Whitefeather's Woman (7 page)

During the past weeks, he'd watched her come close to crying many times, but never completely surrender. Now she wept for him, and John struggled to breathe as impossible feelings for her ransacked his heart.

“Shh. Are you sure there isn't anything you want to tell
me?
”

“I can't. I'm sorry. I…just can't.”

She stopped crying, and John knew there was no reason for him to keep holding her. Unless he gave in to his stubborn yen to kiss her.

And he mustn't do that on any account. It would be a dangerous indulgence on his part. Not to mention taking mean advantage of her in a moment of weakness.

John Whitefeather had performed many difficult deeds in his life, but few as difficult as easing Jane Harris back down onto her pillow and slipping out of her room without a backward glance.

 

Was this how a beach felt after the wind and waves of a hurricane had finally died away? Jane lay in the darkened room, spent after a storm of emotion.

Thinking back on her disastrous meeting with Dr. Gray, she cringed at her own foolishness. Their guest wouldn't have hurt her, whiskey or no whiskey. If he'd tried, Ruth and John wouldn't have let him. Even Caleb Kincaid, for all his unspoken aversion to her, wouldn't have let her come to harm under his roof.

As for Dr. Gray's inquiries about the fictitious train accident, he'd soon have lost interest if only she'd made light of it and changed the subject. Instead, she'd worked herself into hysterics over nothing and probably made everyone more suspicious.

When all was said and done, that irrational terror had left her less shaken than those quiet, sheltered moments in the sanctuary of John Whitefeather's arms. Perhaps there had been a time, long ago, when someone had held her and whispered to her. Offered her comfort and made her feel safe, however fleetingly.

Perhaps. But Jane had no conscious recollection of it. Why, she scarcely knew how to comfort herself. Her behavior in the parlor tonight proved that.

She had never imagined welcoming a man's touch instead of flinching from it. But she had welcomed John's. Was this what he meant when he'd spoken about finding safety in a person rather than a place?

It made a kind of sense. If she could find a person with the strength to protect her. A person she could trust never to turn his strength against her. A few hours ago Jane would not have believed such a person existed. Now she wondered if he might.

Lying there, inhaling the faint scent of a man that lingered in the air, Jane thought back to the moment she'd wakened from her faint, roused by the murmur of John Whitefeather's mellow, melodic voice and the soothing gentleness of his touch. Once she had feared the damage those large, powerful hands might do to a woman's face. Tonight she'd discovered their capacity for tender healing.

When he had swept her into his arms and whisked her up the stairs, she'd felt lighter than air. In body and in spirit. Each moment from then until John had left her, Jane remembered and relived. Gloating over them like a miser over hoarded coins.

He had given her two gifts a hundred times more precious to Jane than gold. The gift of a few moments of complete peace and safety. Now she knew what it felt like, and understood why she craved it so. The second gift Jane treasured even more, if possible, for it had obviously cost John dearly.

A piece of his past. A piece of himself. Jagged and bloody. Exhumed from the dark depths of his heart.

She'd wept for the boy who had seen his parents and brothers killed, and for the girl who'd watched her mother
and brother perish of fever, and had waited in vain for the father who would never come home.

She understood the ache of his grief, the void of his loneliness and the crippling burden of his guilt. For all their superficial differences, they were very much alike at heart.

 

“That was a delicious supper, Mrs. Kincaid.” The doctor pushed back his chair. “I appreciate the invitation. I get so busy with my new practice I sometimes don't remember to eat regularly.”

“You'll need to put a little more meat on your bones to keep you warm through a Montana winter,” replied Ruth.

John didn't need a road sign to see where she was headed.

“A doctor spends all his time looking after other folks. He needs a good wife to look after him.”

But not the woman lying upstairs in her darkened room. John's cheek still tingled from the sensation of pressing against Jane's hair.

Dr. Gray exchanged glances with Caleb and John as he chuckled. “I'm not sure my profession leaves me enough time to do justice to a marriage, Mrs. Kincaid.”

For the first time that evening, John looked on the doctor with approval.

Ruth waved away Dr. Gray's protest. “Oh, you'll change your tune once you meet the right woman, isn't that so, Caleb?”

“Can't argue with that, my dear.” Caleb Kincaid reached over the table and laid a hand on his wife's. “Running a ranch keeps a fellow on the hop, too, Doc. But having a family is what makes everything else in a man's life worth doing.”

Ruth's dark eyes glowed as she smiled at her husband. It wasn't only a sense of obligation to Jane that made his sister take up matchmaking, John realized. She also wanted to help others find the special happiness she and Caleb had discovered.

“I wish you'd got the chance to know Miss Harris a little better.” Ruth shot John a sharp glance, as if Jane's fainting spell had been all his fault. “She's the one who cooked this dinner you enjoyed so much.”

