Two Brothers (34 page)

T
RISTAN HAD BEEN GONE A LOT LONGER
than it should have taken to smoke a cigar, but Emily didn’t mind. She and Aislinn exchanged life stories while the men were away, and a lasting bond was formed between them.

When Tristan did return to collect her, he had a thick packet of papers in the back pocket of his trousers and he was sporting an almost insufferable grin. He was pleased about something besides being an uncle, that was plain, but apparently he did not intend to confide his news any time soon. He said fond good-byes to his sister-in-law and niece—Shay was off making his rounds—and squired Emily outside to the wagon without a word.

Unsettled by the silence, benevolent though it was, she tried to make conversation when they were outside of town and moving toward the ranch at a good pace. “Shay and Aislinn are lucky to have that beautiful baby,” she said.

“Yup,” Tristan agreed, still grinning. He didn’t even spare her a sidelong glance.

She cleared her throat and made another, more daring attempt. “I suppose you’ll want children.”

He made a clicking sound with his tongue to speed up the horses. “Yup,” he repeated, and began to whistle softly through his teeth.

Emily gave up, but only temporarily. Whatever his secret was, she was bound to discover it in time. That it was probably none of her business anyway was wholly irrelevant.

Reaching the ranch, she was relieved to see that the sheep were grazing peacefully and that Fletcher and Mr. Polymarr were still in possession of their scalps. She began to hope that the danger from the Powder Creek men and others was past, though she knew that was overly optimistic. The animosity between cattlemen and sheep owners ran deep, and was by no means specific to Prominence and the surrounding area.

Holding the skirts of her prized yellow dress high, to avoid soiling the hem, Emily made her way to Black Eagle, who stood still as a statue in front of a cigar store, his sinewy arms folded. He smelled of smoke and leather and some sort of animal grease. There was no expression at all in his face as he looked down at Emily, but the marks of suffering and sorrow were etched deep into his flesh and bearing. He was gaunt, defeated, but still proud.

She smiled uncertainly, full of pity and well aware that that was the last thing he wanted or needed from anyone. How, she wondered, could she offer the man twenty head of sheep without sounding pompous? “You seem to be doing a fine job overseeing the flock,” she said.

He didn’t speak, and his features remained blank. She wished she’d consulted Tristan before approaching Black Eagle, at least asked how he’d given the tribe a score of cattle without injuring its collective dignity, but he’d been hardly more communicative than the Indian ever since they’d left town.

“Where is your village?” she persisted. Men were cussed creatures, it seemed to Emily, whatever their race, creed or color.

Black Eagle stared into her eyes for a long time, and she stared back. She’d approached him in good faith, the flock was hers, down to the last lamb, and she would not be
intimidated. When he saw that she meant to stand her ground, he pointed to the west.

“There,” he said.

Emily was mentally winded, just from the effort of pulling that one word out of him, but hers was a hearty soul, and she greeted it like a flash flood of scintillating conversation. “Do you have a wife? Children?”

“Three wives,” Black Eagle responded, in perfectly clear English. There went the theory that he didn’t speak the language. “Ten children.”

Emily was taken aback. “That’s—impressive.” A great many mouths to feed, she reflected, and there might well be elders in Black Eagle’s household as well, and indigent relatives. Most distressing of all, the group represented just one family, out of dozens or even scores. She was about to plunge in and offer him the pick of her sheep when Tristan interrupted.

There had been a profound change in his disposition since she’d seen him last. He was scowling, his eyes were narrowed and his jawline was clenched. Emily gaped at him, dumbfounded, with no earthly idea what she’d done to make him so angry.

It was Black Eagle who broke the uncomfortable silence. “Your woman talk plenty,” he said.

Emily flushed with humiliation. She was about to protest that she was her
own
woman, and no one else’s, that this was her land they were standing on, when a look from Tristan stayed her tongue.

“She raises sheep,” he said, as though that explained her every shortcoming. His gaze had never left her face. “Go back to the house, Emily,” he said crisply. “Right now.”

