Wildfire Creek (35 page)

On most nights, Luke took a seat across the table from her. Tonight, he’d chosen the one next to Ginny, resting a thigh against hers, feeling the slight flinch as she tried to shift away. Luke hid a grin, knowing she sat wedged between him and Noah. He shot a quick glance at her, seeing a blush creep up her face.

“Dax,” Rachel encouraged, looking at her husband.

He picked up his worn copy of the Soldier’s Prayer Book he’d carried with him the last years of the war—a gift from a fallen comrade.

“I’d like to say a prayer.” He opened the book, selecting a short one he’d read many times during the long campaigns, and bowed his head.

“Direct us, 0 Lord, in all our doings, with thy most gracious favor, and further us with thy continual help that in all our works begun, continued, and ended in thee, we may glorify thy holy Name and finally, by thy mercy, obtain everlasting life. Amen.”

“Please, help yourselves.” Rachel lifted a steaming bowl of potatoes and passed them to her uncle. “Ginny, did Hank come over for their supper?” Hank and Bernice had decided it’d be best to stay in their home near the bunkhouse. Even though the men had offered to carry her to the main house, Hank had refused, knowing Bernice’s energy wouldn’t last long in a large crowd.

“Bull and Noah carried their meal to them. Hank and Bernice were very grateful and wished us all a Merry Christmas.”

Muffled sounds came from around the room as conversations continued between mouthfuls. Ginny thought she’d made plenty, then began to worry as one by one, the bowls emptied. She breathed a sigh of relief when the pace slowed and the men began to lean back in their chairs, satisfied.

Luke kept up with the various conversations while casting glances at Ginny, noticing she’d touched little of her own supper. He’d already had seconds of the roast and potatoes, while her food grew cold.

“You’re not hungry?”

She pulled her eyes from the other side of the room to focus on Luke. “Just waiting to see if anyone topples over from the cooking,” she responded with a cautious, self-deprecating grin.

Luke burst into a hearty laugh. It wasn’t often Ginny joked with him anymore. She hadn’t done it once since she’d moved into the house.

He glanced around the table. “It doesn’t appear you need to worry about it. Go ahead and eat. You worked hard and it’s all quite good.”

Ginny took a few bites, believing the reason for her lack of appetite had nothing to do with the food. The man sitting next to her, letting his thigh rest against hers, seemed to push all rational thought from her mind. She could feel the warmth from his muscled leg seep through his trousers and her dress, creating a tingling sensation which made her shudder. She shifted, trying to gain distance, but Luke wouldn’t have it. Each time he’d close the distance within seconds, at one point moving his hand under the table and resting it on her knee. Her involuntary jerk produced a slight smirk from Luke, which she chose to ignore as she took a few more bites.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as he pulled his hand back above the table.

“No, you’re not,” she challenged in a low voice.

“You’re right. I’m not.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, keeping an eye on Ginny as she used her napkin to dab the dampness from her brow.

“I believe the heat from cooking all day has affected me.” She took a deep breath and hoped that was the reason she felt waves of warmth moving through her body.

“Could be,” Luke responded, knowing what she felt had nothing to do with the cooking.

When everyone finished and the plates had been cleared, Ginny brought out the pies, cake, and coffee. She offered generous slices to everyone. A couple of the men refused, then changed their minds upon hearing the satisfied groans of the others.

“Miss Ginny, that was the best Christmas supper I’ve ever had.” Noah rested a hand on his stomach, craving another piece of her apple pie, but knowing he had no room for it. “May I help you clean up?”

“Certainly not,” she scolded in a mild tone. “You go spend time with the other men. I’m sure you could use a whiskey or brandy.”

“Perhaps.” He offered a vague smile, his thoughts on Abby Tolbert and how much he’d wanted to spend time with her. When they’d had dinner at the boardinghouse, she invited him for Christmas supper, but he’d refused. Even though she’d insisted her father would welcome him, he knew different. Although King Tolbert might see him as a good blacksmith and a hard worker, he also considered him well beneath his daughter’s social standing. In Noah’s mind, the man had it right. Noah would never be good enough for Abby. He’d been fortunate to be able to offer her a truthful excuse—he’d already accepted Rachel’s invitation. The slump in her shoulders and forced smile told him how much his answer had disappointed her. He’d have to find a way to make it up to her.

Suzanne blew out the last of the candles in the dining room, disappointment swelling within her at the way Christmas Day had come and gone. She’d declined the Pelletier’s invitation to supper, as well as Gabe and Noah’s last minute invitation to ride out with them.

She’d spent all morning preparing enough food for those she thought would come by—townsfolk who always made it a point to offer their greetings, even if they only picked up a pie or stayed for soup. The one boarder she had, other than Nick Barnett, left the day before, wanting to take advantage of the clearing weather to get over the mountains into Idaho before a new storm came through. Nick had already told her he planned to have supper at the saloon.

Amos Henderson came by for a minute, as did Horace Clausen, both apologizing for not being able to stay longer or take the time for dinner.

Suzanne stepped into the kitchen and eyed the roast she’d made, along with vegetables and an assortment of other dishes. She’d baked four pies, and not one had been touched.

