Whitefeather's Woman (4 page)

When his stomach gave a loud growl, John realized the time had gotten away from him. That often happened when he threw himself into gentling a particularly reluctant horse. Still, he could always count on his sister to drag him into the ranch house for meals.

But Ruth had gone with Caleb to tend young Cicero Price, and there was no sign of them back yet. Just then, John remembered Caleb's parting words to him.

“Keep an eye on that Harris gal, will you? Can't put my finger on it, but there's something about that gal I don't trust.”

“Better late than never,” John muttered to himself as
he headed for the ranch house. How much mischief could she have gotten into since breakfast? Even if she was the mischievous type—which John doubted. “I could use a cup of coffee and something to eat, anyway.”

The minute he walked through the kitchen door, the smell of burned food overpowered John's nose, while the piercing howls of his infant nephew all but deafened him. The room looked like an orange Kansas twister had just blown through it.

A strange, frantic sensation tightened the flesh of John's throat as his eyes swept the kitchen, looking for Jane Harris. Had she run off or locked herself in her room, leaving the boys to fend for themselves?

In front of the oven, a disheveled figure straightened up and set a loaf pan on the counter. The aroma of fresh bread almost battled the stench of burned beans. Three more times Jane Harris bent and straightened, like some kind of wading bird bobbing for food. Then she closed the oven door and rescued Barton from his chair.

As she stood there clutching the bawling baby, John thought he'd never seen such a pathetic looking creature in his life. The injuries to her face still had some healing to do, and her warm brown hair straggled from a once-neat roll at the nape of her neck. Her dainty green dress, better suited to a garden party than a Montana ranch, was spattered with gobs of bright orange, as was her face. She shrank from his gaze as though she expected John to draw a six-shooter and gun her down.

As Barton's cries quieted, she spoke. “I don't think the bread is ruined.”

She made it sound like a single hard-won victory in a day of disastrous defeats. For reasons he could not explain or justify to himself, John Whitefeather began to chuckle and then to laugh.

“This isn't funny!” The terrified look left her eyes, replaced by a rather becoming flicker of fury. “I've tried my best, but everything's just gone from bad to worse, and I can't get a blessed thing done when I have to hold the baby every blessed minute.”

When a frightened filly had her back to the wall, often she would rear or buck, rather than cower. The Boston gal put John in mind of such a horse. And she wasn't done yet.

“He spit out every spoonful of mashed carrots I tried to feed him. His brother's off tearing the house apart nail by nail for all I know. Any minute, Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid are going to arrive home and put me on the next train back to Boston. If they don't decide it's cheaper just to throw me to the wolves!”

For an instant John feared the woman was going to burst into hysterical tears. Instead, she glanced around the kitchen and down at her carrot-dappled dress, then began to laugh with an edge of frenzy.

Two swift strides brought John close to her. When he held out his arms for his nephew, she surrendered the child without any pretense of reluctance.

John lifted little Barton high in the air and spoke to him in Cheyenne. “What kind of warrior are you to pour tears like a rain cloud and howl like thunder? Why do you torment the woman so she cannot work?”

Two deep dimples blossomed on either side of Barton's mouth as he crowed with laughter.

John lowered the child to his shoulder. “I'll keep him quiet for you and I'll go talk to Zeke while you clean up the kitchen.”

“Why?” Suspicion brooded in the woman's eyes.

He'd expected some timid sign of gratitude, like the smile she'd offered last night when he'd convinced Ruth and
Caleb to let her stay on at the ranch. Her question, posed with a guarded posture and wary tone, puzzled him.

“Why should you clean the kitchen? If you can't see that for yourself, ma'am, I don't think you're going to be much help to my sister.”

“I know why the kitchen needs to be cleaned.” She stiffened and pushed a fallen lock of hair out of her eyes. “What I want to know is why you're willing to help me. When I first arrived in town yesterday, you looked at me like I was a dead whale rotting on your shore. Later you spoke up for me with the Kincaids and now you propose to take charge of the children so I can set this mess to rights. What is it you want from me, Mr. Whitefeather?”

