“Kate, enough of all this. It’s only years and time…it is of no importance to anyone but me. Come here…please?” It was the first time he had ever asked.
His kiss was sweet and gentle, not demanding, simply offering tenderness, and pain. They drew apart, their horses shuffling to accommodate the shift.
Jack tipped his hat to her, said the last few words left to speak. “Ma’am, I stole that kiss from you…my last act as a thief. Now you ride home. It ain’t safe for a lady to be ridin’ alone, not with all the riff-raff coming through.”
She would have spoken, but he touched his hand to her mouth, and against her lips she felt the weakness spill from him.
“Ma’am, you are always a lady. I’m a gentleman no longer. Please, Katherine, go home. You’ll be needed soon enough.”
The bay was content to walk and that gave Katherine too much time to think. She cried, shedding tears, the nodding bay gelding as her witness. Davey’s bay gelding took her to the corralof the L Slash headquarters and stopped. Once the horse was turned out, Katherine was alone. There was no one at the house, and for the first time ever Katherine was afraid.
She forced herself to approach the house. She entered the kitchen quietly, suspecting all manner of invasions. But the room smelled of stewing hens and rising bread and nothing else. She had been gone on her rampage less than two hours.
After changing back to a prim dress and washing up, she returned to work. But she was altered inside, where it did not show. She moved easily, yet her legs ached from the unaccustomed riding, and each bruise and reddened patch of skin was a welcome reminder.
As she peeled the carrots, a different scent warned her and she spun around, knife in hand. It was Burn English, more ragged than ever, a softly curling beard shading his thin face. He was bloody, of course; one hand held the other arm at the wrist. She would have tended to him immediately but for the eyes, which stared directly at her, with no sign of deference or longing. Even Jack had only glanced at her, unwilling to insult her with a stare. English was different; he was always different.
“Ma’am, you call off your pa,” Burn English said. “If he don’t remember we’re partners, then he’s dead. I ain’t got much left to lose.”
Katherine responded the only way she knew. “You are the thief…using the ranchers’ good winter grass. What do you call that but thieving?”
He grinned unexpectedly, and it made him almost handsome. “Ma’am, I’d call it investment. None of these boys’ll give me peace enough to find my own graze so I use theirs. They’ll get a chance to buy good stock, so they’re sort of paying now for what they’ll want to buy later.”
Katherine hadn’t expected him capable of such devious thinking. It was hard not to smile at him and the calculated charm of his words. He took away her need to say something, anything in response, by letting his arm hang at his side. Immediately it leaked blood droplets onto the kitchen floor.
“You clean up that cut, Mister English…so it doesn’t stain my floor.”
He couldn’t grin any more; the effort put a bleak grimace on his face. “Ma’am, I run out of clean a while back. Ain’t had much chance to do a wash lately or find time to take my Saturday bath. I need your help for this one.”
She offered him a large rag soaked in cool water.
He wrapped the arm, licked his dried lips. “Thanks again, ma’am, for the rescue. Can I get a drink of water…maybe a few biscuits? I’ve been riding hungry too long. Seems folks think I’m a cattle thief.”
She poured him coffee and put out old, cold stew, biscuits, molasses, and half of a leftover pie. He ate everything she put in front of him and looked like he could eat more. She took her chance to lecture him while he ate, figuring he would remain only as long as there was food. “The outlaw life doesn’t suit you, does it? You’ve damaged what took so long to heal. You might well have killed yourself this time.”
He dropped a biscuit onto his plate. “Ma’am, I ain’t no outlaw. Even your boss admitted his wrong and pulled off the law. It’s your pa, wanting what ain’t his, doing this to me. I ain’t no outlaw.”
A verbal contest was a waste of time. She rested her hand on his shoulder, and he winced. Her voice was sharp. “Mister English, if you are running only from my father, stop and clear it up. Or are you running more from habit than circumstance?”
He shook his head and the shaggy hair covered his eyes, rolled over his filthy shirt collar. “Ma’am, your pa and I had a deal, witness and all. As for me reasoning with the law, I got a killing to my name. Two men down in Texas.” He waited, seemed to know how she would react.
Katherine went to the stove and stirred the boiling hens, appalled that he would speak so easily of killing.
“There, ma’am, you’re doing it again. Not knowing why or how, you only know I was wrong, whatever I done. Like those ranchers up there wanting to hang me with Jack Holden. I killed when I was sixteen. Two men who tried to rob me. My family were dead by then, so it was up to me.” His eyes were hot now, his voice harsh and strong.
She rested her hand on the knife handle, finding comfort there.
“Being called a thief by your pa seems small next to what you think of me.” He stood, and it was an awkward series of movements. “Ma’am?” This time the word was gentle and she shuddered. “We knew each other those months while I healed. You know me well, yet you judge me wrong.” He was a gentleman; she saw in his face how carefully he chose his words. “Ma’am…I’m beholding to you for the meal. Add that debt to the ones I already can’t pay.” His breath came out in short gasps, smelling of stew and coffee, and sickness. “I won’t go after your pa, ma’am. Not like I would any other man. That’s the best I can give you to pay off my debt.”
She put a hand on his ribs and felt the raw structure of muscle and bone. He shifted, and she leaned against him as his good hand stroked the back of her neck. She gasped in pleasure. At her sound, his heartbeat quickened and she could feel the race inside him.
Suddenly Burn pushed away from her, and Katherine could not stop a small cry.
“Ma’am, I can’t come to you like this. You be more careful you don’t let men like me around you. It ain’t safe.”
Before she could reach for him, he put out a hand to stop her. It was the arm wrapped in the now bloody rag and again droplets of blood stained her floor. “I’m a damned horse breaker, ma’am.” He grinned that wonderful, unexpected grin. “I keep swearing at you, ma’am, to get you to listen.”
“Sit down, and don’t pretend you’re all right,” Katherine ordered. “Let me doctor that arm…and pack you some food.” She used the words and the act of running water into a pan to recover. When she looked back, he was sleeping lightly, his head cradled on his good arm. Left alone, he began to snore.
A horse came into the yard. She peered out the window. It was Davey Hildahl. He dismounted and began tending his mount. Katherine waited. No other riders came in with him. Returning to Burn, she gently unrolled the reddened cloth, and still Burn did not wake. The cut was long and ugly, stinking of infection—most likely a wire cut. As she began her work, she found herself strangely pleased. She glanced at the back door, where she knew Davey would appear. And she touched the back of Burn’s neck, threading the soft hairs around her fingers. Harsh words had been spoken, warnings given, but for now, with the man needing her and another about to return, she was content.
Chapter Twenty-two
Davey knocked on the door. Beneath her fingers Katherine felt Burn’s body tighten. She kept washing the deep cut, focusing on the marvel of human muscle and bone, and did not look up when Davey entered.