So he put up his weary horse and crossed to the main house, to get himself a cup of coffee. He’d been out a month and was thinking about a day in town, maybe a night, too. Socorro, or Magdalena, where there were girls to spin and kiss, and hold onto in the back room, in the dark.
The door came open under his knock and he stepped back unwillingly. Of course, it was Burn English, black hair too long and wearing a collarless shirt much too big for him, highlighting the pallor of his indoor skin. The man was unsteady, but the thin mouth grinned.
“If it ain’t Hildahl. Come back to see what you done? I been waiting on you.”
“Well, I been waiting to see you, too, English. Standing, that is. Don’t look to me like you’re going to die the next minute or two.” He could have been more choosy about his words, but the angle to English’s mouth, the gleam in thosedamned fire eyes, they told Davey this wasn’t a friendly meet.
“You set me up, Hildahl. I ain’t going to forgive that.”
Davey rubbed his face, stalling for time. He was tired and angry, and now this. It took some remembering to know that English’s mind was back two months or more, when all that hooraw about the wild horses and the wire happened. A lot of time had passed, but English had had no part in it.
“Friend, I had no doing with the stampede. You heard us coming and ran. We wanted to talk, is all. Meiklejon’s a reasonable man…he come up to talk.” Being sensible was rough. Davey tried again. “I tried to warn you about the wire. Tried to turn that gray before…before you got killed.”
Hate remained in the green eyes.
Davey sighed, wiped his face, and found his fingers damp with sweat, his mouth turning salty. Then he heard a small sound, raised his head, and saw Miss Katherine staring at him. He had nothing to say to her, either, so he left.
Two days later, Davey came in early, leading his bronco. A pulled shoe, a bad stone bruise, and he had had to walk. He pared away the bruise and swabbed tar on the infection, reset the shoe. Then he put the bronco in a pen, vowing to poultice the hoof later when the tar had worked into the bruised sole.
He was tuckered out, hungry, and still mad. A cup of coffee, maybe a warmed-over biscuit or a slice of fresh bread, and some of that blackberry jam would ease him. So he pounded on the kitchendoor, and, when no one answered, he limped inside, headed for the cook stove. There the enameled pot was shoved to the back of t he stove.
No one showed. Meiklejon was out, at least the pacing grullo he favored was gone, and Souter had the men chasing a bunch of cows off of Blind Mesa. But Miss Katherine should have been here. Then it struck him. She was here, alone with Burn English. What he imagined then was against his upbringing and inclinations, so he made himself pour a cup of the thick coffee, laced it with canned milk.
What he was thinking was wrong. But he went through the house to the back room, sipping his coffee, not calling out Miss Katherine’s name or asking for Burn English. Not saying anything out loud at all.
Burn’s stomach injury bled occasionally so it was necessary to change the bandaging twice a day. He never exhibited any physical discomfort or, indeed, showed any reaction at all as Katherine pulled back the soiled cloths, removed the herbs that Señora Ortega insisted still be used. Katherine did not mind doing the simple chore.
Barren of children, she had not known the flesh of any human the way she knew that of Burn English. Now her fingertips, so lightly, delicately out of concern for any pain, traced the skin and muscle and bone of a most singular human being.
Burn English was not handsome, nor was he a gentleman, but he carried a quality that struck Katherine. He opened a need. She could not equate the terrible urgency when around him with any common rationale. He beckoned her, and she responded. He lay supine on the bed, eyes closed, hands flat, palms turned up, waiting. She knelt beside him, close to his dry skin, and she knew the fluttering lids of his eyes watched her through their transparency. She needed to remove the old bandage from his midsection. The scent stopped her—a smell of herbs mingled with one she believed was purely male.
Her mouth was moist and she wiped her lips. In raising her hand, she brushed over his ribs where his heart would be. His hand grabbed her, held her wrist. Katherine counted in Latin to keep calm. His eyes opened, and he must have known, for he smiled as she bent down and kissed his forehead.
“Burn.” The name fluttered through her lips.
Davey watched them from the doorway. Fury took hold, for the woman and the mustanger, for himself and his indecency. He forced weight onto his foot, dug the boot heel into the wood floor, turned, and went back down the hall. The hot kitchen, empty of all kindness, mocked him as he searched for the bottle of brandy. Its fire choked him. He slammed down the bottle, stalked outside to inhale the thick summer air.
Burn sucked in a breath; he could not do this. Even as his body drew him to her, he could not. He willed himself flat and dull. She must finish her task, change his bandage like changing a baby’s diaper, and then leave him for her other chores. Burn bit his mouth. His body quivered where he could not stop his heart.
Her hands were cool, quick-moving, no longer lingering over his exposed flesh. She was letting him decide, she was stepping away even as she sat beside him on the sagging bed and ministered to his physical need.
Burn let his eyelids draw back enough to filter what he needed to see. Her skin was pearl white, her body tight against her dress, so close to him he could taste her pulse. He had no business dreaming, wishing for the weight of her hand on his wounded skin. He enjoyed his pain for it brought her close to him. Indecent, using suffering as a reason for love. There could be no illusions. She would give herself from pity, and hate herself for the act, hate him for accepting it. He closed his eyes and held still.
Davey couldn’t settle down. He ached and his gut was empty. He could see those hands rest on the mustanger’s hide. Her kissing him. He went to the stable and made up a poultice, wrapped it on the grullo’s hoof with an old gunny sack, anything to keep him from thinking about Miss Katherine in there with the mesteñero. But he couldn’t stand it; he couldn’t let him touch her.
He stormed back to the kitchen, making lots of noise at the door, sending a chair against the wall. The gesture didn’t matter. English was at the small corner table, wearing another one of those flapping shirts. Miss Katherine stood near him, her hands on his back, up near his neck. Hands that rested gently, too kindly, hurting Davey even more.
He forced himself to go to the cook stove to pour out cold coffee, refusing to look when Miss Katherine did not step away from English’s chair. He heard a deep groan that echoed inside him. Davey drained the cup clean of the stale coffee and stared at his opponent over the rim, unable to look at Katherine. He attacked, with words for once, never having done that before. “No man worth his salt’ll take a good woman’s reputation so light, mesteñero! ”
White with effort, English rose from the table. Katherine’s hands went to her face. English placed both hands on the wood table. The raised, damaged knuckles shimmered against the mesquite grain.
“You got a bad mind, Hildahl. To think this woman’d do anything wrong.” Then he pushed away from the table’s support. Miss Katherine stepped back in anticipation. English’s voice was harsh. “I can’t fight you, Hildahl. Not now. But I can hold you to a settlement, come a month or so. You’re mean wrong.”