Dorothy Garlock - [Tucker Family] (13 page)

“Then we’re all a bunch of dumb fools,” Hannah replied. “Isn’t that right, Charlotte?”

“I suppose it is,” she added, holding up her own burnt arm.

Slowly, Hannah led Dave up the steps, onto the long porch, and into the front parlor where he would soon be swarmed with attention
and his burns well taken care of, leaving Charlotte and Del alone in the approaching dusk.

“I’m sorry that you were hurt,” Del said to her.

“It’s only because I was headstrong enough to think that I could help.”

“The fact that you tried shows your character.”

Del’s kind words soothed the unease in Charlotte’s heart, but when she looked at him, eager to thank him, she noticed that
he too had been hurt; the skin along his forearm and elbow had been so badly singed that it was practically black and the
rolled-up sleeve of his shirt had been burned. Even in the gloom of near-evening she could see the first blisters on his skin.

Charlotte could not suppress a gasp. “You’ve been burned!”

“I suppose I have,” Del answered simply.

“Let me take you inside,” she said, rising from the steps. “You need to get that looked at right away.”

“ ’Fraid I just don’t have time for that ’bout now,” he replied, looking back over his shoulder at the smoke rising
from the still-smoldering buildings. “Regardless of how I feel, there’s still too much work needs to be done and…” He paused,
as if he was searching for the right words. “I owe at least that much to Mr. Grant.”

“I’m sure he’d understand if you needed to get medical attention.”

“I suppose he would, but I…”

Del fell silent just as the setting sun surrendered, falling over the horizon and beginning its nightly slumber. With what
little light escaped the windows of the ranch house, she could see that his jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed.

Uncomfortable with the silence, Charlotte said, “When John and I first saw the fire it sure didn’t seem like much to me, but
he knew better. When he shouted for us to—” And then she caught her tongue, uncertain what, if anything, she should mention
about the Becks. Even though Del was John’s right-hand man, something stopped her from saying more. She was afraid that Del
would notice her discomfort, but he seemed to be paying her little attention.

“Del?” she asked.

He looked at her, startled, then said, “I’m sorry, my head was elsewhere.”

“Do you know what started the fire?” Charlotte asked, wanting to change the subject even if it seemed as if he hadn’t known
the last one.

Del paused, looking off into the distance for so long that Charlotte thought he had returned to ignoring her, but he said,
“Don’t know if we’ll ever really know. Ain’t
nobody who’ll admit to tossin’ a cigarette butt or bein’ careless; that’s just how these men are. Only thing left for us to
do is pick up the pieces as best we can and start back from the beginning. That’s what you do when things get out of kilter
this way.”

While Del wandered back down the walk toward the remnants of the fire, Charlotte thought about what he had said.

Maybe… just maybe, Owen Williams, we can have a new start.

O
WEN SCRATCHED
the wooden match to life and touched it to the oil lamp’s wick. In the sputtering, uneven light, wild, deep shadows danced
haphazardly across the barn’s walls and ceiling. Even with the barn door thrown open and the moon now full in the sky, the
darkness was not easily penetrated. Still, he could move about the barn freely, his eyes slowly adjusting to the remaining
gloom.

The horse barn sat to the north of the main ranch house, far away from the smoldering fire, but the smell of burnt wood and
brush clung to the air like a blanket. Faint echoes of shouts and shovels, axes and curses found him on the faint wind, like
intermittent whispers on a radio. Even with the fire being all but extinguished and all of the men who had come from Sawyer
helping, at this late hour there was still much work to be done.

And there doesn’t seem to be any end in sight…

Past the workbench just inside the broad doors and hay dump on the opposite end, both sides of the barn were lined with stalls
fitted with latched gates. Many of the stalls were empty; few of the horses that had been in their corrals had been brought
in for the night. Still, some pairs of ears pricked up alertly, turning in his direction as he made his way down the wide
aisle.

With every step, Owen felt an exhaustion and ache tug insistently at his ravaged and weary body. He had swung that drenched
blanket so many times that he knew come morning he wouldn’t be able to lift his arms above his shoulders. His stomach growled
angrily. He hadn’t had a bite since breakfast and he had no idea when that would change. Hell, when the time finally came,
he’d probably be so tired that he’d fall asleep in his plate.

