Wind Song (4 page)

Chapter 3

The thunderous, almost hateful sound of his voice would have intimated most people, but not Miss Madeline Percy. A tribe of warring Indians might have sent her fleeing, but never a lone man, not even one who towered over her by at least six inches. Give her own five-foot-ten-inch height, this latter feat was no small accomplishment.

Despite the necessity of having to look up at him, she managed to maintain the same stern look usually reserved for the most difficult of students. "I was looking for
Colton."

It gave her some measure of satisfaction to see the surprise on his face though she couldn't imagine what she'd said that would bring such a reaction.

"You're not from Hays?"

"I'm from
Washington
. I arrived today by train."

"I see. I thought…" His forehead creased in a frown. "Didn't anyone tell you that
Colton had burned down?"

Curious as to whom he had mistaken her for, she shook her head. It was hard to imagine that this man would have to worry about unwanted guests, considering where he lived. "I discovered the fire for myself. Do you know where I might spend the night? A hotel, perhaps?" Her voice trailed off. If there was a hotel anywhere in the vicinity, she'd be curious to know how she managed to miss it.

The man seemed amused by the question, and she could hardly blame him. Though he had the good grace not to laugh aloud, the harsh lines of his rugged face.

He studied her with steady blue eyes. A lock of dark hair fell across his deeply tanned brow. He wore his hair longer than the city men she knew, and it curled around the collar of his unbuttoned shirt.

The shirt gave her pause. Actually, it was the glimpse of his broad, muscular chest that distracted her. She couldn't remember ever seeing a man with his shirt unbuttoned in
Washington
City
. After encountering the half naked Indians, and now this open-shirted man, she was beginning to think that those stuffy city men with their high-collared shirts could take a lesson or two from the residents of
Kansas
. She'd seen more manly flesh in the last few hours than she'd' seen in her entire twenty-six years.

"The nearest hotel is three hours away."

Upon hearing this disconcerting news, she found her normally commanding voice deserting her. "Did you say three hours?" After wandering around for some six hours, she supposed three hours wasn't all that bad. If only it weren't for the dark. And the Indians and the buffalo and the…

"I've heard tell that a man chased by a
Cheyenne war party can make it in two." He regarded her a moment before adding, "You could, of course, try to flag down tomorrow's train. The engineer has been known to stop on occasion to pick up a distressed traveler or two."

She wasn't sure she liked being called distressed. She considered it a matter of pride to keep her wits about her under trying circumstances. Particularly given the way the man's gaze slid down the length of her, she decided this was one of those situations that required rationality of mind.

She wasn't accustomed to being the object of male interest. Normally, most men took one look at her tall, slender frame and didn't bother to look further.

Not only had this man taken a second look, she had the feeling nothing had escaped his attention. Not the unruly strands of red hair that had escaped her bonnet nor the tip of her dusty boot that tapped impatiently beneath the hem of her trousers.

"If this isn't a fine kettle of fish!" Her voice was edged with irritation and fatigue. It was late and getting later by the minute.

"You better come in." He turned and walked away from the door.

She debated whether to follow him inside. He was a stranger, and although it was all too clear that he found her womanly attributes lacking, she wasn't at all certain if he could be trusted. Heaven only knew what kind of a man he was and who he had mistaken her for. She stood firmly in place. "I'm a schoolteacher," she called to him, aware that she probably looked like a wanton woman "A respectable schoolteacher."

She peered inside the house and was surprised by the cozy domestic scene that greeted her. The room was filled with wood furniture, as fine or finer than any that could be found in the grand manors of
Washington
. Steam rose from a large black pot centered on an iron woodstove.

A delicious smell wafted out to her. Her stomach growled in response, reminding her that she'd not eaten since morning.

She was greatly relieved and more than a bit surprised to see a small boy sitting at the table. She relaxed. If there was a child, there had to be a woman somewhere. That would explain the quality of the furniture.

Maddie stepped onto the dirt floor and closed the door hard behind her, causing tiny clumps of dirt to shake loose from the sod ceiling. Carefully brushing the soil from her shoulders, she looked upward at the tree branches supporting the sod surface. Never had she seen such a dwelling. It was like a cave. "My name is Madeline Percy."

"Luke Tyler."

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Tyler." She turned toward the young boy who was looking at her with open curiosity. He had the same vivid blue eyes and dark, almost black hair as his father. She guessed he was around seven or eight. "And what is your name, young man?"

"Matthew," his father replied.

"How do you do, Matthew?" The boy made no reply, but he watched her through eyes sharp with interest.

Mr. Tyler spooned out a plateful of stew and set it on the table in front of his young son.

Noticing that Mr. Tyler demonstrated remarkable domestic skills for a man, she stared at the food hungrily. She wondered about the man's wife and glanced around in search of feminine belongings. But the clothes and headgear that hung from the wall on polished buffalo horns were definitely masculine in nature. So were the boots lined up neatly against the wall, but it was the clumps of dirt that competed with the dishes and condiments on the table that confirmed her growing suspicion: no woman lived here.

