah —"
"Put it on, child, put it on. We are celebrating here, remember?"
"Oh, yes." Kristin grinned, but then she started to shiver again. She was afraid she was going to burst into tears. They were never going to be done with it. They couldn't ignore it, and they couldn't accept it. Pa had been murdered, and the same — or worse — could have happened today. Today could have been the end of everything.
They had been saved today, but it was only temporary. Zeke would be back.
"Lordy, Lordy," Delilah said. She and Kristin hugged one another, holding tight.
"What are we going to do?" Delilah said.
"We — we have to convince him to stay around a while," Kristin said softly.
"Think he needs a job, maybe?" Delilah said hopefully.
"Does he look like he needs a job?" Kristin said, smiling shakily as she pulled away. She turned her back to Delilah. "Hook me up, please."
Delilah started with the hooks, sweeping Kristin's bountiful hair out of the way. When she was done she stepped back, swirling Kristin around. She surveyed her broadly, then gave her
a big smile. "Miz Kristin, you're the prettiest little thing I ever did see!"
Kristin flushed. She didn't feel pretty these days. She felt tired and old and worn most of the time.
"Brush your hair now. Your little Chinese slippers are by the door. Slip them on. And go out there and see what else you can find out about that man beyond his name."
"Yes, yes," Kristin murmured. Delilah searched her pockets for a brush. Kristin stood on tiptoes to stare into the small mirror on the kitchen door. She combed out her hair, leaving it thick and free and a little wild. She looked too pale, she thought. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lip. Then she thought about the man beyond the door again and all the color she could have wanted flooded into her face.
"Thanks," she said, handing the brush back to Delilah. Then she pushed the door open and hurried out.
She went through the family dining room first. Ma had always wanted a dining room, not just a table in the middle of everything else, as in so many ranch homes. Dining rooms were very proper, Ma had thought. And it was nice, Kristin decided now. The Chippendale table was covered with a lace cloth and with Ma's best silver, crystal and Royal Doulton plates. The table was set for three. The four young ranch hands they had remaining ate in the bunkhouse and she couldn't let a stranger know that she and
Shannon usually just sat down with Samson and Delilah. Of course, they didn't use the silver or the crystal or the Royal Doulton every day, either.
After the dining room she came to the parlor. There was another big fireplace here, and a braided rug before it, over the hardwood floor. Large windows looked out on the sunshine. Ma had liked things bright, even though there were heavy velvet-and-lace curtains in crimson softened by white that could be closed at sunset to hold in the warmth. The furniture here was elegant, a small settee, a daybed and fine wood chairs, and a spinet that both girls had learned to play. It was a beautiful room, meant more for a lady than for a man. Kristin knew she would find the stranger and her sister in the next room, Pa's office and library. That was a far more comfortable room, with rows of books, a huge oak desk and a pair of deacon's benches that drew up to the double-sided fireplace.
Kristin was right. When she came through the parlor doorway, she saw that the stranger — no, Cole, his name was Cole Slater, and she had to stop thinking of him as the stranger — was indeed in this room. It was a great room. It smelled of pipe tobacco and fine leather, and it would always remind her of her father.
Cole Slater looked good here, as if he fit the place. He'd removed his plumed hat, his spurs and his railroad coat. Kristin paused, annoyed that she was trembling again just at the sight of him. He was a handsome man, she thought, though not in any usual way. He was far from pretty, but his steel-gray eyes were arresting, and what his face lacked in actual beauty it made up in strength. It was fine-boned yet powerful, sensual yet hard. And Kristin thought that she saw still more in his face. Cole Slater was another one who had lost all his illusions. She saw it when their eyes met. She studied him, and it was several long moments before she realized that he was studying her, too.
His knee was up, and his booted foot was resting against one of the footstools that seemed to have been cast haphazardly alongside the rows of books in the study. His boots were high, like cavalry-issue boots. His trousers hugged his long legs, betraying the lean muscles there, the trim line of his hips and the contours of his strong thighs and buttocks. His shoulders were broad, and he was tightly sinewed, and yet, he gave the appearance of being lean. A tuft of dark hair showed where his shirt lay open below his throat, and Kristin thought that his chest must be heavily matted with it.
Then she saw that his gaze was resting on her chest, too, and that just the hint of a smile was playing at the corners of his mouth. She almost lowered her lashes. Almost. She kept her eyes level with his and raised her chin a fraction. Then she inclined her head toward the glass of Pa's that he held — the little pony glass seemed ridiculously small contrasted with the size of his bronzed hand and the length of his fingers — and smiled graciously. "I see that Shannon has been taking good care of you."
He grinned at Shannon, who sat on one of the deacon's benches with a happy smile glued to her features. "Your sister is a most courteous and charming hostess."
Shannon colored with pleasure at the compliment. Then she laughed and jumped to her feet with the curious combination of grace and clumsiness that always reminded Kristin of a young colt. "I'm trying, anyway," she said. "And you two haven't been properly introduced. Miss Kristin McCahy, I give you Mr. Cole Slater. Mr. Slater, my sister, Miss Kristin McCahy."
Cole Slater stepped forward. He took Kristin's hand, and his eyes met hers just before his head lowered and his lips touched her hand. "I'm charmed, Miss McCahy. Quite charmed."
"Mr. Slater," she returned. She tried to place his accent, but she couldn't. He didn't sound as if he came from the deep South, and he didn't sound as if he came from any of the New England states. He wasn't a foreigner, but he didn't speak with the twang of the midwesterner, either.
He was still holding her hand. There was a feeling of warmth where his lips had touched her flesh, and the sensation seemed to seep into her, to enter into her bloodstream and head straight for the coil of liquid heat that churned indecently near the very apex of her thighs.
She pulled her hand away.
"We really don't know how to thank you, you know," she said, remaining still and seeking out his eyes again.
"I don't want to be thanked. I stumbled along at the right moment, that's all. And I'm damned hungry, and everything cooking smells damned good. A meal will make us even."
Kristin raised a brow. "You'll forgive me if I find my life, my friends, my sister, my sanity, my—"
"Chastity?" he offered bluntly.
"My person," she returned quietly, "are worth far more than a meal."
"Well, now…" He set his empty glass down, watching her thoughtfully. "I reckon that you are worth much, much more, Miss McCahy. Still, life isn't like a trip to the dry-goods store. I don't sell my services for any price. I was glad to be here when I was needed. If I helped you —"
"You know that you helped me. You saved all of us."
"All right. I helped you. It was my pleasure."
His voice matched his eyes. It wasn't quite a baritone, but it was still deep and full of the same hard, steely confidence. A drifter, a man who knew his guns. He had faced death out there today almost callously. Where did such a man come from?