The maverick filly out in the corral had exhausted his patience. He didn't have a scrap left for this Boston filly who provoked a dust devil of contrary feelings within him.

“What do I want?” he snapped. “How about a crumb of thanks? Or is that too much for a Montana half-breed to expect from a prissy New England lady?”

Her fair complexion paled even further, until Barton's spewed carrots stood out like a faceful of bright freckles. In John's arms, the baby began to fuss. Rubbing the child's back and rocking him, John softened his reproach of Jane Harris so as not to upset Barton further.

“Last night, when you found out you didn't have a job, you looked like somebody pretty near the end of her rope. When I walked through that door a few minutes ago, you appeared to have gone downhill in the meantime. Call me a gullible jackass, Miss Harris, but I've always had a soft spot for folks who are in trouble. If you can't accept a little help with good grace, I reckon that's
your
problem.”

She thought his words over for an instant, then whispered, “I suppose it is.”

Miss Harris looked too doggone appealing, and he wanted to stay mad. So John spun away from her and headed off to find Zeke.

Over his shoulder he called, “Get busy and clean up around here. I'm doing this for my sister, not for you. She'll be tuckered out when she gets back from doctoring Cicero. I don't want her coming home to a kitchen that looks and smells like this one does.”

Behind him he heard absolute silence, which pricked his curiosity so much he almost looked back. Instead he forced his feet down the hall and up the stairs to Zeke's room.

He tapped on the door. “Zeke, it's me and Barton. Can we come in?”

The door swung open. John almost flinched at the sight. He'd seen hog wallows cleaner than Zeke's bedroom.

The boy must have been cracking walnuts open with a hammer, for shells were spread across the wood floor like a crunchy carpet. Either the bed hadn't been made that morning, or Zeke had climbed back under the covers recently. Discarded clothes lay everywhere. A company of painted toy soldiers littered one corner of the room where they had fallen in some pretend battle. Others sprawled behind a fortress of building blocks whose walls had been breached by imaginary artillery.

Picking his way through the walnut shells, John cleared a spot on the rumpled bed, then sat down and began to bounce Barton on his knee.

Zeke glanced around his room, as if noticing the mess for the first time. He knelt down and began sweeping the walnut shells into a pile.

“Did
she
say you had to hang around indoors all day, too?” The boy's lower lip thrust out in a stubborn pout.

Sometimes John wondered if his young friend didn't
have the worst qualities of both his parents—Caleb's stubborn streak and Marie's spitefulness.

“Nope.” John shook his head. “I came in to get some coffee and a bite to eat.” Jane Harris had driven any thought of food or drink from his mind. “You housebound for the day?”

“Uh-huh. She thinks I'm some kind of danged baby, like Barton. I told her I've been going where I want and doing what I please on this ranch since I been out of dresses. Told her how I ran off and joined the Cheyenne.”

John swallowed a smile and nodded, remembering how the boy had appeared at their camp, wanting to become a Cheyenne warrior to avoid going to school. “Was that likely to convince her it's safe to let you out of the house?”

“Reckon not.”

“I don't think she was trying to be mean to you, or treat you like a baby, Zeke. Your folks went off in a big hurry this morning and left Miss Harris to look after you boys without any time to prepare. It's not easy being put in charge when you aren't ready. Lot of responsibility. Lot of things can go wrong and it'll be your fault if they do.”

That's how he'd felt when Bearspeaker and the other elders had made him their chief. Always, he worried if he was doing the right thing. Like now—working in the white man's world to provide a place that belonged to them. Would he have done better to settle them on the reservation with other Cheyenne bands? If any of his people suffered because of his decision, John wondered how he would bear the burden on his conscience.

“If you say so.” Zeke gathered up his dirty clothes and set them on the end of the bed. “She's kind of pretty, ain't she?”