When Owen neared the first occupied stall, he hung his lantern on a rusty nail hammered into a beam, and checked closely to
make sure there wasn’t a chance of another fire being accidentally started.

A brown and white mare regarded him intently, her brown eyes never wavering from him, even as he leaned against the gate and
tipped back his hat. The flickering lamplight had made the horse a bit skittish; one hoof pawed a bit uneasily at the ground,
but she never tried to back away, allowing Owen to place his hand on her muzzle.

“Hey there now, Cinnamon, old girl,” he soothed.

As his fingers scratched the side of the horse’s face,
the mare leaned into his affections and gave a little snort. Owen had always been fond of horses, but Cinnamon was different,
the bond between them stronger.

“Bet you’ve had a better day than I did.” He chuckled. “Although both of us were forgotten at mealtime.”

Reaching into the feed bag propped up just out of Cinnamon’s reach, Owen gave her a handful of oats, which the mare devoured
hungrily, her lips and tongue exploring every crevice of his hand.

“Don’t worry now. There’ll be more where that came from.”

After slipping a full feed bag over Cinnamon’s ears, Owen diligently set about doing his chores: scooping out manure from
the mare’s stall, hauling replacement hay back inside, and brushing down the horse’s coat, while Cinnamon ate contentedly.

Usually when he brushed a horse, he allowed the bristles to travel the long distance across the neck, down to the shoulder,
along the back, and finally to the hindquarters. While he was doing this, Owen was able to let his mind wander. He found it
a peaceful, relaxing time in an otherwise hectic life. It was something he could do alone, without anyone else bothering him,
and it had become a moment he treasured, just him and Cinnamon. But this night was different. Too much had happened for him
to feel any sense of ease.

“Damn it all.” He spat onto the stall floor.

Owen hated to admit it to himself, but there was a part
of him that regretted not letting John Grant’s ranch burn to the ground; there was another part devastated by guilt for even
having
that thought. But when Owen had heard the first shout, seen the first plume of dark smoke rising to the sky, he had not even
hesitated for an instant, rushing alongside the other ranch hands to frantically pump well water, hurriedly dig trenches,
and wildly swing wool blankets. He’d done so willingly, even though he had known his actions benefited the man he accused
of ruining his mother’s life.

With annoyance, Owen brushed the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Helping John Grant had been the last thing
he had intended when he and Hannah had come to Oklahoma.

The worst part was the way John had accounted for himself during the wildfire, doing every bit of the same backbreaking work
he had asked of his men. Even now, he labored into the night, a leader who worked through deeds instead of empty words. He
had never once shown fear in the face of losing everything he had worked so hard to build, never shown anger or frustration
at a man not doing all he could, and never given Owen reason to confirm that he was the cad he believed him to be. It galled
Owen, but it was all true.

But what had happened with Charlie was even worse.

Owen first noticed that she was feverishly battling the fire beside him at the very instant she backed into the burning bush.
Terror grabbed at his heart like a vise. Not
being aware of his feet moving, he was upon her, driving her to the ground trying to put out the flames. Even when accidentally
kneed in the mouth, he hadn’t felt anything but concern for her safety.

But then something in him had changed.

Falling on top of her would have been bad enough on its own, but when Owen had found his lips so achingly close to hers, where
a kiss seemed as inevitable as breathing, when he had seen the emotion in Charlotte’s eyes as plainly as speaking the words,
he had become flustered, embarrassed, and had begun to say things he wished he could take back. He also wished he could have
erased the hurt that appeared on her face, the tears he knew he must have caused, but try as he might, he had no idea how.

The strange, simple truth was that Charlotte Tucker had gotten under his skin. Twice now he’d looked like a jackass in front
of her. Though he had somehow managed to douse her anger once by being honest, to do so now meant admitting feelings he couldn’t
possibly put into words.
What the heck am I supposed to do: walk up to her and tell her that I can’t get her out of my mind? She’d laugh in my face!

Consequently, he felt both hopeless and helpless, a new state he despised.

