Margaret Brownley (20 page)

She barely managed to close the door behind him before she burst into tears.

What could be the matter with her? How could she have such feelings? Her husband had been dead for only a few months. Less than eight months to be exact. No matter how much she regretted her marriage, she owned it to her son’s father to conduct herself in a way that was appropriate to his memory.

For a recent widow to harbor thoughts about another man would be shocking by anyone’s standards. It shocked her clear down to her toes. Shocked her so much she dropped to her knees and prayed for God’s forgiveness.

It was a very good thing that she was moving out of his house. Not that anything would happen if she stayed. His actions tonight made it perfectly clear that he was anxious to be rid of her. Not that she could blame him, poor man. Just look at how she and Noel had taken over his cabin!

The man didn’t owe her a thing. Not a thing! She had absolutely no right to expect him to give up his socializing to sit home with her.

Even if it was their last night together.

Logan did not go to the Golden Hind or any of the other six saloons in town. He did the very thing his leg forbid him to do, he walked. He walked through the cold dark woods to the hills above Deadman’s Gulch. He gritted his teeth against the throbbing pain that began in his right knee and shot down his calf to his ankle. He walked until he limped so much, he could walk no longer.

He lowered himself onto a fallen log and rubbed the affected area. Some time passed before he found to his astonishment he was rubbing his chest, not his leg. It was only after he realized the futility of trying to lessen the hurt centered in his chest that he pulled his hand away and concentrated on the physical pain in his leg, wishing he’d brought along his salve.

The sounds of the night closed in around him. An animal stirred in the nearby bushes. Logan sniffed and recognized the scent of a fox, checking him out, no doubt, in return. At another time, in another place, the fox might have had good reason to fear him, but not tonight.

From the distance came the unmistakable mating cry of a lone wolf: its long harrowing howl echoed through the hills. Logan wondered if he would ever again hear that familiar sound of winter without thinking of his own loss.

“Oh, Libby,” he moaned aloud, sending the fox scurrying away in a wake of rustling leaves. All he’d wanted was to spend their last night together. That’s all. Just one more night.

If she’d shown the slightest inclination of wanting to spend the night with him, nothing would have dragged him away.

*****

It was late when Logan crept into the cabin. Libby had been listening for his footsteps for hours.  Now she lay perfectly still when he walked past her bed. She hoped that he wouldn’t hear the unnatural pounding of her heart. For a moment she thought he had, for he stilled by her side. He was so near she couldn’t breathe, and it wasn’t until he moved away that she gasped for much needed air.

He added another log to the fire, his large frame but a dark silhouette in the dim light. He rubbed his leg and she longed to go to him. But something, pride perhaps, but most likely fear of rejection, kept her frozen in place. He’d already rejected her once that night. She couldn’t bear the thought of his rejecting her a second time.

And so for the very last time she watched him crawl into his bedroll. For the very last time, she monitored his breathing and wondered why it took him so long to fall asleep. For the very last time, she felt herself drift off, snug in the warmth of his protective presence. And because it
was
the very last time, she refused to feel guilty for thinking of Logan rather than her late husband.

*****

Logan left the cabin shortly before dawn. Libby was changing Noel when he rose and quickly dressed. He murmured something about wanting to check out the snow level by his claim. His limp was more pronounced than usual.

She made no effort to hide her concern. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“Why isn’t it?”

“Your leg…”

“Drat! There’s nothing wrong with my leg!”He grabbed a blanket, wrapped it around himself and left without as much as a cup of coffee, slamming the door after him.

“Fool man!” she muttered as she finished changing Noel. Plenty was wrong with the leg and the sooner he faced up to it, the better. But as much as his leg worried her, there was nothing much she could do about it. He flew off the handle at the least mention of it. Besides, she had her own problems to think about at the moment.

She glanced around the cabin and her heart ached at the thought of moving. For the last month and a half, this had been home. The truth was it was the only real home she’d known since leaving Boston.

Pushing her thoughts away she gathered her belongings with quick urgency.

By the time Sharkey, Thornton and McGuire showed up promptly at eight as planned, she was convinced that once she moved into her own home her feelings for Logan would be put in perspective.

She offered them coffee and fresh-baked biscuits, and they gratefully accepted.

“You sure do make the best coffee and biscuits I ever tasted,” Sharkey said. “What do you call it again? The ingredient that makes the biscuits light as a feather?”

“Baking soda,” Libby replied. “Hap gave me two cans for the price of one.”

“Well, ain’t that thoughtful of him?” Sharkey reached for another biscuit while she refilled his cup.

Thornton picked Noel off the floor and grimaced when the infant spit up.

Libby reached for a cloth kept for such emergencies and rubbed the front of Thornton’s fine wool coat. “I do believe it’s as good as new.” Thornton looked so uneasy, she took Noel from him. “Sharkey, will you grab Noel’s cradle? And Duncan, you can carry Noel’s clothes.”

It took less than an hour to move her few belongings and Noel’s things out of Logan’s cabin and arrange them in her new home. Big Sam and Beaker had been waiting at the house and had immediately pitched in.

The men had made a wood bed frame for her, and Thornton donated an extra feather mattress he’d hauled in all the way from Sacramento City last fall. A crude couch had been made from a piece of lumber balanced between two wooden kegs and draped with heavy canvas.

Beaker had crafted a fine table with two chairs. But being a perfectionist, he was not satisfied with how one chair was seated, and set to work at once sanding one of the legs. Everyone had contributed household goods. No two dishes matched, but it was all perfectly functional, and Libby was already planning little touches that would give the cabin a homey look.

“It’s lovely!” she exclaimed when they had done all that could be done. She threw her arms around each man in turn. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you.”

