Whitefeather's Woman (3 page)

Jane remembered what the bartender in town had said about John Whitefeather always keeping to himself. That would suit her just fine. The fewer men she had to deal with in her new position, the better.

Casting dubious looks at Ruth's medicines, Jane wrinkled her nose at some of the smells. Patiently Ruth Kincaid told her the ingredients of each compound and what good it would do. Then she applied generous daubs on Jane's injuries with a whisper-light touch.

“Do you hurt anywhere else that needs tending, dear?”

Jane's stomach churned at Ruth Kincaid's matter-of-fact question.

“No.” Her hand flew to the modestly buttoned throat of
her borrowed nightgown before she could stop it. “I guess my clothes must have protected the rest of me when I got thrown around the train carriage.”

In truth, she wished Mrs. Kincaid could employ her healing touch on the ribs a doctor at the Boston infirmary had pronounced cracked. That injury and the ugly purple bruising on her bosom could easily be explained by the train-crash story. For Mrs. Kincaid to examine her ribs, though, Jane would have to expose her shoulders and upper arms. Those wounds, where Emery had dug in his nails and gouged her flesh, would betray her shameful secret.

When she'd changed for bed, Jane had noticed the injured skin was still red and swollen. She feared the wounds would leave telltale scars.

Mrs. Kincaid gathered up her medicines. “If that's all I can do for you now, I'll say good-night. Sleep well—it's the best healer. In the morning we'll find clothes for you.”

She turned down the wick on Jane's lamp, easing the tiny gable room into a warm cocoon of darkness.

With a sigh of contentment Jane gave herself up to the modest luxury of a clean, warm bed. She could scarcely remember a time when she'd been cared for with the tenderness Mrs. Kincaid had shown her tonight. The sturdy construction of the ranch house made her feel safer than she had felt in a long time. Already she shrank from the prospect of leaving it.

She would repay the Kincaids for their kindness, Jane vowed as exhaustion overcame her. She would work hard to care for the children and do everything possible to help Mrs. Kincaid around the house.

If she really, really tried, perhaps she could even make herself indispensable.

As she lapsed into dreams, Jane found herself reliving her ride from town in the untalkative company of
John Whitefeather. Even when she'd doubted whether she could trust him, her arms had instinctively latched on to his warm, solid frame. She had breathed his scent, a faint masculine compound of sweet dry hay mingled with the musk of horses and leather. The contrast to Emery's overpowering pomade comforted her somehow.

Why had John Whitefeather not mentioned he was related to the Kincaids? And what had prompted him to intercede on her behalf? Jane had lived too long and been hurt too often not to question his motives. She knew from bitter experience the danger of fraternizing with a member of her employer's family.

Not that such a thing was apt to happen in her case. For all she knew, John Whitefeather might be happily married, though his sister's comment about the foreman's cabin made Jane doubt it. Even if he was a bachelor, such a handsome man must have plenty of ladies waiting at his beck and call. What interest would he have in some mousey, penniless hired girl from the East? None at all, Jane insisted to herself as her cracked ribs began to ache.

Or was it, perhaps, her heart?

 

“I swear I could see her heart thumping.” John shook his head, recalling the spectacle of Miss Jane Harris venturing into the Double Deuce Saloon. “Like a rabbit come calling in a coyotes' den.”

Caleb Kincaid threw back his tawny head and let out a whoop of laughter. “I'll bet a few of those hungry coyotes were licking their chops, all right! She could be a fetching little filly if she didn't look like she just lost a barroom brawl.”

Somehow the thought of those cowboys at the Double Deuce casting hungry eyes over Miss Harris sobered John's mood of levity. He didn't reckon he had any call to make
fun of the lady. She'd shown some backbone traipsing into a tough spot like the Double Deuce to find him. The fact that she'd done what she had to in spite of her obvious fear kindled a grudging glimmer of respect in him.

As far as John Whitefeather was concerned,
that
was the true mark of courage.

“What do you reckon brought her all the way out here, from Boston?” he asked, as much to himself as to Caleb. The woman was a bundle of mysteries and contradictions, all of which intrigued John too much for his liking.

