In kind, Kate filled Marcus in on his boss's condition. "He seems to be asleep, now," she said as she turned from the sink. Still clutching a half-peeled potato, which would go into their soup for supper, she waved her hand to convey her lack of words. "I can't describe the difference, exactly. But I don't think he's still actually unconscious. I keep expecting him to jerk awake, but he doesn't."
Marcus seemed to ponder that for a moment. "Nothing to fret over, I reckon. He almost died. His body must need the sleep to heal itself up."
"But to never awaken, not even once? It worries me."
"Maybe he has—just for a minute or two—when we wasn't around."
Kate considered that. "I suppose that's possible."
Marcus swirled the dregs of coffee in his mug and took a slow sip. As he lowered the mug, he regarded Kate with a quizzical expression. "I'd think if anything would've woke him up, that fella raisin' sand in here last evenin'
would've."
Kate turned back to the sink and said nothing, not because she wished to be rude but because she didn't know how to reply.
"It ain't none of my concern, but I'm gonna ask anyways. Who in hell was that man?"
"Please don't swear, Mr. Stone," Kate chided softly. "I have a child upstairs."
"Where I come from, there's a difference between cursin' and swearin'." She heard his chair scrape across the planks. "I take it you don't wanna talk about it."
"Not really," Kate admitted.
Marcus sighed. "I heard him out on the porch, there. Yellin' like a wild man. I seen you close the door behind him, so I knowed you was all right, and I didn't reckon I should come up and stick my nose where it wasn't wanted."
Kate dug the blade of her paring knife deep into the potato.
"Just the same, I thought I oughta say somethin'. You bein' alone and all, sometimes it's nice to know you got friends." He cleared his throat, and from the corner of her eye, she saw him put his hat back on. "If he ever comes around ag'in, and you need somebody to stomp his ass, I'm usually wearin' my shit kickers."
With that, he strode from the kitchen. The butchered potato fell from Kate's hands into the sink, forgotten. She curled her fingers into tight fists and closed her eyes.
What Marcus Stone didn't understand, what he couldn't possibly understand, was that Ryan posed a far greater threat than that of physical harm.
* * *
The next three days took on a monotonous sameness. Zachariah McGovern continued to sleep like the dead, not even rousing when Kate spooned broth down him or when Marcus bathed him. The weather lived up to Marcus's opinion of it and remained fickle, burying the valley under rolling clouds one day, then steaming it dry under a relentless sun the next.
Only one spot of excitement occurred—another visitation from Nosy, Zachariah McGovern's pesky dog. To Kate's surprise, Miranda and the dog developed an almost instantaneous and mutual attachment, and because they did, Kate hadn't the heart to ask Marcus to take Nosy home. To keep the dog out of her roses, Kate kept him tethered to the porch post during the day when Miranda wasn't playing with him and brought him into the house at night.
With Nosy for a companion, Miranda ventured out of doors more bravely than before, and Kate grew accustomed to hearing the dog's bark and Miranda's laughter echoing across the fields as they romped together. Though she cautioned Miranda not to wander, Kate still worried. On warmer days, the rattlers might leave their den, and Miranda could stumble across one.
The moment Kate mentioned it, Marcus took care of that worry, and McGovern's last request before losing consciousness was finally granted. Marcus rode to town, located a miner, bought some dynamite, and blew the snake den to kingdom come.
Though Kate felt a mite guilty because Zachariah McGovern didn't really require much nursing now, she remained indoors and let Marcus continue to do the farm chores. One never knew when McGovern might take another fever or wake up, and Kate felt she should be close at hand, just in case. Marcus agreed.
That day, Kate found herself, for the first time in her memory, completely finished with her daily household chores by early afternoon. After putting Miranda down for her nap, she deep cleaned every cupboard and shelf she could think of, scrubbed the windows, and then stood forlornly in the kitchen, wondering what she might do next. It seemed sinful to read while the sun was still out. As long as there was light to see by, she should put her hands to a useful task.
