Dark Stranger sb-4, Page 2

  The stranger shrugged in silence, but his eyes were eloquent.

  Zeke smiled cruelly at Kristin. "You'll get yours, too, sweetheart."

  "If I were you," the stranger said softly, "I'd ride out of here now, while I still could."

  Furiously, Zeke slammed his hat back on his head, then headed for one of the now riderless horses. He mounted the animal and started to turn away.

  "Take your refuse with you." The stranger indicated the dead and wounded bodies on the ground.

  Zeke nodded to his men. A number of them tossed the dead, wounded and dying onto the skittish horses.

  "You'll pay," Zeke warned the stranger again. Then his mount leaped forward and he was gone. The stranger watched as the horses galloped away. Then he turned to Kristin and she felt color flood her face as she swallowed and clutched her torn clothing. She stumbled to her feet.

  "Thank you," she said simply.

  He smiled, and she found herself trembling. He didn't look away gallantly. He stared at her, not disguising his bold assessment.

  She moistened her lips, willing her heart to cease its erratic beating. She tried to meet his eyes.

  But she couldn't, and she flushed again.

  The day was still again. The sun was bright, the sky blue.

  Was this the calm before the storm?

  Or had some strange new storm begun? Kristin could sense something in the air, an elusive crackling, as if lightning were sizzling between them. Something tense and potent, searing into her senses.

  And then he touched her, slipping his knuckles beneath her chin.

  "Think you might offer a drifter a meal, Miss —"

  "McCahy. Kristin McCahy," she offered softly.

  "Kristin," he murmured. Then he smiled again. "I could use something to eat."

  "Of course."

  She couldn't stop staring at him now, searching out his eyes. She hoped fervently that he couldn't feel the way she was trembling.

  He smiled again and brushed her fingers with a kiss. Kristin flushed furiously, suddenly aware that her breast was almost bare beneath her torn chemise and gown. She swallowed fiercely and covered herself.

  He lowered his eyes, hiding a crooked smile. Then he indicated Samson, who was just coming to in the doorway. "I think we should see to your friend first, Kristin," he said.

  Delilah stood up, trying to help Samson. "You come in, mister," she said. "I'll make you the best meal this side of the Mississippi. Miz Kristin, you get in here quick now, too. We'll get you some hot water and wash off the filth of that man."

  Kristin nodded, coloring again. "Shannon?" she whispered softly to Delilah.

  "Your sister's in the cellar. Things seem to be all right. Oh, yes, bless the heavens, things seem to be all right."

  The stranger started toward the steps, and Kristin followed, watching his broad shoulders. But then she paused and shivered suddenly.

  He had come out of nowhere, out of the dirt and dust of the plain, and he had saved her from disaster and despair.

  But Zeke Moreau had ridden away alive.

  And Zeke Moreau would surely ride back, once the stranger had ridden on and she was alone again.

  It wasn't over. Zeke had come for her once, and he would come again. He wasn't fighting for Missouri, for the South, for the code of chivalry. He was in this to loot, to murder, to rob — and to rape. He would come back for her. He sought out his enemies when they were weak, and he would know when she was weak again.

  They would have to leave, she thought. This was her home, the only home she could remember. This land was a dream, a dream realized by a poor Irish immigrant.

  But that immigrant lay dead. Gabriel McCahy lay with his Kathleen in the little cemetery out back. He lay there with young Joe Jenley, who had tried to defend him. The dream was as dead as Pa.

  She couldn't just give it up. She had to fight the Zeke Moreaus of the world. She just couldn't let Pa's death be in vain.

  But she had fought, and she had lost.

  She hadn't lost, not this time. The stranger had come.

  Kristin straightened, squared her shoulders and looked after the tall, dark man who was moving up her steps with grace and ease. The man with the set of six-shooters and the shotgun.

  The man who had aimed with startling, uncanny precision and speed.

  Who was he?

  And then she knew it didn't matter, she just didn't care. Her eyes narrowed pensively.