Caleb Kincaid took a long draw on his pipe, as if the tobacco smoke fueled his thoughts. “Could be most anything. Maybe she got itchy feet and figured Montana would be a big adventure. Or she might have read about the gold fields and figured this was prime hunting ground for a rich husband.”

John shook his head slowly. Neither of these guesses tallied with what he'd so far experienced of Miss Jane Harris. Not that he had much practice with women, but he knew enough of men and horses to recognize a look of desperation when he saw it.

“I got the feeling she wouldn't be in Montana if she had a choice.”

Caleb mulled that over for a long, silent moment. “Think she might be on the run from the law? Maybe I ought to send a wire to the police in Boston. Don't want some criminal taking care of my boys, no matter how good-looking she is.”

For no good reason that John could figure, his brother-in-law's words provoked him. He responded in a sharper tone than he intended. “How come you're so set on thinking the worst of this poor gal, Caleb? I can't picture her getting up the gumption to do anything against the law.”

Caleb replied with a smug, mocking smile that John
wanted to wipe off his face—by force if necessary. “How come you're so set on defending her? That's a far more entertaining question, if you ask me.”

“I
didn't
ask.” John rose abruptly from the table. “Can't sit around jawing with you all night. Got to work some more on that little maverick filly tomorrow. Maybe she got to missing me while I was gone today, and she'll be ready to make friends.”

As he fetched his hat and coat from the hook by the door, his brother-in-law rose and stretched. “Always plenty to do, is right. A man needs to grab his sleep when he's got a soft, warm bed.”

He ambled over to the stove, lifted the lid off the firebox and knocked the ashes from his pipe into it.

“Be careful around
this
little maverick filly, John.” Caleb nodded upward to signal that he meant Jane Harris. “I've got a bad feeling about her. Reminds me of Zeke's mama, God rest her soul. She just wasn't fit for this kind of life, and she made the boy and me miserable for a long spell before and after she died. I don't know what would have become of us if Ruth hadn't come back into my life again when she did.”

The rancher's rugged features softened and his wary tone warmed as he spoke of his wife.

John knew how many years his sister had quietly suffered, her heart held captive by a married man who couldn't claim her. One of his greatest joys in life was to see her so happy and fulfilled in her union with Caleb Kincaid. Part of him envied what Ruth and Caleb had together, while another part shied from going after it himself. Every moment of happiness they enjoyed now had cost them a matching moment of pain.

Besides, a wife was a responsibility, and he already had more than enough responsibility for the folks at Sweetgrass.
One day, perhaps, if he found a woman capable of easing his burdens, rather than adding to them, he might be willing to gamble his heart and his hard-won peace of spirit.

“Save your warning, Caleb.” John jammed on his hat and pulled open the kitchen door. “Once I delivered Jane Harris to the ranch, my obligation and my interest both ended. Even if I was fool enough to hanker after her, you never saw the way she looked at me in town today. I reckon the lady would sooner be courted by a grizzly.”

Caleb's husky laughter followed him out into the night.

Though the clean, still air was chilly for late May, John didn't bother to put on his coat for his short saunter from the Kincaids' kitchen door to the foreman's cabin, where he spent his nights.

In the distance, lights flickered from the windows of the cowboys' bunkhouse. The sounds of talk, laughter and the plaintive croon of a harmonica spilled out into the night. John knew if he set foot inside, the music and gossip would stop and the cowboys would hit their bunks, where they belonged. Tonight he didn't have the heart to interrupt their fun.

He hesitated at the door of his cabin, a refuge of solitude between the homey bustle of Ruth and Caleb's place and the bachelor commotion of the bunkhouse.

Overhead, the wide, black Montana sky glittered with a mother lode of tiny silver nuggets—calm and beautiful, but also distant and cold. For the first time since coming to the Kincaid ranch, over a year ago, John Whitefeather went to bed in a foreman's cabin that felt lonesome and empty.

“I
ndispensable. In-dispensable.” Over and over, Jane muttered the word to herself as she confronted her first day of provisional employment.