“You reckon?” John shrugged and wrinkled his mouth into a dubious frown.

“Yep.” Zeke dug out a wooden box from under his bed and put all his soldiers away. “Not pretty like Ruth or Aunt Lizzie, of course. And for sure not like Jon Watson's ma, that Uncle Brock married.”

John had to agree. His sister and Caleb's sisters-in-law were all very striking women, each in her unique way. Ruth with her long raven hair, Lizzie with her riot of golden curls and Abby with her bright coppery mane. Alongside them, Jane Harris looked like a drab little meadowlark in the company of a raven, a goldfinch and a robin. Still, the little lady from back East had a waifish charm that drew his eye far more than it ought to.

Zeke stacked his blocks into a neat pile in the far corner. “She ain't a Montana kind of gal, that's for sure.”

A yelp of laughter burst out of John, which set Barton gurgling along with him. “We're agreed on that, son. You appear to know a whole heap about women.”

“I oughta.” Zeke winked. “Plenty of courting going on around here lately.” He continued to tidy his room in silence, then he added in a more serious tone, “I reckon Miss Harris needs somebody to take care of
her.
”

For some reason the boy's words dug into John's conscience like cold steel. “If she's going to last in Montana, Miss Harris needs to learn how to take care of herself, son.”

A tentative tap sounded on Zeke's door, followed by a bolder one. With a guilty start, John wondered how much of his conversation with the boy Jane Harris might have overheard.

Perhaps Zeke was pondering the same thing, for he looked a little shamefaced as he pulled the door open.

Before Jane Harris could get a word out, he launched into his apology. “I'm sorry I didn't stick around and give you a hand with Barton, ma'am. And I'm sorry I didn't tell
you he hates carrots even worse than he hates peas. Night Horse explained to me about you being respons'ble in case I get hurt while my folks are gone.”

Jane Harris looked from Zeke to John and back, a shadow of uncertainty in her eyes. “Night Horse?”

“My Cheyenne name.” The gruffness of his voice took John aback.

“So you're not Apache?” One slender hand flew up to cover her mouth—too late to prevent her words escaping.

Zeke scowled with boyish scorn. “Don't you know nothing, ma'am? Apaches live way in the south. This here's Cheyenne, Crow and Sioux country. Night Horse is a real live Cheyenne warrior chief, and he made me an ornery Cheyenne brave.”

“
Honorary
brave, Zeke.” John bit back a grin. So had Jane Harris, unless he missed his guess.

“Why is a Cheyenne warrior chief working as a ranch foreman?” The lady's wide eyes betrayed a shade of fear. And possibly a glow of respect?

“Long story, ma'am. Long, dull story.”

“No it ain't,” piped up Zeke.

John gave the boy a warning look, but addressed his words to Jane Harris. “Was there something you wanted, ma'am?”

“Ah—yes, there was, as a matter of fact. I've got the kitchen scrubbed down as best I can and I managed to save some of those beans. The scorched ones I fed to the pigs. It won't be enough for supper, I'm afraid. Especially if Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid get home in time to join us. After I change my dress, I wondered if you gentlemen might give me a hand fixing something more.”

John rose from his seat on Zeke's bed, little Barton gathered close to his chest. The baby blinked heavy eyelids and sucked on his thumb.

“I reckon we could do that, ma'am.” Somehow, during his conversation with Zeke, the flash of anger he'd felt toward Jane Harris had eased. “Later, I can show you how Cheyenne women keep their hands free to work when they've got little ones to mind.”

“Thank you, Mr. Whitefeather. Or should I call you Night Horse?”

He liked the sound of his Cheyenne name on her tongue. A little too much, perhaps.

“Plain
John
will be fine, ma'am.”

“T
hat cradleboard was a fine idea. Thank you…John.”

How would she have managed this past busy week without it? Jane wondered as she took a hasty bite of her own dinner, then offered Barton a spoonful of applesauce. Fortunately, the child liked fruit a great deal better than he liked vegetables.