  And she followed the curious dark stranger into her house.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A fire burned warmly against the midmorning chill in the enormous kitchen. Even with her head back and her eyes closed, she could imagine everything Delilah was cooking from the aromas that surrounded her over the rose scent of her bath. Slab bacon sizzled in a frying pan along with hearty scrapple. There would be flapjacks, too, with melted butter and corn syrup. Delilah was also going to cook eggs in her special way, with chunks of ham and aged cheese. They were usually careful about food these days. If Quantrill's raiders didn't come looking to steal horses and cattle — or worse — the Union side would come around needing supplies. Kristin had long ago been stripped of all her illusions about the ethics of either side. There were men on both sides who claimed to be soldiers but were nothing but thieves and murderers. This wasn't a war; it was a melee, a bloody, desperate free-for-all.

  It was amazing that the family still had enough to eat. There was the secret cellar, of course. That had saved them many a time. And today it didn't matter. Today, well, today they all deserved a feast.

  The stranger deserved a feast.

  The kitchen door was pushed open, and Kristin sank deeper into the bubbles that flourished in the elegant brass bathtub, an inheritance from Kristin's mother, who had dragged it all the way over from Bristol, in England.

  She needn't have feared. It was only Delilah. "How you doin' there, child?" she demanded. She reached into the cabinet above the water pump and pulled out a bottle of Kristin's father's best Madeira. She set the bottle and a little tray of glasses on the counter and pulled the kettle off the kitchen fire to add more steaming water to Kristin's bath.

  Kristin looked into Delilah's dark eyes. "I feel like I'm never going to get clean, Delilah. Never. Not if I wash from here to doomsday."

  Delilah poured out the last of the water, warming Kristin's toes. Then she straightened and set the kettle down on the hearth. She walked over to the stove to check the bacon and the scrapple. "It could have been a lot worse," she said softly, staring out the window at the now deceptively peaceful day. "Thank the Lord for small miracles." She looked back at Kristin. "You hurry up there, huh, honey?"

  Kristin nodded and even managed a small smile. "Do we have a name on him yet?"

  The kitchen door burst open again. Kristin shrank back and Delilah swung around. It was Shannon, looking flushed, pretty and very excited.

  "Kristin! You aren't out of there yet?"

  Kristin looked at her sister, and she didn't know whether to be exasperated or relieved. She was still shaken by the events of the morning, but Shannon had put them all behind her. Of course, Shannon had been down in the cellar. And that was what Kristin had wanted. It seemed that everyone here had lost their innocence. The war didn't let you just stay neutral. Man or woman, a body had to choose a side, and you survived by becoming jaded and hardened. She didn't want that for Shannon. She wanted her sister to retain a certain belief in magic, in fantasy. Shannon had turned seventeen not long ago, and she deserved to be able to believe in innocence. She was so young, so soft, so pretty. Blue-eyed and golden blond, a vision of beauty and purity. Kristin didn't think she'd ever looked like that. When she looked at herself in the mirror she knew that the lines and planes and angles of her face were hard, and that her eyes had taken on an icy edge. She knew she looked much older than eighteen.

  She had aged ten years in the last two. Desperation had taught her many lessons, and she knew they showed in her face.

  "I'm com
ing out in just a minute, Shannon," Kristin assured her sister.

  "Slater," Delilah said.

  "Pardon?" Kristin asked her.

  "Slater." Shannon came over to the bathtub, kneeling beside it and resting her elbows on the edge. "His name is Cole Slater."

  "Oh," Kristin murmured. Cole Slater. She rolled the name around in her mind. Well, that had been easy enough. Why had she thought it would be so difficult to drag the man's name out of him?

  Shannon jumped to her feet. "Kristin's never coming out of this old tub. Shall I get the Madeira, Delilah?"

  "Sounds like someone's got an admirer," Kristin murmured.

  "I'm trying to be polite," Shannon said indignantly. She arranged the little glasses on a silver serving tray. "Honest, Kristin, he's a right courteous fellow, and he told me I shouldn't rush you, says he understands you might feel you need a long, long wash. But I think you're just plain old rude and mean. And you know what else I think? I think you're afraid of him."

  Kristin narrowed her eyes at her sister, tempted to jump from the tub and throttle her. But it was far more serious than that. "I'm not afraid of Zeke Moreau, or even Bill Quantrill and all his raiders, Shannon. I just have a healthy respect for their total lack of justice and morality. I'm not afraid of this drifter, either."