What a quandary. She had no material to sew. No seeds that she could plant. Marcus already had the garden free of weeds. She had all the mending and darning done. A stew for supper was already simmering on the stove, and four loaves of fresh bread were cooling on the rack.
Driven to find something she might do, Kate crept into the sickroom to check the toes of Mr. McGovern's wool socks, which she had washed, blocked, and left neatly folded over the tops of his boots. There were no holes in the sock's toes, none on the heels, or even any worn spots. As she straightened, she spied his jeans, which lay freshly washed and folded on the bureau. She recalled running her scissors straight up the front crease of each leg. There was some mending she could do.
Glad to have a mission, Kate carried the ruined jeans to the kitchen and sat down in her rocker by the stove to begin stitching up the legs. As she sewed, she watched the seam that grew behind her needle, the frantic path she had taken that day with her scissors. She didn't suppose Mr. McGovern would be any too pleased with the mending job, but he might wear the pants to work in his fields.
After her nap, Miranda, accompanied by Nosy, joined Kate in the kitchen, and they spent a pleasant afternoon, Kate telling stories while she sewed, Miranda listening, Nosy snoozing.
Toward dusk, the house grew suddenly dark, and Kate's poor eyesight forced her to set her sewing aside. There had been a time when she had been able to do tedious work while the light was dim, but those days seemed gone forever. She stepped to the kitchen window to peer outside. Black clouds hovered over the mountains.
"Another storm," she murmured. "My guess is it'll hit tonight sometime."
Miranda came to stand beside her. "I hate 'em, Ma. I wish there'd never be storms."
Kate bent to give her daughter a hug. "If there were never any storms, we wouldn't have an excuse to sleep together."
Miranda gave a reluctant smile. "I reckon there's one good thing."
Kate straightened and ruffled her child's hair. "Since we know the storm is coming, we can start the night out right, hm? When I tuck you in, I'll climb right in after you. We'll cuddle. And I'll tell stories. Won't that be fun?"
Though Miranda nodded, Kate noticed that her gaze clung to the window, her huge eyes reflecting her dread.
"Can Nosy sleep with us?" Miranda asked.
Kate curled a finger under her daughter's chin and lifted her small face. "Miranda Elspeth Blakely! You haven't let that flea-bitten, mangy animal sleep on my fresh-scrubbed sheets?"
Miranda worried her bottom lip. "He only takes up just one little spot."
Kate cast a disparaging glance at the large dog. One little spot? "I have never in my life slept with a dog, and I don't intend to start now. And I don't want you letting him get into your bed again. Is that clear? He should be perfectly comfortable sleeping on the rug."
"Yes, Ma." Miranda gave Nosy a woebegone look. "I'm sorry, Nosy. I guess you can't sleep with me no more."
At the sound of his name, the dog cracked open one eye.
"I should say not," Kate said firmly.
That night, Kate fell asleep with Nosy's head beside hers on the pillow, his wet nose pressed against her neck.
* * *
Thunder cracked across the sky, and an instant later, a flash of lightning illuminated the room. Zach stared at the ceiling, uncertain where he was. It was a funny thing about ceilings; they all looked the same until you woke up to see an unfamiliar one.
There was a storm raising hell outside. He knew that much. But he didn't think t
he sounds were what woke him.
He blinked and lay still, absorbing the feel of the room. Slowly his senses sharpened, and he realized what had disturbed him. Warmth was pressed against his side. Trembling warmth.
Zach tensed and tucked in his chin to look. A small hand was clenched in his chest hair. Attached to the hand was a thin, flannel-draped little arm. What the hell? He squinted to see better, and saw that a head of tangled, dark hair was buried in his armpit. Miranda.
It all flooded back to him. The well. The snakes. He was in Kate Blakely's house. And damned if he wasn't still alive. Zach started to move, and pain exploded in his legs. He went limp against the mattress. It felt as if a horse had run back and forth over the top of him.