“Glad I could help.” John glanced at his nephew and winked. “You seemed to have your hands full that first day.”

Except for Barton's company, she and John were eating their midday meal alone. Zeke was in school and Caleb had ridden out to a place called Sweetgrass after breakfast to check on Ruth. An outbreak of scarlet fever among the Cheyenne children had kept her there for several days.

“You were kind to help me out after I was so ungracious.” Jane kept her eyes fixed on the baby. As she brought another spoonful of applesauce to his mouth, her hand trembled slightly. “I've wanted to apologize to you before this, but I never had the chance.” Or the nerve.

Over the past week, John Whitefeather had proven
himself a very different kind of man than Emery Endicott. He did have a temper, though. Jane hadn't wanted to risk rousing it by reminding him of the rocky start to their acquaintance.

“No harm done.” John reached for a biscuit.

His sudden movement made her flinch, but if he noticed, he pretended not to. He spread butter on his biscuit without missing a beat. “You seem to be getting along better, lately.”

Jane smiled to herself. If only he knew how many mistakes she'd made in the past few days. How many chores she'd had to do over two or three times until the result satisfied her. But she'd persevered. On the Kincaid ranch, she felt needed in a way she never had in all her years with Mrs. Endicott.

“If Mrs. Muldoon would tarry in Bismarck another few weeks, I might develop a knack for this domestic routine.”

As she glanced around the tidy kitchen and at the contented baby, a strange feeling swelled in Jane's heart. Though she couldn't be certain, she wondered if it might be…pride?

John reached over and tickled his nephew under the chin. “You and Barton got any big plans for this afternoon?”

“Nothing special.” Noticing John's dinner plate was empty, she fetched him a slice of plum cake and a cup of coffee. “We washed the laundry and hung it out this morning. If I can work up the courage, I might fry a batch of doughnuts while Barton takes his nap.”

John bit into the cake. “This tastes good.” He sounded more than a little surprised. “I saw you hanging out the wash. That was a clever idea, tethering Barton to the clothesline so he wouldn't wander off.”

She'd come up with it all on her own, too. The peculiar
feeling in Jane's heart burned warmer. “He's steadier on his feet every day, and he does like to walk. Besides, it was too hard on my back, stooping to get wet clothes out of the basket with him in the cradleboard.”

Jane didn't mention the fat green grasshopper she'd had to fish out of Barton's mouth. Why he spit out peas and carrots, but not live insects, was more than she could figure.

“Maybe later you could bring this little buckeroo over to the corral and we could take him for a ride.” John leaned back in his chair and took a long drink of his coffee. “He always gets a kick out of that.”

“Are you certain it would be safe?”

Jane wiped Barton's face and lifted him out of his high chair. For a moment, she cradled his warm, sturdy little body against hers. The swiftness and intensity of her fondness for the child frightened her. It would be hard enough to leave the Kincaid ranch when the time came, even without strong emotional ties.

She looked up and caught John watching her with intense, perplexing concentration. The blue of his eyes sparkled as clear and brilliant as sapphires. And twice as hard.

His stare stoked a sudden fevered blush right to the roots of Jane's hair. She tried to break eye contact with him, only to discover she couldn't. His piercing gaze held her, probing her secrets. Then he let her go and she found herself capable of breathing again.

“The boy's not made of glass, Miss Harris.” He spoke quietly, as always, but in a tone that brooked no argument. “Even if he was, we'd have to toughen him up.”

“At the risk of shattering him?” Jane heard herself ask.

Where had this unaccustomed defiance come from?
Had John Whitefeather's relentless blue gaze planted it within her?

“I'm not going to set him on the back of a bucking bronco, ma'am. Just a gentle old mare who can't do much better than walk. I'll hold on to him good and tight in front of me.”

John held out a large brown hand to the baby. “What do you say, Thundercloud?”

Barton immediately grasped one of his uncle's fingers and pulled it close to Jane's face.