  "But you are beholden to him," Delilah reminded her softly.

  "I'm sorry," Shannon murmured.

  When Kristin looked at her sister, she saw the pain that welled up in her eyes, and she was sorry herself. Shannon had lived through the same horrors she had. She just wasn't the eldest. She wasn't the one with the responsibility.

  She smiled at Shannon. "Bring the Madeira on in, will you please? I'll be right out."

  Shannon smiled, picked up the tray and went out of the kitchen. Kristin grinned at Delilah. "Pa's Madeira, huh? You must think highly of this drifter."

  Delilah sniffed as she fluffed out the clean petticoat she'd brought down from Kristin's room. She sent Kristin a quick glare. "He ain't no ordinary drifter. We both know that. And you bet I think highly of him. Moreau might — just might — have left you alive, but he'd have hanged Samson. Slater kept my husband alive and he kept me from the block at the slave market. You bet I think highly of him."

  Kristin grinned. From what she remembered of her lovely and aristocratic mother, she knew Kathleen McCahy would have been shocked by such blunt language. Not Pa, though. Pa had made himself a rancher and a farmer; he'd learned all the rough edges of the frontier. He'd have laughed at the plain truth of her statement. Then he'd have been grateful to have Delilah safe and sound, because she and Samson were part of the family, too.

  "Want to hand me a towel, Delilah?" Kristin said, thinking again about the stranger who had arrived among them just in the nick of time. No, he wasn't any ordinary drifter, not judging by the way he handled a weapon. What was he, then? A gunslinger from down Texas way, maybe? Perhaps he'd come from farther west — from California, maybe. Somewhere he'd learned to make an art of the use of his Colts.

  He made an art of the simple act of walking, too, she thought. She shivered suddenly, remembering the silence that had followed the sudden burst of gunfire. She remembered the way his eyes had looked as he'd ordered Zeke away from her. Slate-gray eyes, steel eyes, hard and merciless. She remembered the way his frock coat had fallen along the length of his tall body, remembered his broad shoulders, remembered the way he'd looked at her. A heat that didn't come from the water seemed to flutter to life deep inside her.

  It hadn't been a romantic look, she reminded herself. She knew about romantic looks. She knew about falling in love. It was easy and gentle. It was slow and beautiful. It was the way she had felt about Adam, and it was the way he had felt about her. When he had looked at her, he had looked into her eyes. He had held her hand, awkwardly at first. He had stuttered sometimes when he had spoken to her, and he had whispered tenderly to her. That was romance. That was love. She had never felt this shameful burning inside when she had been with Adam. She had been content to hold his hand. They had been content to sit and dream. She had never once imagined him… naked.

  Appalled by her thoughts, she swallowed hard. She hadn't imagined any man naked, and certainly not this stranger. No, he had not given her any romantic looks. What he had given her was an assessment. It had been just as if he were studying a horse and liked what he saw, good bones and decent teeth. And then he had smiled, if not tenderly, at least with a certain gentility.

  Still, the way he had looked at her…

  And he had seen her nearly naked.

  Color seemed to wash over her body. She rose to reach for her towel, then fell back into the water again, shamed by the way her breasts swelled and her nipples hardened. She prayed that Delilah hadn't noticed.

  "You cold?" Delilah asked her.

  Delilah had noticed.

  Kristin quickly wrapped the big towel around herself. "A little," she lied.

  "Get over by the fire. Dry off good and I'll help you get your clothes on."

  Kristin nodded, rubbing her pink flesh dry. The fire warmed her, the flames nearly touching her. At least she would have an excuse for being red.

  When she was finished she sank into the old rocker by the fire and Delilah brought over her corset, pantalets and stockings. Kristin quickly slid into the knit stockings and pantalets, and Delilah ordered her to hold her breath while she tied up the corset.

  Kristin arched a tawny brow when she saw the dress Delilah had brought down for her. It wasn't one of her usual cotton day dresses. It was

  muslin, with soft blue flowers and double rows of black-and-white lace edging along the puff sleeves, the bodice and the hem. It was one of her best dresses.

  "Delilah —"

  "Put it on, child, put it on. We are celebrating here, remember?"