“Damn my stubborn hide, Charlie!” he swore.

Beneath his hand, Cinnamon twitched in annoyance, whinnying and throwing her dark mane; he must have been brushing her too
hard, lost in his thoughts.

“Sorry, girl.”

The sound of one of the doors being opened wider came from the front of the darkened barn. Stepping out of the stall, Owen
was surprised to see Hale McCoy striding toward him, a scowl spreading across his face.

“What’s the matter, Hale? Anything I can—”

Hale’s fist slammed into Owen’s jaw, sending him crashing to the floor and the horse brush flying into the darkness behind
him, out of the range of the oil lamp. For a moment, everything went black. His head told him to get up and defend himself,
but his legs wouldn’t listen. All he could do was roll over.

“You had no right to be treatin’ her that way!” Hale bellowed, his thunderous voice echoing around the interior of the barn.
“What kind of man hollers at a woman like Miss Charlotte? Answer me, damn you!”

Even with his ears ringing and bright stars flaring before his eyes, Owen couldn’t help but hear the man; it was replying
that was the problem. He felt as if he had been kicked by a mule. Words fluttered into his mind but couldn’t manage to make
it to his mouth. He hadn’t spent much time with Hale, they did different things on the ranch and besides, Owen had gone out
of his way to not be friends with anyone, but it would have taken a blind man not to know better than to make an enemy of
a man as large as Hale.

Gingerly, Owen rubbed his jaw, an ache sinking in all the way to the bone.

“I said, answer me, you no-good son of a bitch!”

“I would… if I had some idea… of what the hell you’re talking about…” Owen finally managed.

“You know,” Hale barked. “You know exactly what I’m talkin’ about!”

And Owen did; it was the same thing he had been beating himself up over for the last half day; it was because of Charlotte.

“She was only tryin’ to help! That don’t give you no right to shout at her!”

“How do you… I thought… you were running the pump…”

“I was, but there weren’t nobody there to take the last pair of buckets after they’d been filled,” Hale explained, his voice
a snarl, “so I took ’em myself. I managed to get there just as Charlotte was leavin’. She ran past me with a big mess of tears
runnin’ down her cheeks! I only hope that in all the smoke she didn’t see me so she don’t feel no shame other than what you
gave her. I can promise you this: if weren’t for the fire, I’d a give you a beatin’ right then and there!”

Cautiously, Owen looked up. Hale was standing over him, looking as imposing as an enormous tree, his hands balled into angry
fists, his face a mask of red even in the flickering light of the oil lamp. It looked as if he wanted nothing more than to
be able to beat Owen into a bloody pulp.

In his need to disguise his feelings for Charlotte, he had
yelled at her. Owen found himself rejecting the smarter, safer course of action of telling Hale why he had yelled. That seeing
her dress on fire had scared the living hell out of him.

Defiance flared in his gut. It was none of Hale’s damn business.

If the man was to give him a beating, he was determined not to roll over and play dead. When it was over, Hale would know
he’d been in a fight.

“Why the hell do you care?” Owen grinned through bloody lips. “Let me guess, you’re sweet on Charlie, aren’t you?”

For a long moment, Hale could only stare at the man at his feet, his eyes narrowed. Then, with the ease of an ox moving a
plow, he lifted Owen from the ground by his shirt, his hat falling back to the ground, his feet nearly leaving it.

“You think this is somethin’ to laugh at?” Hale asked incredulously.

“Got to admit it’s a bit of a stretch.”

Without warning, Hale dealt him another savage blow to the midriff, and the air exploded from Owen like a punctured tire.
Crashing back to the unforgiving ground, he struggled for breath and couldn’t find any; he could only manage to pull in air
in deep gulps and empty gasps. He wanted to both vomit and inhale, to bounce up and black out, to scream in agony and laugh
out loud. Through it all, he forced a grin to his face.

“Maybe I ain’t hittin’ you hard enough,” Hale said, “if you’re still smilin’.”

“There’s… there’s better ways… of showing… Charlotte… how much you… care than… punching me…”

Owen expected to again be lifted off the ground, to once more be severely beaten for his stubbornness, but to his surprise,
Hale laughed.