Two Brothers (31 page)

Suddenly it seemed too personal, their discussing the coming of the McQuillans’ child, out in the open and in plain hearing of eight Indians. Sparing Tristan only a nod, she lowered her eyes, spun around, and fled into the house.

She opened the parcel on the table, and found the chickens inside, plucked and dressed, along with a tin of lard, some yeast and spices, a packet of tea, a dozen potatoes, several tins of green beans and four dime novels, carefully wrapped in butcher paper and tied with string. Her eyes filled with tears, just to suppose, for the briefest interval of time, that they might be intended for her. She couldn’t
remember the last time she had received an actual gift, although she was not ungrateful for her inheritance, uncertain as it was.

Try though she did to imagine Tristan immersed in stories bearing titles like
Vivian and the Sultan
and
The Loyal and Tender Heart
, quite without success, it was simply too reckless to hope for such a present. He owned a number of books, and she had already examined those, running her hands over the fine leather bindings in reverence and envy. He seemed to prefer history, mathematics and classic literature.

She busied herself with the making of supper, and when the meal was ready, she went to the door and called to Tristan. It was a bittersweet pleasure, doing that homey thing—sweet because she could pretend to be part of a family, and bitter for precisely the same reason: it was merely pretense.

Tristan washed up outside, and when he came back, Mr. Polymarr and Fletcher were with him, hats in hand, faces red from scrubbing, probably with cold water pumped from the well. Emily, who had been filling two plates to take out to them, smiled and made places for the men at the table instead.

It was a feast, that meal, made up of crisply fried chicken, potatoes and biscuits, thick gravy and green beans. For a long time, the men ate in silent earnest, made hungry by their hard work, and Emily took pleased satisfaction in their enjoyment, for she was a proud cook, and it had been a long while since she’d had the makings of so fine a dinner.

Presently, Mr. Polymarr wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt, helped himself to the last biscuit, and warned Tristan, “You’d better watch them Injuns real close. They got a long, cold winter comin’ on, and a lot of mouths to feed. Could be them sheep’ll look mighty good to them.”

Tristan met Emily’s gaze, and she saw a teasing smile lurking in his eyes. “I can always hope,” he said.

She thought of how she’d be married to this man, come Sunday, of how they’d live alone together in this house, sharing meals and plans and problems. Eventually, they would share a bed, too, of course. She felt shy, all of a sudden, and got up to clear the table.

In a moment, Tristan was beside her, holding his own empty plate. He’d done credit to the meal, though he hadn’t eaten as much as either of their hired men. “Leave this for me to do,” he said.

Emily had never known a man to wash dishes before, never even heard of one doing so, but of course he must have done. He’d been living alone, at least for a while, and the whole place was tidy.

“Go on in there and sit by the fire a while,” he said, nodding to indicate the stone hearth at the other end of the house. He set his plate and Emily’s in the sink, then retrieved the dime novels from the sideboard, where she’d put them earlier, to keep them out of harm’s way. “The storekeeper—her name’s Dorrie McQuillan—said these just came in last week, on the stage from Sacramento.” With that, he put them in her hands.

She stared at them, her throat tight with an indefinable emotion.

He tapped at the books with an index finger, and there was a note of gentle amusement in his voice. “I’d like to read the one about the servant girl who becomes a trick rider in a Wild West show and then marries a count. That’s quite a range of experience.”

Emily met his gaze, and only when it was too late did she realize there were tears standing in her eyes. “I don’t know what to say. Besides—besides thank you.”

He set her back on her heels with that wicked flash of a grin. “‘Thank you’ will do,” he told her. Then he collected the plates Fletcher and Polymarr had left behind—at some point they had both fled the kitchen without her noticing—and put those in the sink, too. “I’d better go out there and make sure the new men are comfortable.”

She merely nodded, since no reply came to mind that wouldn’t sound foolish. She was glad he’d referred to the Indians as “the new men,” instead of using some cruder term, as Mr. Polymarr had done.

Tristan touched her face with the backs of his fingers, then gave her braid a light pull that tugged at something far deeper and more mysterious. “You look real pretty,” he said, and the simple words, spoken in a soft, hoarse tone, had the effect of an accolade.