  "Oh, yes." Kristin grinned, but then she started to shiver again. She was afraid she was going to burst into tears. They were never going to be done with it. They couldn't ignore it, and they couldn't accept it. Pa had been murdered, and the same — or worse — could have happened today. Today could have been the end of everything.

  They had been saved today, but it was only temporary. Zeke would be back.

  "Lordy, Lordy," Delilah said. She and Kristin hugged one another, holding tight.

  "What are we going to do?" Delilah said.

  "We — we have to convince him to stay around a while," Kristin said softly.

  "Think he needs a job, maybe?" Delilah said hopefully.

  "Does he look like he needs a job?" Kristin said, smiling shakily as she pulled away. She turned her back to Delilah. "Hook me up, please."

  Delilah started with the hooks, sweeping Kristin's bountiful hair out of the way. When she was done she stepped back, swirling Kristin around. She surveyed her broadly, then gave her

  a big smile. "Miz Kristin, you're the prettiest little thing I ever did see!"

  Kristin flushed. She didn't feel pretty these days. She felt tired and old and worn most of the time.

  "Brush your hair now. Your little Chinese slippers are by the door. Slip them on. And go out there and see what else you can find out about that man beyond his name."

  "Yes, yes," Kristin murmured. Delilah searched her pockets for a brush. Kristin stood on tiptoes to stare into the small mirror on the kitchen door. She combed out her hair, leaving it thick and free and a little wild. She looked too pale, she thought. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lip. Then she thought about the man beyond the door again and all the color she could have wanted flooded into her face.

  "Thanks," she said, handing the brush back to Delilah. Then she pushed the door open and hurried out.

  She went through the family dining room first. Ma had always wanted a dining room, not just a table in the middle of everything else, as in so many ranch homes. Dining rooms were very proper, Ma had thought. And it was nice, Kristin decided now. The Chippendale table was covered with a lace cloth and with Ma's best silver, crystal and Roy
al Doulton plates. The table was set for three. The four young ranch hands they had remaining ate in the bunkhouse and she couldn't let a stranger know that she and

  Shannon usually just sat down with Samson and Delilah. Of course, they didn't use the silver or the crystal or the Royal Doulton every day, either.

  After the dining room she came to the parlor. There was another big fireplace here, and a braided rug before it, over the hardwood floor. Large windows looked out on the sunshine. Ma had liked things bright, even though there were heavy velvet-and-lace curtains in crimson softened by white that could be closed at sunset to hold in the warmth. The furniture here was elegant, a small settee, a daybed and fine wood chairs, and a spinet that both girls had learned to play. It was a beautiful room, meant more for a lady than for a man. Kristin knew she would find the stranger and her sister in the next room, Pa's office and library. That was a far more comfortable room, with rows of books, a huge oak desk and a pair of deacon's benches that drew up to the double-sided fireplace.

  Kristin was right. When she came through the parlor doorway, she saw that the stranger — no, Cole, his name was Cole Slater, and she had to stop thinking of him as the stranger — was indeed in this room. It was a great room. It smelled of pipe tobacco and fine leather, and it would always remind her of her father.

  Cole Slater looked good here, as if he fit the place. He'd removed his plumed hat, his spurs and his railroad coat. Kristin paused, annoyed that she was trembling again just at the sight of him. He was a handsome man, she thought, though not in any usual way. He was far from pretty, but his steel-gray eyes were arresting, and what his face lacked in actual beauty it made up in strength. It was fine-boned yet powerful, sensual yet hard. And Kristin thought that she saw still more in his face. Cole Slater was another one who had lost all his illusions. She saw it when their eyes met. She studied him, and it was several long moments before she realized that he was studying her, too.

  His knee was up, and his booted foot was resting against one of the footstools that seemed to have been cast haphazardly alongside the rows of books in the study. His boots were high, like cavalry-issue boots. His trousers hugged his long legs, betraying the lean muscles there, the trim line of his hips and the contours of his strong thighs and buttocks. His shoulders were broad, and he was tightly sinewed, and yet, he gave the appearance of being lean. A tuft of dark hair showed where his shirt lay open below his throat, and Kristin thought that his chest must be heavily matted with it.