To her surprise, she'd slept deeply and peacefully, untroubled by nightmares of Emery hunting her down. Between Mrs. Kincaid's pungent salves and the healing night's rest, Jane did not wince too painfully at the sight of her face in the oval looking glass above the bureau.

A soft knock on the door made her jump. Her newfound sense of security must not run very deep, after all.

“W-who is it?”

“It's Ruth, Miss Harris. I heard you stirring and thought I should bring you some clean clothes.”

Jane pulled open the door. “That's very kind of you.”

Expecting only Ruth, she started at the sight of a boy, nine or ten years old. If he was home from school, this must be Saturday. Jane realized she'd lost track of the days during her exhausting journey west from Boston.

If she noticed Jane's jumpiness, the rancher's wife gave no sign. “Jane Harris, this is Zeke, Caleb's son. He helped
me bring down this trunk of clothes from the attic. They belonged to his mother and they're too small for me. They might fit you until we can make some new ones.”

“Thank you.” Jane looked from the trunk to Zeke Kincaid. “If it'll upset you to see me wearing clothes that belonged to your mother, I can get by with the blouse and skirt I wore from Boston.”

The boy shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor. “I don't mind, ma'am, honest. My ma's been gone quite a spell now and Ruth told me all your bags got burned up in a train wreck.” He glanced up at her, then looked away again, blushing. “That must've been exciting.”

“I suppose so.” Jane hoped Zeke wouldn't pester her for details that might unravel her tangled falsehood. “Not exciting in a good way, I'm afraid.”

Was there a good kind of excitement?

Before the boy could inquire further, a loud and sustained wail rang out downstairs.

Ruth Kincaid turned to her stepson. “Go see what your brother's done to himself this time, Zeke. I'll be right down.”

The boy grimaced. “Aw, do I have to?”

“Please, Zeke.”

Muttering to himself about the bother of baby brothers, the boy headed downstairs.

Ruth pushed the trunk over Jane's threshold. “You're kind to think of Zeke's feelings. Don't worry, though, he won't have many memories of his mother wearing these things. Use whatever will fit.”

“What about Mr. Kincaid?” The impossibly tactless question slipped out before Jane could help herself.

To her surprise and relief, Caleb Kincaid's second wife shook her head. “I asked him, and he doesn't mind. Come
down to breakfast when you're dressed. You can meet Barton and we'll talk about this job you have with us.”

When her new employer had gone, Jane found it took longer than she planned to rummage through the trunk for something to wear. The clothes fit her well enough, but few looked suitable for a Montana rancher's wife, let alone a hired girl.

To Jane, who had never owned pretty clothes because Mrs. Endicott disdained such frivolity, the trunk was a treasure trove. She couldn't resist trying on one or two of the fanciest dresses before settling on a comparatively simple style in apple green. If she borrowed an apron of Ruth's to cover the front, it might not be too fancy for doing chores.

Employing a dainty hairbrush she found in the trunk, Jane dressed her plain brown hair in a style that veiled as much as possible of her healing face. After making her bed, she followed the tantalizing smell of coffee down to the kitchen.

There she found Ruth adding chopped vegetables to a big cast-iron pot on the back of the stove. Young Zeke was shoving oatmeal into the mouth of a baby, whose plump cheeks were caked with drying porridge.

Jane tried to guess how old he might be. Not a young infant, for he held himself erect in the chair. A year old, perhaps? Two? Should a woman be caring for young children if she couldn't place the age of a baby better than that?

Stifling that nauseating qualm of doubt, Jane stooped in front of the high chair. She offered her forefinger for the baby to grasp in his chubby fist. “This must be Master Barton. He looks like a hearty eater.”

“Watch out if you're trying to feed him something he doesn't like.” Zeke pulled a face. “Pa says Barton can spit farther than a rattlesnake.”

Jane could scarcely imagine this chuckling cherub being any trouble. As much as Zeke looked like his father, little Barton was the image of his mother, with golden-brown skin, fine black hair and dark laughing eyes. When he cracked a wide gummy smile and crowed his delight at seeing her, Jane surrendered her heart to him.