Thunder cracked again, and Miranda flinched. Zach heard Nosy whine. He lifted his head once more and strained to see, finally making out the dog, who stood beside the bed, nudging the child's back. Still a bit befuddled, Zach took a second to realize that Miranda was terrified by the thunder and that Nosy was trying to soothe her. It took him another couple of seconds to assimilate the fact that, for reasons beyond him, Miranda had sought him out for comfort, instead of going to her mother.
About a half minute after coming to that conclusion, Zach registered the crisp feel of ironed linen against his bare skin. He wasn't dressed for entertaining ladies.
He considered sending Miranda on her way, but three things forestalled him. One was that he didn't want to part with any of his chest hair, and from the way she was holding on, he didn't think he could pry her loose without losing a fistful. The second was that he barely had the strength to move, let alone to make someone else. And third, the child was clearly afraid. Zach didn't have the heart to shove her away.
Instead, he let his head fall back to the pillow and fumbled with the sheet to make sure it was tucked between their bodies. The instant he curled his arm around her, Miranda burrowed closer, her bony little knees scrambling for purchase, her hand tugging sharply on his chest hair. Zach winced but allowed her to settle in, a little self-conscious because of where she had chosen to duck her head. He had never slept with someone's face pressed just below his armpit. But he decided that if it didn't bother her, it didn't him.
Thunder ripped across the sky once more, but this time the child didn't react. Zach stared at the ceiling, more than a little humbled that she had come to trust him, a virtual stranger, so completely. He recalled their nightmarish ascent from the well. Not really a stranger, he guessed. Not after coming through something like that together.
Which was probably why she had come to him. He had been her savior once, and now she felt threatened again by the storm. Even as weak as he was, he probably seemed as large and untouchable as a mountain to her.
Zach curled a hand around her side and marveled at the fragile network of her ribs beneath his fingertips. Just like her ma, no bigger than a minute.
Smiling, he went back to sleep on that thought.
* * *
A loud crack of thunder woke Kate with a start. Groggy, she reached to put a comforting arm around her daughter and found only an empty bed beside her. She opened her eyes and sat up. Both Nosy and Miranda were gone.
Alarmed, Kate slid from bed. As she reached for her wrapper, lightning slashed across the sky and filled the room with a bolt of eerie, blue-white light. She shoved her arms into the sleeves of her wrapper and ran from the bedroom.
She knew from experience that Miranda wouldn't respond to her call if she was frightened, which she undoubtedly was with a storm raging. Kate hurried along the short corridor. When she reached the landing, another clap of thunder shook the house. She gave an involuntary start and gripped the banister.
Dear God, where was Miranda? She would be terrified. Battling her own demons, Kate descended the stairs, her skin prickling and clammy. She had to find her daughter.
After searching the entire house, Kate began to grow frantic. She had checked all Miranda's hiding places, and the child was nowhere to be found. Kate returned upstairs and looked one more time beneath each of the beds.
Then she went back down to stand in the foyer, determined not to panic. Miranda would never venture outside during a storm. Never. She had to be inside the house somewhere.
Thinking she might double-check the kitchen, Kate retraced her steps along the downstairs hall. As she passed the sickroom, she noticed that the door was ajar. Kate reached to close it, then remembered how Miranda had stopped outside this door the evening of Ryan's visit. Surely she wouldn't be in there. Not fearing men as she did.
Still, it was worth a look.
Kate pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside. Her daughter lay cradled against Zachariah McGovern's side. Scarcely able to believe her eyes, she moved closer and saw the way Miranda clung to their neighbor, even in her sleep. Oddly enough, it looked as if McGovern had turned slightly to accommodate her, his powerfully muscled arm bent to hold her.
Kate approached the bed, her intent to pick up her daughter and leave. But before she did, she noticed how Miranda's hand clutched McGovern's chest hair. It would take some tricky maneuvering to pry those tightly clenched little fingers loose. On McGovern's other side lay Nosy, his head on the spare pillow, belly up, paws dangling, his long tongue lolling limply over his teeth.
Between claps of thunder, the deep rasp of a snore made Kate start. She couldn't tell if it had come from man or beast, and then decided maybe from both. During another lull, she heard two distinct snores and Miranda's even breathing. A peaceful threesome, all sound asleep.