Plainly, it would only make matters worse to argue, but she intended to blister Tristan’s ears the instant they were alone. The very idea of his ordering her about that way, like a—like a husband! She would clear
that
little matter up, in no uncertain terms. Snatching a better hold on her skirts,
she whirled and flounced off toward the sanctity of the kitchen she had already begun to think of as her own.

Tristan watched his future wife’s departure with undisguised appreciation. Lordy, but she was a little hellcat, all hiss and claw. Taming her might take years, and he looked forward to every moment of their life together, good, bad and middling. In time, he might even grow to love her, whatever that meant.

“Indian woman no talk,” Black Eagle said firmly.

Tristan didn’t see any reason to point out that Emily wasn’t an Indian; that much was obvious. He heaved a great sigh of pretended resignation. “I guess I’ll have to beat her,” he said, though he’d never laid an angry hand on a woman before and never intended to do so.

Black Eagle nodded sagely. “It plain why white man take only one wife,” he observed.

Tristan laughed. He knew Black Eagle had three mates, and the idea of Emily in triplicate was certainly enough to give a man pause, all right. “God help us all,” he muttered, and steered the discussion in the direction he’d intended in the first place. “I bought a considerable spread of land today,” he said. “I’ll need all the men you can spare to help me run it. To seal the bargain, I’ll give you twenty head of these sheep, your choice.”

The Indian beckoned to one of the others and said something to him in dialect. The younger man nodded grimly, and the process of selecting the promised animals began. Tristan watched for a few moments, then turned on his heel and went back to the house, well aware that Emily would probably strip off a patch of his hide when he got there.

She was stirring something in a large kettle, her strokes powerful enough, in her dudgeon, to churn watered-down milk into butter. She glared at him and waited in obstinate silence for his apology.

He had no intention of offering one, but he was grateful as hell that she hadn’t been there to hear his bluff remark
about beating her. “When you give an Indian a gift,” he explained, folding his arms, “he feels obligated to give you something in return. If he can’t, he loses his honor, and honor is just about all these people have left.”

Her fury dissipated, but she set the bowl down with a thump. Tristan saw cornmeal batter inside, and his mouth watered. “You might have mentioned that before,” she said, still huffy.

“It didn’t come up in conversation.”

She narrowed her gaze, suspicious again. “What did they give you, for the cattle?”

“Firewood,” he said. “Enough to keep us warm until the turn of the century, probably. The women and kids are gathering it now.”

She bit her lower lip. “I’m sorry.”

He allowed himself the semblance of a grin and pointed at her in mock surprise. “You?”

“I almost made a terrible blunder. I was about to say to Black Eagle that I’d heard the people in his village were starving, and that he should take his pick of the best ewes.” She pressed the back of one hand to her forehead and heaved a frustrated sigh. When she looked at Tristan again, her eyes were bleak. “Isn’t there something the government can do?”

Tristan spat out a contemptuous laugh. “The government? No Indian in his right mind would trust a politician or a soldier. Not after being lied to so many times.”

The idea must have come to her out of the blue; he saw it take shape in her expressive face. “Will you take me there?”

“Where?” he asked, though he had an awful feeling that he already knew the answer. Not for the first time, he wondered what forces had shaped this remarkable woman into the person she was.

“To the Indian village, of course,” she answered, confirming his suspicions.

He ground his back teeth, making an honest effort to show patience. “No,” he said, and it came out sounding like a bark, though he hadn’t meant for that to happen. The
ragtag band occupying the small village a few miles to the west was largely peaceful, but there were always renegades, and they played by their own rules. Like as not, if some of them were to come along and carry her off, the others would not interfere.

Her eyes widened. “Why not?”

“Because it’s no place for you, that’s why.”

“You’ll have to give me a better reason than that if you expect to persuade me.”

What was it about this woman that made him dig in his heels? “I’m not trying to persuade you. I’m
telling
you not to go near that camp.”

