Two Brothers (37 page)

Fletcher hesitated, then went out. Spud, back in his spot in front of the kitchen hearth, whimpered a comment, then closed his eyes for a well-earned rest.

Soon, the grouse were cooked and the potatoes and turnips were drained and steaming in the middle of the table, still in the cast-iron kettle. She went out to the pasture, where the sheep were bedded down for the night, watched over by their Indian shepherds as well as Fletcher and Mr. Polymarr.

Looking over her flock, Emily knew her problems were far from over. Maybe what Tristan was going to tell her
about himself would change things, and maybe it wouldn’t, but either way she was still an outsider, land or no land, house or no house. A sheep owner smack in the middle of cattle country, a pariah of sorts. Would there never be a place for her?

“Time to eat,” she said quietly.

“Them Injuns claim they’re entitled to their pick of the sheep,” Mr. Polymarr fussed. He would not have been happy without a crisis, but Emily was ready for peace. “Twenty of ’em, no less!” He squinted at her as they walked toward the square of golden lamplight that was the kitchen door. “That true?”

“It’s true,” she said and, to his plain disappointment, did not elaborate.

When supper was over and Mr. Polymarr and Fletcher had taken their leave, the former having made repeated and hopeful reference to his fondness for rhubarb pie, making it clear that he would welcome a second helping, all to no avail, Tristan had still not returned from town, and his interview with Shay.

Emily heated water, washed the dishes, and watched the clock. It was after nine when Tristan finally came in, looking weary and strained. He tossed his hat onto a side table and thrust a hand through his hair.

“I’ve kept your supper warm,” she said. They might, she reflected, have been married for twenty years, such was the sense of ease and quiet acceptance between them. To her way of thinking, any trouble that fell to him would fall to her in an equal portion.

He nodded. “Thanks.” He went outside to wash while she built up the fire in the cookstove to brew fresh coffee. When he came in, she took his plate from the warming oven, with its gleaming chrome front, and set it on the table.

The food looked a little shriveled, but Tristan didn’t seem to mind. He ate with good appetite, saying hardly anything, and some of the familiar twinkle came into his eyes when he saw the generous serving of pie she’d saved for him.

She poured his coffee and waited and, in time, her
patience was rewarded. He pushed away his empty pie plate and looked at her steadily. She knew he was almost ready to tell her about his past, and braced herself to hear it.

“That was a good meal,” he said. “Thank you, Emily.”

She sat down across from him and folded her hands. “You’re welcome,” she said, and then lapsed into an expectant silence.

He heaved a heavy sigh. “Shay wouldn’t let me out of his office until he’d gone through every wanted poster he had, in case I turned out to be a fugitive. I’m afraid things are a little awkward between my brother and I, just now.”

“Are you?” Emily asked. “Wanted, I mean?”

A shadow moved in his eyes. “No,” he said. “I always managed to stay on the right side of the law. I was a bounty hunter, and before you say that’s a respectable trade, let me tell you that you’re wrong. I was a gunslinger. I took a lot of men in alive, but I killed just as many. I thought I’d left that life behind, until today.” He sighed. “I should have known better. I’ve got enemies out there—fathers, brothers, friends of the people I shot down or sent to prison. What happened today could happen again. And again.”

She held her breath, then blurted, “I won’t go, if that’s what you’re about to suggest.”

“Emily, it isn’t safe here. Never mind the cattlemen.
I’m
more of a threat to you than they are. I’ll pay you for the land, for the sheep—”

She folded her arms. “Are you going back on your word?” she interrupted.

He stalled by reaching for his coffee and taking several sips. Finally, he had no choice but to answer. “Were you listening to me?” he countered, leaning forward. “I’ve
killed
people, Emily. Dozens of them. And it isn’t over, because there’s always going to be somebody like Ringstead, looking for revenge. Or just wanting to prove something.”

She considered that statement. “I’ll take my chances,” she said. “It’s not as if I expect an easy life, after all. Just a good one.”

He looked bewildered for a moment; then he laughed
ruefully and shook his head. A mischievous smile touched his lips. “Does this mean I don’t have to sleep in the barn?”

“I couldn’t very well ask you to spend the night out there after the day you’ve had,” she said, and watched as his eyes widened. “You can have your own bed back, and I’ll sleep in the spare room.”

His face fell slightly, but he was quick to recover. “You’re very generous,” he allowed. He raised both arms and stretched, and there was something so earthy and sensual, so masculine, in that simple motion that Emily was deliciously discomfited.

“Well!” she said brightly, getting to her feet and words spilling out of her and scattering as if someone had turned her upside down, like a milk can full of marbles, and given her a shake. “It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it? I believe I’ll turn in. Good night, Tristan.”

He reached across the table and caught her hand in his. Then, leaning forward slightly, he brushed a light kiss across her knuckles. “Good night,” he said, in a low tone that lodged inside her, sweet and warm and spiky. The sensation was one of pleasure, rather than pain, but it left her even more shaken than before.

He held her hand a moment longer, clearly as aware of the charge passing between them as she was, then reluctantly let her go. “You take the main bedroom,” he said, and his voice raked the smoldering embers inside her to full flame. “You have my word that I won’t bother you.”

Emily turned and fled, mostly to keep from blurting out that she wanted him to lie beside her, husband or not. It did not even matter to her that he was a self-professed gunslinger with a string of killings behind him.

She did not sleep well that night, and thus, when the delegation of ranchers arrived just after dawn, she was dressed and ready to face them. Quick as she was, Tristan, clad in hastily donned trousers and his undershirt, was there before her. His suspenders dangled at his sides and his hair was mussed, but he was wearing boots and the gunbelt that seemed such an integral part of him.

