A Willing Spirit, A Ghostly Romance

CHAPTER THREE

  Tessa watched as Micah snubbed the injured gelding to a post in the barn, and wondered how she had managed this long without him. He tackled the most grueling chores without complaint, handling saw and shovel, hammer and harness with equal ease. The horses quickly grew to trust him; even the most high-spirited of them obeyed his gentle commands.

  But his effect on the ranch, and on Tessa herself, went beyond skill and brute strength. As the days passed, the ever-present knot of worry in her stomach began to loosen. The list of repairs shortened and the roster of future improvements that now seemed possible expanded. She recognized an almost-forgotten emotion swelling within her; because of Micah, she was beginning to hope again.

  She alternated these days between an almost giddy happiness and trembling wariness. It didn't seem right to be so dependent on a man who was after all, virtually a stranger. The same quiet strength that drew her might in the end prove to be nothing but a trap to lure her into behavior she'd regret later. She told herself she was being wise to keep her distance from him, but then there were times like these, when they were forced to work together, that made her doubt the strength of her resolve to remain unaffected by him.

  She watched now as he slipped a pair of hobbles around the horse's hind legs. As he straightened once more, he stroked his hand down the animal's broad flank. Against the horse's dark coat, the light tan of his fingers contrasted sharply. They were long and square-tipped, disconcerting in their masculinity.

  "You go around and stand in front of him, where he can see you," he instructed Tessa. "Scratch his ears or whatever you think will help keep him calm."

  She welcomed the opportunity to concentrate on something besides him, and his overwhelming nearness. "I didn't do a very good job of calming him down the first time," she said as she took her place at the gelding's head. She smoothed the whorls of hair between the animal's ears. Her own fingers were red and work-roughened. She curled them under to hide the broken nails, wondering if Micah had noticed.

  "Well, this is really a job for two people.” He bent and reached for the gelding's injured foot. The horse lowered its ears and did its best to step away, but Micah captured the foreleg firmly in his hands and examined the swelling on the left front pastern.

  Tessa winced. She couldn't stand to see an animal in pain. Especially one of her animals. "I was trying to lance it the day I broke my arm. I thought I'd taken care of it, but now I see it's much worse."

  "The infection doesn't look to have spread too far yet.” Micah held the injured leg firmly with one hand. With the other, he reached up and stroked the horse's neck, speaking in low tones. "It's all right, fella. You're going to be just fine."

  The soft murmuring sent a tremor through her, as if the words were meant for her.

  He slipped the knife from the sheath at his side and Tessa looked away. The horse jerked and let out a plaintive squeal as Micah opened the wound, and the foul smell of infection filled the air. "That was a nasty one all right," Micah observed. He braced against the struggling animal and held the leg firm, carefully cleaning the wound with the tip of the knife. Then he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a tobacco tin he had earlier instructed Tessa to fill with a mixture of powdered sulfur and lard. "You brought the bandages?" he asked as he packed the wound with the thick salve.

  "Right here.” She pulled the strips of linen from her skirt pocket and held them out to him. He wound the bandage around and around the fetlock, weaving a neat covering. His hands moved swiftly, the fingers deft, with no wasted motion. She watched, mesmerized by the juxtaposition of such strength and gentleness. This hardly seemed the same man who had faced her outside her bedroom the other afternoon, frightening her with his barely-controlled fury.

  Or was it only his overwhelming maleness that frightened her -- the power he had to distract her attention from everyday duties and send her thoughts spinning off into foolish fantasy? What good could come of allowing her mind to wander so? Yet even now, in the close confines of the barn, his presence overwhelmed her. Bent to doctor the horse, his shoulder brushed against her skirts, and a corresponding tremble shot through her. Beneath the mixed odors of medicine and manure, his own musky scent teased her senses, and she was unable to tear her gaze away from him, as if she felt obligated to memorize the part of his hair and the solid line of his spine.

  "There. That ought to do it.” He released the gelding's foot and straightened, meeting her gaze head-on.

  She felt a hot blush wash over her face, as if she were a child caught in some forbidden act. Half-afraid he would read the hidden longings in her eyes, she turned away. "Thank you for taking care of that for me," she said, anxious to change the subject. "Have you had a chance to look over the other animals? Is there one in particular you'd like ride? Feel free to do so."

  She started down the row of horse boxes and felt him fall into step behind her. At the end, she stopped and looked through an open box into the corral beyond, at the horses milling there. "The sorrel gelding is a good mount," she said. Will's favorite, in fact. She worried her lower lip between her teeth. What did it mean that she was so willing to give Will's horse to this man? "Or maybe you'd prefer one of the Morgans."

  He stopped beside her, arms resting on the top of the half-door leading into the stall, almost, but not quite touching her. "What about that strawberry roan over there? She's a nice animal."

  Tessa didn't try to hide her dismay at his choice. "That's Pigeon. You don't want her."

  "Why not?"

  "She's a runaway.” She shook her head. "As soon as she gets her head, she runs -- usually back to the barn here. I've tried everything I know to break her of the habit, but it's no use.” She sighed. "I can't sell her and I can't ride her. I don't know what I'm going to do."

  "Then why do you keep her around?"

  She hesitated. Would he dismiss her feelings as feminine foolishness? Well, what if he did? She lifted her chin. "Because I like her. In spite of everything, she has a sweet personality. And she's beautiful. Maybe I'll use her as a brood mare."

  Micah clicked his tongue and held out his hand, coaxing the mare over to him. He rubbed the horse's nose and smoothed his hand along her jaw. "Why don't you let me work with her? See what I can do?"