After what Emery had done to her, the idea of marriage now frightened Jane too much to contemplate. Which meant she would never have babies of her own.

To distract herself from that wrenching regret, she asked Zeke, “What sorts of food does your little brother dislike?”

“Mashed peas.” The boy rolled his eyes.

“Oh dear.” Jane laughed, and Barton's big brother laughed with her.

“I'll be glad when he's older.” Zeke passed Barton's bowl and spoon to Jane. “Then I can take him riding with me and fishing down at the creek. Right now, he's not much use.”

Jane nodded. She couldn't find it in her heart to tell Zeke that by the time his baby brother was able to ride and fish, he probably wouldn't want the little fellow tagging along. She could hardly remember her older brother, who had sickened and died of the typhoid along with their mother. She did recall how Ches had discouraged her from following him and his friends.

Ruth Kincaid gave one last stir to the contents of the pot, then she opened the warming tray above the stove and lifted down a bowl and a plate. “Come eat breakfast, Miss Harris. I kept it hot for you.”

Planting a kiss on the baby's fat fist, Jane pried her finger from his sturdy grasp. She took her place at the table and tucked into her breakfast gratefully. When Ruth brought her a cup of strong black coffee, she savored each sip.

“Today I'll show you around the house.” Mrs. Kincaid brought her own steaming cup of coffee to the table and took a seat opposite Jane. “I'll explain what chores I want you to do while you're with us. After that we can—”

Before the rancher's wife could finish, a stampede of footsteps thundered out on the porch. Jane cringed at the sound, then exhaled a breath of relief when Caleb Kincaid burst through the kitchen door.

“Can you come, Ruth?” he called to his wife. “Bring your medicines. Lizzie's brother's been thrown by his horse out on the range. Broke some bones and may have cracked his skull. I don't want to move the young fellow until you look him over first.”

With a nod to her husband, Ruth rose from her chair and strode out of the kitchen. She returned a moment later wearing her bonnet and shawl, and carrying a brown leather satchel.

She glanced at Jane. “Good fortune brought you to us last night, Miss Harris. Take care of the boys while I am gone.”

Before Jane could ask how long that might be, the Kincaids had hurried out of the ranch house. Caleb shot her a glance as they were leaving—wary and vaguely hostile. Perhaps he didn't like her wearing his late wife's clothes, after all.

Young Barton stared at the door for a moment, as if expecting his parents to come rushing back in again. When a little time passed and they did not materialize, he screwed up his face and began to cry loudly.

Zeke scowled at his little brother. “He don't like it when Ruth goes off like that. If I was you, I'd stuff rags in my ears, miss.”

“He'll settle down.” Jane hollered to make herself heard over Barton's shrill lament. Hunting up a damp cloth, she
wiped the baby's face, which made him cry harder still. Then she scooped him up out of his high chair and bounced him gently, trying to comfort him.

The child's sobs gradually subsided into wet hiccups. A warm surge of success buoyed Jane—
indispensable.
“There now, that wasn't so bad.”

Time to wipe off the tray of his high chair and wash the breakfast dishes. Giving his warm little body a final squeeze, Jane set Barton down on the floor so she could tend to the other chores.

“Waaaa!” The crying returned in full force and increased volume.

Jane picked the baby up again. My, he was a heavy little armful! The gentle ache of her ribs sharpened. It took her longer to quiet him this time, but at last his tears subsided and he poked a plump thumb into his mouth. Shifting him to her hip, Jane managed to carry her breakfast dishes and his porridge bowl to the corner washtub. She dampened a rag and swiped it over the tray of his chair. It wasn't as thorough a job as she would like to have done, but the best she could manage one-handed while balancing a heavy baby on her hip.

Zeke ambled to the kitchen door, grabbing his hat and coat from their pegs.

“Where are you going?” Jane asked.

The boy shrugged. “Poke around the corrals. Maybe saddle up Windsinger and go for a ride.”