“Oh, well,” she sighed, grabbing a cup and pouring herself coffee from the full pot, then took a seat at the table. Her appetite had fled along with her customers. She set the cup down and rested her head in her hands, feeling alone and empty. Since her husband and daughter had died, she’d done her best to build a new life. Her friendships, along with her faith and work at the boardinghouse, had sustained her. For the first time in years, she felt like giving up.

“Any pie left?”

Suzanne glanced up at the sound of the masculine voice. Nick Barnett stood in the doorway, a bottle in his hand. She’d been so lost in her own self-pity, she hadn’t heard anyone approach.

“Of course.” She swept her hand toward the counter with the untouched pies. “Pick whichever one you want.”

He didn’t even look. “I’ll take mince, if you have it. And two glasses.”

She cut a large slice of mince for Nick and a slice of apple for herself, set them on the table, then grabbed glasses.

He walked around the table, pulled out Suzanne’s chair, and made a slight bow. “Madame.”

Suzanne couldn’t help but smile at Nick’s antics, deciding he’d already been enjoying some liquid cheer. He opened the bottle and poured a generous amount of whiskey in each, then took his own seat and lifted his glass.

“Merry Christmas, Suzanne.” His broad, sincere smile meant more to her than any of the other greetings she’d received today.

Picking up her glass, she held it out, her hand shaking. “Merry Christmas, Nicholas.”

“Come on upstairs, Noah. I’ll show you where you and Gabe will be staying tonight.” Rachel stopped next to him and wrapped her arm through his. “I hope the two of you don’t mind sharing a room. It has a couple beds.”

“We’re grateful to have a place at all. I don’t mind telling you, riding back to Splendor tonight doesn’t appeal to me at all.”

They’d just started upstairs when they heard shouts from outside. The men had left for the bunkhouse not long before, Bull staying a few extra minutes before following them.

Gabe shot Noah a look before dashing out the door and onto the porch, trying to see in the darkness. A moment later, Noah, Dax, Luke, Doc Worthington, and the women joined him, followed a minute later by Mary, who grabbed Ginny’s hand.

“Settle down, you rascal.” Bull’s stern voice came from the direction of the chicken coop. A moment later, he walked toward them, dragging what appeared to be a squirming Indian boy by the collar.

“Don’t fight me, boy, unless you want to take a ride over my shoulder,” Bull warned, beginning to lose patience with the young Indian. He hauled him up the steps, bringing him to a halt in front of Gabe, the boy’s long dark hair hanging in front of his face. “Here you go, Sheriff. I found him hiding in the shed. Guess I forgot to lock it when the boys and me moved the tables and benches.”

Gabe stared at the boy, whose head was bent, appearing to be focused on the deerskin moccasins covering his feet. He stood well over five feet, his frame bone thin, clothes hanging off his shoulders and hips. Gabe guessed he weighed little more than a hundred pounds.

“Do you speak English?” Gabe knew little of the Blackfoot dialect Running Bear’s tribe spoke. Bull knew some, perhaps enough to find out where the boy had been living.

He stayed silent, not looking at anyone.

A defiant jerk dislodged the finger Gabe placed under the boy’s chin in an attempt to make eye contact. Gabe bent to look into his face, achieving nothing when the boy spun away from him. Bull grabbed his shoulders and spun him back around, holding him in place to face the sheriff.

“Where have you been living?” Gabe asked, then looked up at Bull, who did his best to translate the question into the Blackfoot language. Still, the boy remained silent.

“What’s your name?” Bull asked, again in the Blackfoot language.

When the boy remained silent, Gabe stood and let out a breath. “Not much we can do except lock him up in the chicken coop until he decides to talk.”

“Ginny…” Mary beseeched.

“It’s not our place to interfere, Mary.” She put a finger to her lips, indicating they needed to stay silent.

“Do you think we should tie him up?” Noah asked, eyeing the boy as he figured out Gabe’s strategy.

“May not be a bad idea. In a few days, he might be willing to talk,” Gabe answered.

The boy turned and tried to jump from the porch. Bull reacted quickly, grabbing his shirt and pulling him back toward them. This time he walked the boy to a chair and nudged him into it, then reached into his pocket, extracting a long, thin cord. He wrapped it around one wrist, then around the arm of the chair before stepping away and taking a good, long look at him.

No one spoke, each trying to figure out the best way to handle the boy and find the others involved. It took a couple minutes before the boy’s head came up, his chin jutted out in a defiant gesture, his eyes blazing—angry blue eyes as clear as the Montana morning sky.

“My God, he’s white,” Rachel murmured, leaning into Dax.

Gabe stepped in front of Bull, believing the boy understood everything they’d said. “How long since you’ve eaten a regular meal?” When he didn’t answer, Gabe grabbed the boy’s chin between his thumb and fingers. “How long?”

For the first time, fear flashed in the boy’s eyes. “Three days,” he spat out, then closed his mouth tight.

“Ginny, would you mind getting him some food and water?” Dax asked.

She wasted no time filling a plate and grabbing utensils. “Here.” She handed the food to Gabe.

“I’m telling you right now, if you throw this food or pull some other harebrained antic, I
will
tie you up and lock you in the chicken coop. Do we understand each other?”