She thrust the baby into John's arms, trying not to sound as alarmed as the sudden movement made her feel. “Is that his Cheyenne name?”

“That's what it means. Ruth gave it to him because he makes a lot of noise for a critter so small. You'll come riding with us to keep an eye on him, won't you, ma'am?”

Jane shook her head with some vigor. “Except for that trip in from Whitehorn, I've never sat a horse in my life.”

“Why didn't you say so? I would have made Lionel give us a wagon to drive out here even if I had to steal one. No two ways about it—you'll have to learn to ride if you're going to survive in Big Sky Country. Tell you what. I've got an old gelding who couldn't work up a gallop if you dropped a jar of nitroglycerin behind him.”

A bubble of laughter swelled inside Jane, all the more buoyant for being so unexpected. It rose and burst from her lips. “I suppose I could try.”

“Sure you can. Unless I miss my guess, you've done plenty of things this past week that you've never tackled before.”

Did a hint of admiration warm his words?

“That's true.” She'd made a fair job of them, too. But riding high off the ground on the back of such a large,
powerful animal? “Then again, I've never heard of a person getting bucked off a washboard.”

 

John saddled both horses, though he had more than a few doubts that Jane Harris would show up for their ride. To his surprise, she did.

To his greater surprise, she looked almost beautiful.

In the week since her arrival, the scrapes and bruises on her face had healed. Suddenly, John noticed.

Somewhere in that trunk of Marie Kincaid's, Jane had found a riding habit. The cloth was a little rumpled in places, but the fitted black jacket showed off the curve of her bosom in a way that made the collar of John's shirt tighten. A ruffle of white lace at the throat emphasized the daintiness of her features. She might not be as striking a beauty as Ruth or Lizzie or Abby, but she was every inch a lady.

A lady far more suited to the refined city life back East than to the vital, rough-edged existence in Big Sky Country. She was a woman who needed a wealthy, cultured gentleman to pamper her the way she deserved. With a sudden pang of regret, John realized he wasn't doing her any favors by helping her fit in around the ranch. Sooner or later, she'd figure out this wasn't the place for her.

Then she'd go away.

“I hope we won't be keeping you from your work.” Her voice held a note of uncertainty, as though she was fishing for any excuse not to do this.

John thought about the maverick filly he'd privately dubbed Cactus Heart. “I haven't got a single thing in the world I'd rather do than take my nephew for a ride.”

Barton clearly felt the same way. He held his stout little arms out to the horses and babbled with delight. John
mounted the mare and reached down to lift the baby from Jane's arms.

She let him go reluctantly. “You will keep a tight hold on him, won't you? He squirms like the dickens when he gets excited.”

“I know that, ma'am. Been around this young fellow since the day he was born.” Somehow, John felt he should resent her protectiveness of
his
nephew. But he couldn't work up a pinch of the feeling that usually overwhelmed him when he was dealing with white folks.

Her arms looked strangely empty without the baby in them.

“I'm sorry,” said Jane.

John had never met a person so quick to say those words. They usually stuck tight in his own craw.

“You're right, of course,” she continued. “It's just that he's my responsibility and I've become very attached to him in the short time we've been together.”

John knew that, too. It showed in the way she held the boy. It glowed in her smile and warmed her words when she spoke to him. That soft, maternal quality flattered her appearance far more than all Marie Kincaid's fancy clothes. Maybe that was why he found it impossible to resent her.

John Whitefeather had never been much given to smiling, and he didn't smile now. But he cast Jane a look he hoped would reassure her.

“Don't you fret about young Barton. I'm partial to the little rascal myself. I'll see he doesn't come to any harm.”

Too late, John realized Barton's pretty nanny would need his help to mount the gelding.

So did she, by the look of it.

“You and Barton go ahead and ride. I'll just watch from
here.” Sounding more relieved than anything, she waved them on their way.

Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed one of the ranch hands approaching the corral.