Jane thought of the cowboy thrown from his horse. The one Mrs. Kincaid might be tending at this very minute. And what animals might be out in the ranch's corrals? Bulls with sharp horns and heavy hooves, perhaps. Wild mustangs whose powerful bucking legs could shatter a man's skull with one kick.

Ruth and Caleb Kincaid had left her in charge of their
boys. Ruth trustingly. Caleb warily. More than anything, Jane wanted to justify Ruth's faith in her and to win Caleb's trust. How else could she make herself indispensable around the Kincaid ranch? If Zeke came to harm while in her care, she might find herself on the next train back to Boston, or perhaps hired to ply some unspeakable trade at the Double Deuce Saloon.

“I'm sorry, Zeke. I'm responsible for your safety. I'll have to ask you to stay in the house with me until your folks get back.”

“Aw!” The boy thrust his hat back on its peg, but kept his buckskin jacket on. “I ain't a baby like Barton. I've been going where I please around this ranch as long as I can recollect. Two years ago I ran off and joined the Cheyenne.”

If Zeke expected such a boast would impress Jane into setting him at liberty, he miscalculated.

“I'm sorry, Zeke.” He seemed like a good boy. If she denied him and he came to resent her presence, what chance was there that his father and stepmother would keep her around? “I could use your help while Ruth is gone. Barton doesn't know who I am, and I haven't got any idea where to find things. I'd be much obliged if you'd stay close by to advise me.”

He heaved a great sigh that reminded Jane of Mrs. Endicott when she finally submitted to the tiresome necessity of taking her pills. “I suppose I can hang around till Pa gets back. Best advice I can give you—if Barton starts to cry again, try sitting with him in the rocking chair.”

“Thank you, Zeke. I'll remember that.”

Just to impress upon her that he was obeying under protest, the boy stalked off to another part of the house. Later Jane heard loud banging noises from upstairs, but she didn't have the courage to go investigate what he might be up to.

Not that she had the opportunity, for Barton kept her well occupied. As long as she sat in the rocking chair, talking or singing to him, he was perfectly contented. And he would tolerate being held in Jane's arms while she walked through the house, wistfully taking note of all the chores she
could
be doing to impress the Kincaids with her industry.

If she set him down, though, the baby would suck in more air than his small body seemed capable of holding. Then he would release it at high volume with a distressing infusion of tears. The sound of his crying made Jane's insides contract and the muscles between her shoulders bunch up tight.

What was that smell? Something burning?

Ignoring Barton's shrieks, Jane popped him into his high chair and checked the stove. The savory concoction of beef and beans had begun to scorch on the bottom of the pot. Jane stirred it several times.

Was it her imagination, or did she smell the tang of sourdough working?

A quick glance in the warming tray revealed a number of loaf pans covered with damp dish towels. Had they risen sufficiently? Was the oven hot enough to bake them? Back in Boston, Mrs. Endicott's cook had prepared all the meals. Jane wished she'd shown more curiosity about culinary matters.

She could always leave the dough and later claim not to have known it was there. But by then it might have overflowed the pans and made a sticky mess all over the bottom of the warming tray. She owed Ruth better service than that.

Desperately hoping she was doing the right thing, Jane lifted the pans down and set them in the oven. Then she dug in the wood box for a couple of good-size sticks to stoke the fire.

“Hush, Barton, hush. I'm coming.” She hoisted the squalling baby back out of his chair and bounced him on her hip until she feared her cracked ribs would break for sure. Did something else ail the little fellow besides missing his mother? Was he hungry? Thirsty? Tired?

The Kincaids had been right not to hire her in the first place. What had made her think she could look after a baby when she had almost no experience, only a pack of romantic daydreams about motherhood?

Jane collapsed into the rocking chair and snuffled back tears of sympathy for young Barton. And despair for herself.

 

The new filly shied away from John Whitefeather's approach. The last shreds of patience slipped from his grasp like a greased rope. He'd tried a number of his most reliable techniques on the tetchy beast and she still wouldn't let him near—not even to feed from a bucket of oats he held.

Finally he let her out into the paddock with Hawkwing and Zeke's pony, Windsinger. Maybe they would let the filly know he was a man a horse could trust.