John knew perfectly well that Ruth had done at least half the work, but he kept his mouth shut for fear he'd never eat in this house again.

“Give her my compliments.” The doctor rose. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I should be getting back to town.”

Winslow Gray reminded John of a stag sniffing the wind for predators, bunching the muscles of his hindquarters to flee at the first shot.

“Why don't you give them to her yourself the next time you see her?” Ruth followed their guest to the front entrance, beckoning for Caleb and John to come along. “I'm planning a housewarming for Caleb's brother and his family as soon as their new place is finished. Jane would be glad to have a handsome gentleman like you to squire her to the party, I'm sure.”

John caught a glimpse of himself in the looking glass by the coat tree. He hardly recognized the man scowling back at him.

The doctor didn't say a word as he put on his coat, then picked up his hat and satchel. He shook hands with Caleb and with John.

And finally with Ruth. “Can I tell Jane to expect your invitation?” she pressed.

John winced at his sister's lack of subtlety. Why didn't she just lead Jane down the main street of Whitehorn
in a bridal gown with a sign on her back saying Groom Wanted?

Dr. Gray shook his head. “I don't think so, Mrs. Kincaid.”

A whole evening's tension ebbed out of John's body.

“Give the girl a chance, Doctor,” Ruth pleaded. “It's plain as can be you need a wife and Jane needs a husband.”

“That girl doesn't need a husband, ma'am.” The doctor jammed on his hat. “She needs a good stiff bromide. Good night, folks.”

“Well, how do you like that?” grumbled Ruth as the sound of the doctors footsteps faded. “He doesn't have much manners for a city boy, does he?”

“Don't you reckon you might have a come on a little strong, honey?” Caleb made a manly effort to suppress a grin.

“We don't have time to beat around the bush. Mrs. Muldoon will be here before we know it, and what's poor Jane to do then?”

Ruth headed back to the dining room, where she began clearing dishes off the table. John and Caleb each carried a load out to the kitchen.

“I reckon that doctor is a confirmed bachelor,” announced Ruth as she poured steaming water from a kettle over the dirty dishes. “Well, that's his loss. Now who's next on our list?”

“W
ho's next on our list?” asked Ruth, a note of desperation creeping into her voice.

Henry Hill, proprietor of the Four Kings Saloon, had just ridden back to Whitehorn after an awkward evening that had ended with Jane spilling a bowlful of creamed peas into his lap.

John chuckled again, remembering it. Jane had fled upstairs in an agony of embarrassment, and for that he was sorry. But Henry Hill had those creamed peas coming to him, the way he'd been looking at her. As though she was one of his saloon girls. Why, if John had been the one passing those peas, they'd likely have landed on top of Henry's Macassar-slicked head.

“What are you laughing at?” Ruth glared her brother. “This isn't comical. First the doctor, then the minister, now Mr. Hill. We're soon going to run out of prospects. Who'd have thought it would be so hard to find a decent husband for a smart, pretty girl in Montana?”

“Jane Harris is too good to be a saloonkeeper's wife,
anyhow.” John had said so from the start, but his sister had overruled him.

Ruth shook her finger at him. “If we don't soon find a husband for Jane Harris, she could end up serving drinks in a saloon.”

“Why can't you just keep her on here if she's willing to stay?”

Caleb frowned. “My ranch isn't a settlement house for runaway gals from the East Coast. Besides, three women in one kitchen is nothing but a recipe for trouble.”

“The Mormon folks down in Utah seem to make out fine.”

“Then maybe we ought to ship Miss Harris off to Salt Lake City.”

“Now who's being comical?”

Ruth hurled a dish towel at John and another one at Caleb. “Stop it this minute, both of you. Caleb's right, there won't be enough work for three of us when Mrs. Muldoon gets here. Besides, Jane deserves a home and family of her own. She'd make a wonderful mother—have you seen the way she is with Barton?”

John growled something like a
yes
as he dried the bowl that had earlier held the creamed peas. Of course he'd seen how tenderly Jane cared for his nephew. He'd also seen how some folks in town looked askance at the little fellow on account of his Cheyenne blood. Jane had never once looked at Barton like that, or shown any favor toward Zeke, the child of two white-skinned parents.

Ruth was right, though; Jane deserved a better future than tending other people's houses and children. He'd taken selfish glee in watching Ruth's matchmaking go sour. Just because he wanted to keep Jane around where he could enjoy the pleasure of her company without taking any responsibility for her.

Well, enough of that. He was not the man for her, no matter how she had begun to plague his dreams.

The way she'd behaved around Dr. Gray, Reverend McWhirter and Henry Hill proved beyond doubt that she had too sensitive a nature to withstand the life of a ranch foreman's wife. Besides, he already had a family—the folks at Sweetgrass. He owed his first duty to them.