Emily bit her lower lip. She might have been draped in velvet and dripping diamonds, instead of a hand-me-down calico frock, the way he made her feel, and while she reminded herself that he was a charmer, very clever with words, it didn’t do much good.

Just when she thought she would succumb and throw her arms around his neck, he turned and left her standing there, in front of the sink, with the dime novels in her hands. She didn’t stir for some time.

The Indians, splinters from a number of fractured tribes, had set up camp at the edge of the pasture. They had a good fire going, and the aroma of roasting meat mingled with the scents of smoke and grass and sheep. If they were having mutton for dinner, Tristan reasoned, that was fine with him.

The dog fell in beside him, gave a friendly yelp, and licked the heel of his palm. Tristan greeted the animal with a quiet word and a pat on the head.

Polymarr appeared out of the gloom, carrying the shotgun he was rarely without. It was sobering, the image of this crotchety old man wandering around in the dark with a loaded gun. Next to that, the prospect of entertaining a bunch of angry riders from Powder Creek seemed downright agreeable. “Them damn savages is cookin’ up a dog or somethin’,” he muttered.

“Never mind the supper menu,” Tristan replied, irritated. “Have they posted guards around the sheep?”

Grudgingly, Polymarr nodded. “Fact is, there ain’t much for me and the boy to do.”

“You’ve earned yourself a rest anyway. Why don’t you head for the bunkhouse and get some sleep.”

“And risk gettin’ my hair lifted?”

Tristan laughed. “Not much of a risk,” he said, “since you don’t
have
any hair to speak of.”

Fletcher joined the party. He wouldn’t meet Tristan’s eyes; not surprising, given the way he’d looked at Emily during supper. Tristan couldn’t blame him; she had been a sight to fasten on.

“You think it’s smart, lettin’ those Injuns have guns?” the boy asked.

“They’d have a hell of a time fighting off any night visitors without them,” Tristan answered. “Just mind your business, and let them tend to theirs, and things will be fine.”

Polymarr looked skeptical, and gave a great sigh. “I reckon I
am
a mite on the weary side. You sure I ain’t gonna get my throat cut while I’m sleepin’?”

“I guess that depends on whether you snore or not,” Tristan answered, and went on, the dog accompanying him, while the other two men headed for the bunkhouse. He walked the perimeter of the flock, found sentries in their proper places and returned to the house, where his thoughts had been all along.

Inside, he filled the sink with hot water and washed up the dishes, but all the while he was watching Emily, at the edge of his vision, sitting next to the fireplace, absorbed in one of the books he’d bought for her. He thought it ironic that she found the lives of fictional characters so fascinating, when her own included a fair amount of adventure. How many women could drive a flock of sheep all the way from Montana to California, with only a dog to help and protect them? How many could face down a pack of gun-toting thieves the way she had, that very day, up in the hills?

He shook his head, bemused. It seemed to him that Emily Starbuck ought to be writing those books, instead of just reading them.

Twenty minutes later, when he joined her at the other end of the house, she looked up from the pages at last, eyes wide and luminous. “How did you know she was going to become a trick rider and marry a count?” she asked, in a breathless way that set something to quivering inside him.

For a moment or two, he was confounded as to what she might be talking about. Confounded about a few other things, too, come to think about it. But then it struck him that she was referring to the plot of the dime novel. “I skimmed it while Dorrie was filling my order. She’ll be bringing some other supplies out tomorrow, by the way.”

Her eyes went wider still. “You read it?” She glanced at the shelves of leather-bound volumes he cherished. “This?”

“Sure. A book’s a book. I like them all. That one has a bang-up ending.”

Suddenly she laughed. It was a soft, musical sound, wholly feminine, and it roused an uncharacteristic shyness in him, an aspect of his nature that he had not recognized before. The sound of an approaching rider saved him; he found that his usually glib tongue was tangled, and the visitor gave him an excuse to leave the house.

Strapping on his .45 with hasty, practiced motions, he wondered if his neck had gone red. The identity and intentions of the rider were lesser concerns, which only went to prove that the right woman could set a man’s brain to rattling around his head like a peach pit in a tin can.