“And I’m telling you that I’m not one of your men, obliged to take orders from you. Have you forgotten that I have a valid claim on this land? It seems to me that I should have something to say about how things are done!” She picked up the bowl again, grabbed the wooden spoon and stirred with a vengeance. He hoped the cornbread would still turn out, because he had a powerful hankering for a goodsized piece, slathered with butter.

He deliberated for a few moments, then gave a little ground, though he told himself it was mostly for the sake of supper. He’d deal with the domestic property dispute later. “You might carry some sickness to them,” he said. “They’re vulnerable to things like that—especially the children.”

She put down the bowl again and dusted her hands on the printed flour sack she’d tied around her waist for an apron. Her brown eyes had gone round again, and he knew he’d swayed her, though he wasn’t particularly proud of the fact. Anyway, it was true that the tribes had been decimated by smallpox, cholera and typhoid, all plagues they rightly dreaded. “But I’m fine,” she said.

He spoke quietly, his mind full of the horrors he had seen in his travels. “That doesn’t mean they couldn’t catch something from you. Or me. Or any of the rest of us. It’s better to leave them be, Emily.”

She sighed. “It doesn’t seem right,” she said.

He wanted to put his arms around her, but he was afraid
to do that because then he wouldn’t be able to resist kissing her, and who knew where that might lead. He didn’t doubt his ability to turn away, but the price of restraint was high. He’d suffer for his chivalry, and he was more than miserable as it was. He was not used to that particular sort of sacrifice.

Without making a reply to her remark, he took his leave, still hoping there would be cornbread for supper. A minor consolation, but a consolation all the same.

Mr. Polymarr and Fletcher came inside to eat, just as they had the night before. Emily was touched by their attempts to groom themselves for the occasion, and she made them welcome, filling their coffee mugs repeatedly and making sure they got a share of the cornbread she’d baked to compliment the meal. Tristan consumed more of the stuff than four men could have held.

When she served the rhubarb pie, all three men took generous portions and surrounded them with ease. It struck Emily that cooking meals on a ranch might be a career in itself.

Presently, murmuring their thanks, Mr. Polymarr and Fletcher left the house, and Tristan insisted on washing up the dishes, just as he had done the night before. She went in to sit by the front-room fire, still brooding over the Indian women and children, their hunger and hopelessness vivid in her mind’s eye. She could well understand Tristan’s bitterness on their behalf, and it raised him in her estimation that he cared at all. Many white men spoke of the natives with disdain, as though they were less than human, and treated their livestock with more charity.

So far did Emily’s thoughts carry her that it made her start when Tristan spoke. “I have something to show you,” he said, in a quiet, almost shy voice.

She looked up at him, standing over her, his hair full of firelight.

He dragged the other chair over and sat down facing Emily. Then he handed her the packet of papers he’d been so secretive about earlier in the day.

Confused, she unfolded them, and drew in a sharp breath. The documents represented the deeds for the Powder Creek ranch, which the late owner had evidently acquired in parcels. “This represents a great deal of money,” she said, for she was frightened of debt and nothing more sensible had come to her.

“I
have
a great deal of money,” he replied, without arrogance. He seemed to be merely stating a fact. “We’ll move up to the big house as soon as I’ve gotten rid of the present crew of ranch hands,” he added.

To her, the house they were
in
was big. Furthermore, it was hers, by rights. She wasn’t sure she wanted to leave it, even though she had been there a very short time, and although she moved her lips, she found herself utterly unable to speak. The Powder Creek place was probably very grand; suppose he came to regret taking her to wife, instead of a woman with elegant manners, money of her own, and all the attending social connections?

He squinted. “What’s going on in that extraordinary brain of yours?” he asked.

Emily raked her lower lip with her teeth, searching her heart for the courage to answer him. “I’m wondering if you’ll change your mind about me one day.”

He leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose. The gesture was wholly innocent, and yet, like all his other caresses, it shook her somewhere far within. “I don’t believe I will,” he said, as though that closed the discussion. “Do I have to sleep in the barn again tonight?”

Her pulses began to pound, an inner drumbeat that warmed her blood. “We must come to an understanding about that,” she said bravely. Her voice was a mere squeak.