Time for him to stop playing dog in the manger and do whatever he could to help Jane. Even if that meant helping her become the wife of another man.

“As far as prospective husbands go, Amos Carlton's our ace in the hole,” said Caleb. “Recent widower. Bags of money. A fine house. Upstanding citizen. Not as young as he used to be, but still a fine figure of a man. I don't know but Jane might be all the better for an older husband.”

John kept his eyes on the glass he was drying. Amos Carlton? The hotel proprietor was easily old enough to be Jane's father. Not to mention fastidious to the point of being prissy. John had often wondered what drew a man like Amos to the Montana frontier.

But Amos did have a nice house and plenty of hired help. Jane wouldn't have to work as hard as she did around Ruth and Caleb's place. Amos was a soft-spoken man, too. If he took a fancy to Jane, John didn't doubt he'd treat her like a queen and defer to her the way he had to his late wife. Perhaps not demand too much from her in the bedroom.

John privately wondered if fears about the marriage bed might account for Jane's reaction to the suitors Ruth had been throwing at her head.

“Amos Carlton wouldn't have been my first pick.” Ruth stared off into space, nodding her head slowly. “But the better I get to know Jane, the more I think he might be just the man for her. Let's not waste any time, then. We can take Jane into town for dinner at the Carlton Hotel.
Caleb, you have a word with Amos beforehand, coax him to be Jane's escort to Brock and Abby's housewarming party.”

Caleb held up his hand. “Hold your horses, now. If we fix Jane up with Amos and she carries on like she has with the last three, it'll be time to throw in our hand. That gal is just a bundle of nerves around strangers. Do you suppose we could slip her a nip of spirits before the party to calm her down?”

“Is whiskey your answer to everything?” Ruth flashed her husband a wry grin as she handed him another wet plate.

“No.” He leaned over and whispered something in her ear that made Ruth laugh and pretend to swat him.

As John watched the two of them carrying on, he felt like a starving dog peering in a butcher's window. Picking up a stack of plates and saucers, he carried them into the dining room to put away in the sideboard.

He returned to the kitchen just in time to hear Ruth say, “You're right about one thing. We have to find some way to calm Jane down around strangers, or Amos'll never be able to court her, let alone propose. I declare that girl's as skittish as a mustang filly.”

The kitchen went quiet.

John glanced at his sister, only to find her watching him the way a hawk would watch a prairie dog hole.

“What did I do?”

A slow smile spread across Ruth's face. It made the hairs on the back of John's neck rise.

“It's not what you've done,
hestatanemo.
It's what you're going to do.”

“Ooh, and what's that, exactly?”

“You're going to gentle our nervous little filly so Amos Carlton will stand a chance with her.”

 

If Jane hadn't known better, she would have sworn John Whitefeather was nervous.

The big ranch kitchen was empty but for the two of them. Zeke had gone off to do his chores, and Ruth was upstairs giving the baby a bath while Jane fixed supper. John had ambled in a few minutes earlier, looking mysteriously shamefaced, then proceeded to pour himself a cup of coffee.

Ever since that night John had carried her up to bed, Jane had found herself more awkward than ever around him. He'd never mentioned those moments of chaste intimacy they'd shared, nor had he made any move to touch her since. Jane was beginning to wonder if she'd dreamed it all. Certainly she'd relived it in her dreams often enough in the past two weeks.

The silence in the kitchen grew oppressive. Jane cleared her throat. “Looks like rain. I'm glad Ruth and I retrieved the laundry from the clothesline.”

“A few drops maybe.” John avoided her eyes, staring instead into his coffee cup as if he could divine the weather by reading the dregs. “Not as much as the ground needs.”

He looked as if he wanted to say something more to her, then he changed his mind.

Jane tried again. “Busted many broncos lately?”

“I don't break horses, ma'am. I gentle 'em. Some cowboys think my way takes too long, but Caleb's wise enough to see that it's better in the long run. Maybe you could bring Barton out sometime to watch me at work.”

“Thank you. I'd like that.” She also liked the sound of his work—
gentling
horses. No question, John had the strength and the will to master an animal by brute force, but he chose to go about it another way.

“Say, Jane…”

“Yes?”

“The Kincaids are having a housewarming party for Brock and Abby this Friday night. Get a jump on celebrating the Fourth of July, too.”

Jane nodded. “I know. Ruth and I are going to be busy the next few days cooking for it.”

She had heard all about Caleb's pretty redheaded sister-in-law from Zeke, who was best friends with Abby's son, Jonathon. It flabbergasted Jane to think of Abby running her own hardware business and raising a child single-handedly before she'd married Brock Kincaid. No question, Abby was the kind of strong, determined woman a Montana man needed for a wife.

“I was wondering…” John looked out the window, then back at the tabletop, anywhere but at her. “Zeke and me are riding over early to take some of the food. We wondered if you'd like to come along with us?”