Fortunately, when he went outside, he found Shay there, glowing like he’d swallowed the moon whole. “It’s a girl,” he said jubilantly, as he jumped down from the gelding.

Tristan responded with a happy exclamation and a slap on the shoulder. Then, more seriously, he asked, “How’s Aislinn?”

Shay’s face softened at the mention of the wife he adored. “She’s the most incredible woman,” he said, and from his reverent tone, one might have drawn the conclusion that nobody else had ever borne a child before. “Hell, I’d rather let a blind man dig a bullet out of me with a butter knife than go through what she did. But there she is, sitting up in bed, holding the baby and looking pretty as an angel. To see her now, you’d think she never broke a sweat.”

Tristan smiled. “I’d offer you a drink in celebration, but you’d probably rather get back.”

Shay glanced toward the house, and from his expression, Tristan knew Emily was standing in the doorway. He glanced back, saw her framed in an aura of soft light, and thought to himself that Aislinn wasn’t the only one with the look of an angel about her.

“Things are a little tense in town,” Shay admitted, lowering his voice. “Tristan, the ranchers aren’t happy about those sheep. Some of them say you’ve sold them out.”

He folded his arms. “I can’t much help what they think,” he said evenly. Then he grinned. “When can I have a look at this little girl of yours? And what’s her name going to be?”

“You’re welcome anytime,” Shay said, as though surprised by the question. “Aislinn wants to christen her Mattie.”

Mattie. The name of the young woman who had given birth to them only hours after being widowed in an Indian attack and then dying herself. “That’s a fine choice,” he said, and cleared his throat.

Shay was preparing to mount up again. He nodded toward Emily. “Come and see us as soon as you can.” The vaguest suggestion of a grin touched his mouth. “Bring your friend.”

Tristan promised to visit, asked his brother to convey his congratulations to Aislinn, and watched as Shay disappeared
into the night. He felt a pang of fear, looking after him, and hoped that badge he prized so much wouldn’t get him killed.

“The baby’s arrived?” Emily asked, when he was inside the house again, his earlier embarrassed bewilderment forgotten.

He nodded. “A girl. They’re going to call her Mattie.” He went to the pine cupboard beside the fireplace, took out a bottle and a glass, and poured himself a whiskey to mark the occasion. “I’m an uncle.”

Emily watched as he raised the glass to his lips and took a sip, but because of the shadows he couldn’t make out her expression. “You’re worried,” she said. “Why?”

He couldn’t tell her that he was afraid his brother might get caught in the range war that was almost sure to come about because of those blasted sheep. It wouldn’t have been fair to lay such a burden on her, even if she had brought the flock to Prominence. Whatever his own feelings about the stupid critters might be, she obviously valued them, and she had that right.

In the end, he told her part of the truth. “There’s some mean talk in town,” he said, after another sip of whiskey. “The boys from Powder Creek aren’t the only ones, Bo Peep, who find your sheep objectionable.”

She turned her face toward the fire, and he saw in its glow that her cheeks were bright with indignation. The dime novel lay in her lap. “What do they expect me to do?”

“Move on,” he replied.

Her gaze sliced to his. “Is that what you want?”

He considered the question, though he’d long since made his decision. “No,” he said, “but I could do without the sheep.”

She sighed, one finger curved to mark her place in the book. Once again, she was staring into the crackling fire, and its light danced along the length of her shining hair. Tristan wanted to touch her, but he restrained himself. Sunday—their wedding day—was not far off. That night, when she was officially his wife, he would begin his
campaign to bed her, but he would be patient, whatever the cost. His honor depended upon that.

“Is it true that cattle and sheep cannot coexist?” she asked, after a long time. Her voice was small and fragile, but he knew that she was one of the strongest people he had ever encountered.

“No,” he said, with weary resignation. “If a man’s got plenty of range land, he can move the flock from one pasture to another, so the grass has time to grow back. It isn’t the animals that can’t get along, Emily. It’s their owners.”

She stood, slowly, proudly, elegantly. “That flock is all I have,” she said.

He wanted to tell her that wasn’t so, that he meant to give her the world, but it wasn’t the time for encouraging speeches, so he kept his mouth shut.