“Can I be of service, ma'am?” Floyd Cobbs removed his hat. John didn't think the fellow was much to look at, but by all accounts Floyd fancied himself a ladies' man. “Help you onto that horse, maybe?”

John's brows tightened into a scowl. “Aren't you supposed to be keeping an eye on the Price boy, Floyd?”

“I've been watching him real close, boss.” The words were respectful enough. To John's ears at least, the tone was anything but. “He's having hisself a little siesta right now, so I thought I'd stretch my legs.”

The cowboy turned his attention back to Jane. “Pardon my manners, ma'am. I reckon we haven't been properly introduced. Name's Floyd Cobbs. I've been working the Kincaid spread for over three years now.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cobbs.” She didn't sound pleased. In fact, John could have sworn she took a couple of small steps back, until the corral fence prevented her from retreating any farther. “M-my name's Jane Harris. I'm just here for a short while to give Mrs. Kincaid a hand with the children and the house.”

She reminded John for all the world of a rabbit doe cornered by a weasel—skin paler than usual, movements twitchy.

A blaze of rage kindled deep in his belly, but John did his best to ignore it. The lady wasn't in any real danger. And besides, he couldn't look after every stray who crossed his path.

“Well, that's real fine.” The cowboy eyed Jane slowly from the crest of her saucily veiled hat to the tips of her high button boots peeping out from beneath the skirt of
her riding habit. “Maybe you'll take a fancy to Whitehorn and decide to stay. If there's one thing wrong with the state of Montana, it's that we need more women.”

John fought the urge to scramble down from his horse and pummel the insolent cowboy. What right did he have, though? Miss Jane Harris was nothing to him.

“Perhaps.” She didn't sound very certain. Was her little Western adventure beginning to pale already?

“What do you say, ma'am? Want me to help you into the saddle?” Floyd spoke the words in an innocent tone, but John thought he detected a mocking double meaning.

“T-thank you for the offer.” She eyed Floyd Cobbs as if he was a giant-size bedbug. “But I don't believe I'll ride today, after all.”

“Good enough, ma'am.” Floyd grinned and took another step toward her. “Then you and me can keep each other company here while Mr. Whitefeather trots young Kincaid around.”

Absorbed in watching Jane and the cowboy, and trying to sort out his unduly strong reaction, John didn't notice Barton dig his fists into the mare's mane and yank. The horse tossed her head and whinnied. If she'd been a couple of years younger, she might have reared.

“On second thought,” gasped Jane, “perhaps I'd better stay as close as possible to Barton, in case he gets himself in trouble.” She ducked past Floyd Cobbs and fled into the corral.

Jane stuck one foot in the gelding's stirrup—the wrong foot—then grabbed hold of the saddle horn and tried to hoist herself up. She fell back into Floyd's waiting arms.

“Careful there, little lady, you could hurt yourself.”

The way Floyd spoke the words
little lady,
as though they were some kind of endearment, set rage buzzing in John's head like a swarm of bees.

“Set Miss Harris on her feet, Cobbs,” he rumbled, with all the menace of a death threat. “Then hustle yourself back to the bunkhouse to watch Price.”

“If she'd have let me help her mount in the first place, she wouldn't have fell.” The cowboy hoisted Jane upright, his hands lingering on her far too long and far too intimately to suit John.

“Pleasure to meet you, ma'am.” With an exaggerated bow and a parting scowl at John, Floyd Cobbs meandered back to the bunkhouse.

Jane stood pale and tremulous as an aspen leaf.

“Are you hurt?” John edged his horse toward her.

She forced a tight little smile that didn't fool him for a second. “Only my dignity.”

“Can we try again, then? You take Barton back and I'll lift you both into the saddle. Then you can pass him to me once I've mounted.”

“Well…”

Before she could object, he lowered the baby into her arms and sprang from his saddle. Then he lifted them onto the gelding's back, letting go the instant he could tell she was seated securely. The sensation of her soft, slender frame in his arms unsettled him too much to risk prolonging it.