There were a dozen mounted men in the dooryard, all of them grim and armed with rifles. Their faces were shadowed by the brims of their hats, but they’d made no attempt to disguise themselves. Emily glimpsed varied brands as the horses fidgeted, sensing conflict the way animals do.

“We can’t have them sheep in amongst our cattle,” the lead man announced. He was probably in his fifties, with a gray stubble of beard and a lean frame that bespoke years of hard work. “You ought to know that as well as anybody, Saint-Laurent.”

It angered Emily that the man would address Tristan, when the sheep were hers alone, but there were more important things at stake, so she held her tongue.

Tristan pulled up one suspender, then the other, giving each one a little snap for emphasis. Standing beside him, Emily saw that his gaze had locked implacably with that of the spokesman, and understood some of what the men he hunted down must have felt, facing that quiet, unbending certainty. “As long as these sheep stay on my property, I don’t see where they’re any concern of yours.”

Emily felt a surge of pride and, at one and the same time, she was as frightened as she’d ever been in her life. Even with Black Eagle and his men, and Mr. Polymarr and Fletcher, Tristan was outgunned. It wouldn’t matter much who won or lost, she reasoned, if he died in the skirmish. Nothing mattered as much as saving his life. She stepped in front of him, as if to form a shield.

“I’ll move on,” she said quickly, looking up into the rancher’s shadowed face, trying to find a human being there. “I’ll surrender my claim. I’ll take my sheep and leave, right away. There’s no need for any shooting.”

Tristan set her aside, and she sensed both anger and respect in the way he gripped her shoulders. “She’s not going anywhere,” he said, “because we’re about to be married. But Emily’s right about one thing: there’s no call to start a range war. You men get down off your horses and come inside. We’ll have breakfast and talk this thing through.”

Emily held her breath.

The ranchers argued among themselves for a time, but finally they dismounted. Although they sheathed their rifles in the scabbards affixed to their saddles, they were all wearing side arms. Tristan led the way into the house, and Emily trembled inwardly as she walked beside him.

The men took their places at the long table, filling up the benches on both sides. Tristan brought a chair from the other end of the house and sat at the head, as dignified, even in his undershirt and suspenders, as a judge calling a courtroom to order.

Emily busied herself brewing coffee and starting a batch of flapjacks, but she was alert to every nuance of word or movement at the table. She took note, with a degree of consolation, that once they’d shed their hats and long, dusty coats, the ranchers were but ordinary men, one or two well into their later years and graying, their faces weathered and rugged, a few just sprouting their first whiskers. Most, though, were someplace in between.

They were family men, almost without exception, fathers and husbands, brothers and sons. Seated at her table, with mugs of coffee steaming before them, they did not seem so fearsome as they had out front, mounted and carrying rifles at the ready.

“You ain’t got enough land to run sheep and still keep ‘em off the open range,” a bearded man challenged.

Tristan sat easily in his place of command, his hands cupped loosely around his coffee mug, his tone and manner affable. “I own this place—” He paused and glanced at Emily. “—or at least, my future wife does. The Powder Creek spread is mine now. To my way of thinking, that’s plenty of space to accommodate a band of sheep.”

“Since when are you so fond of them woolly critters?” a younger man asked. “I thought you was a cattleman, like the rest of us.”

“I am,” Tristan said. His eyes met Emily’s as she came to the table and began to set enamel plates in front of the men. She was shaking a little, marveling. He’d conceded that the
original ranch was hers. “The sheep belong to my bride here. Because they’re hers, I’m willing to see them through the winter and protect them like I would my own stock.”

A brief, pensive silence fell, then the ranchers began to stir and murmur again, and reminded Emily of a covey of old ladies gossiping over a quilting frame. Except, of course, for the guns on their hips.

“I reckon we can wait till spring,” one man said, at last. “See how things go.”

Emily’s knees went weak with relief, and while she was cooking and serving up the pancakes, her heart sang.

Chapter 9

T
HE CHURCH WAS PRACTICALLY EMPTY
that afternoon, when Emily and Tristan stood up before the preacher to exchange their wedding vows. Shay served as best man, while Aislinn lent her support from the front pew. Although she had insisted that she was well enough to stand beside Emily, her husband had insisted otherwise. For the sake of the peace, she had complied.

Emily was moved when Tristan produced a golden wedding band at the proper point in the ceremony and slipped it onto her finger. She promised herself that she would buy a matching ring for him, come the summer, when the lambing and shearing were done and there would be money to spend.

When the preacher pronounced the words that bind man and woman together in the sight of God and humanity, Emily nearly swooned with joy, excitement, and relief. Tristan took a steadying grip on her arm and they turned together to accept congratulations from Aislinn and Shay.

“I’ll be a good wife to him,” Emily said, when Shay planted a brotherly kiss on her forehead. Although he smiled, the expression in his eyes was serious, and she knew the strain between him and Tristan had not abated.

“I know,” Shay answered gruffly.

Tristan had taken a seat beside Aislinn on the pew, and she was embracing him in gleeful celebration. Emily felt a tug in the region of her heart, looking at them, and hoped she would be in her sister-in-law’s place one day soon, with a genuine marriage and a child.

A commotion outside distracted them all; Shay and Tristan exchanged a closed look that troubled Emily and headed down the aisle together. Both wore the ever-present gunbelt and pistol, and neither Emily nor Aislinn failed to notice that they’d thrust back their coats on one side, in order to draw unimpeded. They hurried after their husbands.

Outside, the sunshine was bright, the air crisply cool. More than twenty mounted men had gathered in front of the church, pistols in hand. Emily recognized some of them: ranch hands, formerly employed at Powder Creek. It was plain from their bloodshot eyes, flushed faces and unkempt clothing that they’d been consuming ardent spirits, and that the indulgence had not improved their general attitude.