As if guessing her thoughts, her host brushed away the dirt before setting another plateful of tempting fare on the table. "How did you manage to get here from the train station?"

"When no one showed up to meet me, I took the horse and wagon that had been left at the station and set out to find the town."

"
Colton burned down a little over a week ago," he explained. "Most went to the next town over to arrange for loans to rebuild. They'll be back, I'm afraid."

She considered this for a moment. "Who…who were you expecting?"

"What?"

"I had the feeling you thought I was someone else."

He turned to the stove. "I thought you were someone from Hays."

"Hays?"

"That's a town three hours away from here."

"Unless you're chased by a war party," she added. Only his profile was visible, but she didn't miss the alluring way the corner of his mouth lifted upward. If the man ever actually smiled, he would be rather pleasing to look at, she supposed.

She rubbed her aching back. She wasn't used to sitting for such long periods of time, and the train ride coupled with the long hours spent in the wagon had taken their toll. "The
Cheyenne… Are they dangerous?"

"All people are dangerous when protecting what is theirs." The cutting edge in his voice left little doubt that he was talking about something far more personal, but the hard look in his eyes convinced her not to probe-although probing into people's affairs came second nature to her.

"I thought that the Indians had been moved south, to
Indian territory," she said.

"Some refuse to let the government decide where they can and cannot make their homes." He turned back to the stove. "Do you blame them for that?"

"No, I suppose not." Unable to relieve her stiff muscles by rubbing them, she held on to the ladder-back chair and stretched her leg upward until the toe of her boot reached above her waist. Feeling immediate relief, she touched her toes, then positioned herself behind the chair to repeat the exercise.

He turned just as she raised her other leg. He stood looking at her, his dark eyebrows arched.

"Leg cramps," she explained, lowering her leg. She smoothed the front of her wrinkled skirt. "I don't know how some people manage to sit all day, do you?"

"I don't know. Never had much occasion to sit, myself." He set the last plate of steaming hot stew on the table. "You must be hungry."

"Starved," she agreed.

She undid the ribbons beneath her chin and pulled off her bonnet, removing also the hairpins that held her bun in place. Her hair tumbled to her shoulders in a cascade of tangled curls. Her mother considered loose hair as much of a transgression as loose morals. One could surmise by the look of surprise on her host's face that his own belief in such matters was equally restrictive.

Long after the surprise left his face, his eyes continued to linger on her hair. Unable to think of a way to fill in the silence, she grew uncharacteristically self-conscious. "Is there a place I might freshen up?"

He nodded toward the door. "You'll find a rain barrel at the side of the house." He plucked a dry flour sack from a nail that had been driven into a wooden cabinet and tossed it to her. "You'll find soap on the shelf over the barrel."

"Thank you." She turned toward the door, stopping when he called her name.

"Unless you want your stew seasoned with dirt, I suggest you close the door gently."

She walked outside, taking care not to slam the door. The wind had died down completely, and the surrounding prairie was so dark and silent that she was forced to run her hand along the rough sod walls as she made her way to the side of the house. Overhead a lone star shone through the gauzy film of dust still in the air.

She stood in the square of light that filtered from the sod window and quickly washed the dust off her face and hands. Feeling refreshed, she dried herself and walked toward the wagon. She felt in the dark for her valise and pulled out the hairbrush tucked inside. It took a bit of determination to work the bristles through the tangled curls.

The horse nickered softly and pawed the ground. "It's all right, Rutabaga." Not wanting to keep her host and his son waiting any longer, she returned to the house.

Mr. Tyler waited until she joined them at the table, then lowered his head and said the blessing. She glanced across at Matthew, who was watching her. She'd never seen a boy his age look so somber. She gave him a friendly smile and when it was not returned, she picked up the wooden-handled fork by her plate and took a taste of the steaming stew. The meat was tasty and tender.

"This is wonderful," she said. "Chicken?"

"Rabbit."

Accustomed to the lively political debates that were such an important part of every meal back home, she attempted to engage both father and son in conversation. Her efforts to discuss current events garnered nothing more than grunt from the father and a curious stare from the son.

She decided that Mr. Tyler might well be the only man in the States to pass up an opportunity to criticize President Grant. Certainly no such person existed in
Washington
City
.

Wondering what people in
Kansas
found to talk about, she made a few comments about the weather before giving up altogether and finishing her meal in silence. The rabbit stew provided hearty fare and she soon realized she couldn't possibly finish everything on her plate.

"Why aren't you eating?" she asked Matthew. He'd hardly touched his food, nor had he spoken a word. Not only was he the most somber child she'd ever met, he was clearly the most silent. When he failed to reply, she leaned toward him. "You're about the same age as some of my students back home."

"Matthew can't talk," Mr. Tyler said brusquely.

She drew back, her hand on her chest. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Is…is he deaf?"

"He hears perfectly."

Sensing her host's reluctance to talk about the matter, she resisted the urge to ask further questions. Instead, she explained how she had accepted a teaching post in
Colton.