Big Sam rolled his eyes. Sharkey hiccuped. Duncan looked pleased, Thornton smiled, and Beaker blushed all the way to the end of his considerable nose.

*****

With considerable difficulty Logan struggled to break through the ice and snow with a pickax. Despite the freezing cold air sweat broke out on his forehead. The cold pierced his leg like a dull twisting knife.

Finally, he tossed the pickax aside. It was no use. The ground was too hard and his leg hurt to high heaven. He leaned against a tree, adjusting his weight, and popped a piece of willow bark into his mouth.

He wondered if Libby had moved out of his cabin yet. Sure would be nice to have his place back to himself. To sleep undisturbed. Eat when he wanted, what he wanted.

Yes, indeed, it sure would be nice.

He trudged back to where his gelding stood, his moccasins crunching against the hardened snow. After tying his equipment onto the saddle, he mounted and headed back to Deadman’s Gulch.

Nearer to town, the snow was only inches deep and was fast turning into mush. Music and laughter drifted from the saloons. The saloons were packed solid and not one angry word, fistfight, or gunshot marred the congenial atmosphere. He never thought to see the day.

He rode to his cabin and tied his horse to the porch railing. He glanced across the dirt-packed road to Libby’s newly built cabin. Smoke curled lazily from the stone chimney that stood high above the shingled roof. He debated what to do. Should he stop in and see if she was all right?

Almost as soon as he thought it he changed his mind. It was a bad idea. Knowing Libby, she was perfectly fine. Besides, he was exhausted. All he wanted was to lie down on his very own pallet and get some shut-eye.

Inside his cabin it was dark and empty—so empty in fact that at first he thought she’d taken his precious few belongings with her. But all his things were there: his makeshift furniture, his extra knives and cookware. Not only was everything accounted for, but she had taken the time to put all his possessions back as she had originally found them. It astounded him to realize suddenly that he liked the room better Libby’s way.

The baby’s things were gone, just as Libby’s were. The rain-ruined valise she’d insisted on keeping was no longer in its usual corner. Gone also was the annoying clothesline that had crisscrossed the room, and which required him to constantly duck or face the possibility of being the first man to accidentally hang in Deadman's Gulch.

His pallet was neatly made up, the feather pillow plumped out, the extra pelts and blankets folded and stacked neatly at the foot.

Peace and quiet at last. He decided to catch some shut-eye before going to the Golden Hind. Sighing, he stretched himself out on the bed. It had been weeks since he had the luxury of sleeping on such softness. He couldn’t even remember the last decent night’s sleep he’d had.

Heaven. sweet, sweet heaven. He could sleep when he wanted to sleep.

He turned over. That’s when he caught a whiff of summer flowers drifting up from the depths of the pillow. Inhaling the sweet fragrance, he caught a vision of Libby in her blue calico. He blinked and the calico faded, only to be replaced with memories of Libby looking every bit as feminine in the buckskin dress he’d made for her.

He sat up, turned his pillow over, and lay down again.

He tossed and turned and stared at the ceiling. Everything would be perfect if it wasn’t so…quiet.

Not that he missed Libby or the baby, of course. It was the town. That’s what it was. He was used to the miners a-shooting and a-hollering as Sharkey would say, and making a racket.

He rolled over and decided it wasn’t the quiet as much as the cold keeping him awake. He pulled another blanket from the neat pile at the foot of the bed and spread it over himself. There now. Perfect. He lay down and closed his eyes.

Another blanket. That’s what he needed.

An hour later he had piled every blanket on top of himself and he still couldn’t sleep. Finally, he gave up and decided to make a pot of coffee. Waiting for the water to heat, he limped about the room. His leg was numb and he thought it would help to exercise it. He threw another log in the fire and resumed his awkward gait.

He stopped in front of a chair and frowned. Picking the chair up, he lugged it to the other side of the fireplace and placed it exactly where Libby had arranged it. Soon, he was rearranging the furniture until everything was back to the way Libby preferred it.

And still the cabin seemed empty.

And all wrong.

He stopped in front of the door. Finally, he opened it and peered through the narrow crack at the little cabin across from his. Other than the funnel of gray smoke that rose from the chimney, there were no signs of life. He wondered what Libby was doing. Probably feeding the baby, he decided. Or changing his breeches. Or perhaps giving him a bath. He smiled as he recalled his own experiences bathing the boy. Slippery as a fish he was.

He closed the door. The coffee was ready and he poured himself a cup. The coffee had the consistency and taste of wet ashes, but he drank it anyway.

It might as well have been thin air for all the good it did him. What he needed was a bracing game of cards. At last, he was free to spend his evenings with the boys without feeling guilty or otherwise put upon. He stepped out to his front porch and stretched. It was dark now and the air had grown colder.

His attention was caught by a moving shadow. Squinting, he watched the shadow walk up to Libby’s cabin and knock on her door. Although it was too dark to make out the man’s features, the unmistakable shape of a top hat told him it was none other that Thornton Wellerton.

Not wanting to be caught spying, Logan ducked low and crept closer to the porch railing to have a better look.

What in the name of Sam Hill was the matter with the man? Calling at Libby’s house at this late hour. It had to be at least six o’clock, if not later.

Well, Libby would tell him where to go. The door opened. He could see Libby’s dainty feminine form silhouetted against the light. She certainly gave the appearance of being glad to see the man. Squinting, Logan stretched forward to see more clearly.

He could understand her not wanting to hurt Wellerton’s feelings, but to go as far as to let him in her house, now that was certainly above and beyond anything good manners required.

Besides, it was obvious the man was up to no good. The light revealed that he was dressed like he was going to one of those high-falutin’ social functions, like the ones held in Boston. What in the world was Libby thinking? To let the scoundrel inside at this time of night?