“Oh, I can't go to the party.” She didn't want to, either. A whole evening in the midst of a bunch of strangers was her notion of hell. “Ruth'll need me to stay home and look after Barton.”

“No I won't.” Ruth strode into the kitchen with Barton in her arms, all glowing and downy-headed from his bath. “Folks back East may leave their young'uns at home when they get together with their neighbors, but hereabouts we just bring them along. There'll be plenty of young girls at Brock and Abby's place anxious to mind the babies. We can't all drive over in the one buggy, though, so it'd be a big favor to me if you'd tag along with John and Zeke to watch that they don't eat all the food I'm sending with them.”

“I suppose…if you really need me to.” She could always
just sneak off to a quiet corner somewhere until it was time to come home.

“Good. That's all settled then. Tomorrow, we bake.”

 

Bake they did, starting not long after sunrise and well into the afternoon of the next day.

Trays of buttermilk biscuits and cinnamon rolls. Crocks of rusty-brown baked beans. Pans of red flannel hash. Apple pies, rhubarb pies, red bean pies and vinegar pies. Plum cake, lemon cake and Ruth's specialty, cinnamon cake.

By midafternoon, when Ruth sent her to take Barton for a walk, Jane wondered if her cheeks hadn't been baked to a permanent rosy glow from bending over a hot oven. She had a fat cinnamon roll, still warm from the oven, wrapped in a napkin and tucked in the pocket of her apron as a treat for John. Barton was gnawing on a hard rusk Ruth had baked specially for him to cut teeth on.

Though she still shrank from the prospect of an evening spent in the company of so many strangers, Jane found herself looking forward to the buggy ride with John…and Zeke. The night before, she'd sifted through Marie Kincaid's trunk, looking for a pretty dress to wear to the party. One that wouldn't expose her shoulders.

“Would you like to go visit your uncle John and watch him gentle a horsey?” she asked Barton.

“Unka-unk!” The baby squealed, rocking up and down in her arms doing a good imitation of a rider's motion on horseback. “Or-
sey!
”

Jane laughed and rubbed noses with him. “That's right—horsey! You'll soon be chattering up a storm, won't you, my little cowboy?”

Instantly, her smile melted. By the time Barton was talking well, she wouldn't be here to enjoy his conversation. Mrs. Muldoon would be capably in charge, no doubt. A
sensible woman who could be counted upon not to faint on the sofa or spill creamed peas all over the Kincaids' guests.

Jane's skin crawled as she remembered the way Mr. Hill had reached under the tablecloth and laid a hand on her knee. Why couldn't she have passed him the dish, then casually slid her chair out of reach?

With a sigh, she set Barton on his feet and held tightly to his hand so he could toddle the last few steps to the corral, where John spent most of his time. As they walked, Jane fell into her melancholy musings again.

She'd worked her heart out to win herself a permanent place at the Kincaid ranch, and she was proud of all the new skills she'd mastered in the past several weeks. Though she sensed that Ruth liked her, the Kincaids hadn't offered to keep her on. Only the other night, Caleb had let slip a reference to Mrs. Muldoon's expected arrival in another couple of weeks.

So much for making herself indispensable.

The sturdy, cosy ranch house had come to feel like home to Jane in a way Mrs. Endicott's grand, cold mansion never had. But would anyone here remember her name when she'd been gone a week?

“What's wrong, Jane? You look like you've just lost your last friend.”

She glanced up to see John leaning over the corral fence, wearing a look of earnest concern.

I'm about to lose my only friends.
The words crowded on the tip of her tongue, begging to be spoken, but Jane refused to utter them. How was she ever going to survive here in the West if she didn't toughen up a little?

“Why does everyone always think there's something wrong with me?” John Whitefeather was perhaps the only person with whom she felt safe to express annoyance. “First
Dr. Gray taking my pulse and prescribing bromides. Then the minister wondering if I had some sort of burden on my conscience.”

“I'm sorry if I misread your look just now, but I don't reckon I did.” John held out his arms for Barton, and Jane lifted the little fellow up to him. “Folks tell you a lot about how they're feeling by the way they move and how they hold themselves. Horses are like that, too.”

He nodded toward a horse in the corral behind him, an equine patchwork of white, black and brown. “See how that little paint has her tail down tight between her legs? That means she's nervous. If she tilts her chin way up, it'll be a sign she's bothered about something, like maybe I'm walking toward her too fast.”

“What if she keeps her head down?” For a moment, Jane forgot her own troubles, fascinated by John's profound understanding of the animals he worked with.

One corner of John's straight, solemn mouth arched upward. “If she does that, it tells me she's not paying attention. What I watch for is the minute a horse will lick her lips. It usually means she's willing to try what I'm asking of her.”

“And what might that be?” The words tickled in Jane's throat.