Kate pressed her hands against her waist, longing to snatch her daughter away from Zachariah McGovern, to hold her. But she knew her protective feelings were unfounded. The man had nearly forfeited his life to save Miranda's. Surely Kate could entrust her child into his care for the duration of the night. What point was there in waking any of them?
None at all. Except that Miranda's abandonment left Kate to weather the storm alone. Thunder rolled across the sky again, and Kate flinched. Ridiculous. She was a grown woman. This wasn't the first storm she had endured alone, and it wouldn't be the last. She drew the folded blanket up from the foot of the bed and laid it over her daughter. Then she backed from the bedroom, leaving the door ajar in case Miranda called for her.
Even with a storm shaking the house, the parlor would be within hollering distance, Kate decided. The horsehair settee would serve her well enough as a bed. As she stepped into the dark room, the wind caught an outside shutter and slapped it up against the side of the house. Then lightning flashed.
A pulsing flare of blue-white light came through the window and cast a magnified shadow of the coat tree onto the wall beside Kate. She glimpsed a looming silhouette with reaching arms. The specter gave her such a start that her feet came clear off the floor. She grabbed her throat and whirled, so frightened she couldn't scream.
Joseph.
Even as she thought it, Kate saw that the shadow wasn't a man's. Going limp, she backed against the adjoining wall and closed her eyes.
Foolish. Kate struggled to breathe. Thunder clapped again, wind moaned around the house, and her damp skin turned icy. She began to shiver and clenched her teeth to stop their chattering.
"Ma!"
Kate opened her eyes and strained to hear. The call was distant and ethereal. Real or imagined? Though she knew it might be only the fluting of the wind, Kate ran from the parlor.
"Maaaaaa!"
The storm momentarily lulled, and the foyer went black. Kate planted a hand on the wall and froze to listen to the sudden silence. She nearly screamed when thunder clapped directly above the house. She felt the vibration shudder through the floor.
Then she thought she heard Miranda calling her again. On quivering legs, Kate crept through the darkness to the sickroom. Miranda still lay sound asleep, shielded by Zachariah McGovern's large, muscular body.
"Maaaaaa…"
Kate covered her ears and squeezed her ey
es closed, tortured by the sound, praying it would stop. She hurried back to the parlor, found a pitch-black corner, and sank to the floor in a protective huddle. Carried along by the moaning wind, the child's desperate cry came to Kate again. Not Miranda, yet not imagined, a memory of her daughter's voice that came from deep within the black layers of her own mind. Never to be forgotten, never to be escaped, it would haunt her during violent storms for the rest of her life.
Chapter 8
T he sun was well up the next time Zach opened his eyes. His first awareness was of the starched white pillowcase beneath his cheek. Then he felt Miranda's small body pressed against his own. He blinked and focused on her. She lay quietly in the bend of his arm, her head leaned back so she could study his face.
Befuddled with sleep, Zach stared into her big brown eyes for a moment, then let his gaze trail slowly over her delicately made features. To his recollection, he had never seen such perfection. Finely arched sable brows capped her expressive eyes, their darkness striking a sharp contrast to her alabaster skin. On the tip of her turned-up nose was a smattering of freckles the color of brown sugar. Her mouth was etched in a delicate rose pink, the upper lip defined in two perfect peaks, the lower full.
She returned his regard with an unblinking intensity that soon made Zach begin to feel self-conscious. He wasn't surprised when she touched a finger to his jaw.
In a voice gone gravelly from disuse, he said, "That's a scar. A long time ago, I got burned real bad in a fire."
Miranda lifted her hand and placed it squarely before Zach's nose. He moved his head back and saw she had similar scars on her palm and between her fingers. Their angry red color indicated that the burns had occurred recently, probably within the last several months, and had been severe. Though not as it had at first, the newly healed tissue probably still pained her, for it took a long while for the nerves exposed by a burn to heal. Even now, seven years after the fire, Zach's cheek and neck were more sensitive to the sun than the rest of him.