  "I doubt if it will do any good. I've tried everything. I'm beginning to think she's ruined."

  "Oh, I don't know. . . a lady like this. . . maybe she just needs a man's touch."

  His eyes met hers and a bolt of heat shimmered through her. She flinched, fumbling for composure. "F. . . feel free to work with her if you like. I'm grateful for your help."

  "Then why do you resist it so?"

  His hand on her shoulder robbed her of speech and thought. Her breath caught. Even to her ears it was a pitiful, desperate sound.

  "What do I have to do to convince you I mean you no harm?" he asked.

  No physical harm, perhaps. But he could so easily upset the delicate equilibrium she'd established in her life, this balance between passion and pain she'd struggled to obtain. Some part of her longed for those dizzy heights of happiness that were part and parcel of the business of falling in love. But the rest of her cringed at the thought of the searing pain that always came along sooner or later. Better to ignore the tug of attraction she felt for Micah and avoid hurting them both.

  Then why couldn't she bring herself to pull away from him now? Instead, she all but leaned into him, savoring the weight of his hand on her, and the heat of his skin through the thin calico of her dress.

  "Hello! Anyone home?"

  The shout shocked her from her reverie. She jerked away from Micah and hurried to the door of the barn. A man on a dark bay was walking toward them. "Who is that?" Micah asked, close behind her.

  She shook her head. "I've never seen him before.” Still shaken by what had passed between them in the barn, she brushed the dirt from her hands and walked out to meet the visitor.

  "Good morning, ma'am.” He
pulled the horse up short at the picket fence and swept a broad-brimmed black hat from his head. Sunlight glinted on his brown-gold hair. He was a tall man, wearing a starched white shirt and a black broadcloth suit. Tessa pegged him as either a preacher or a gambler. No one else in these parts dressed so fine.

  "I'm Reverend Jonathan Deering, the new Methodist minister in Pony Springs.” He smiled, an expression full of warmth. "I'm looking for a woman called Tessa Bright."

  "I'm Tessa Bright.” Now why was a preacher looking for her? "Won't you get down? Come in and have some refreshment."

  He replaced the hat on his head and swung down out of the saddle. "I'd like to water my horse first."

  "You can turn him loose in the corral.” She went to open the gate for him, but Micah was there first, regarding the preacher with a less than friendly expression. "This is Micah Fox," she said. "He helps me around the ranch."

  Deering offered his hand and Micah shook it, his gaze sweeping over the preacher, taking his measure. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fox.” Deering openly stared at Micah, his smile broadening, then he leaned forward, excitement in his voice. "I hope you won't think I'm impertinent, but, you're an Indian, aren't you?"

  Micah stiffened. "Half."

  "Ah. Well I've not met many Indians before. None, actually. I've seen pictures, of course, and done some reading. . . “ He glanced at Tessa. "From the beginning of my ministry, I've felt a strong calling to minister to this nation's native peoples."

  Micah frowned. "No offense, Reverend, but most Indians I know have had about all the ministering to by white people that they can stand."

  Deering's smile didn't dim. "Then it's time for a new approach, don't you agree?"

  Tessa wasn't sure what any of this had to do with her. Had the preacher ridden all the way from town just to meet his first Indian? "What brings you out here today, Reverend?"

  At once, he assumed the dignified posture of a man in the pulpit -- sober expression, hands clutching his lapels. "I've been instructed to pay you a call."

  She caught her breath. So the town busybodies had decided to send the new preacher to make her see the error of her ways, had they? "Sent by whom?"

  His face paled and he let his hands fall to his sides. "Well, uh. . . I'm not at liberty to say."

  Tessa stared. The good reverend looked decidedly. . . guilty? What was going on here?

  Deering cleared his throat. "Actually, I plan to visit all my flock. You're the first."

  All this time, Micah had never taken his eyes from them. He stood beside the corral gate, his gaze fixed on her as if he could read every thought behind her words. The scrutiny made her uneasy, as if he too, like those in town, might weigh her and find her wanting. "Come in to the house, Reverend," she said, turning away. "I'll fix you a glass of cool water."

  "This is a lovely place you have here, Mrs. Bright," Deering said as he fell into step beside her.

  Tessa glanced up at the house. Though the unpainted wood had weathered to silver over the years, and the roof was pocked with patches, she still loved the home she and Will had built together. "My husband and I built the house and barn five years ago," she said. "Before that, we lived in a dugout on the prairie."

  The preacher opened the gate in the picket fence and held it aside for her to pass in front of him. "I understand you're a widow."

  So he had been talking to people in town. What else had they told him? "Yes, my husband passed on a little more than a year ago.” What would the good reverend think if she told him Will was now a ghost? She crossed the porch and went into the house, his boot heels ringing on the plank floors as he followed her to the kitchen. The smell of beans simmering with bacon and onions -- dinner cooking in a pot on the back of the stove -- perfumed the air in here.

  "My sympathies. It must have been difficult for you, managing alone."

  "It was.” She took a cup from a hook under the cabinet and filled it from the bucket by the door. "After I broke my arm, I hired Mr. Fox to help. Things have been easier since then."

  "You have no children?"

  "No. Will and I never did.” She braced herself against the pity that came to his eyes. It was always this way, though she'd long since stopped feeling sorry for herself.

  "I'm very sorry to hear that.” He cleared his throat. "So is it just you and Mr. Fox here now?"

  She froze, the dipper half out of the water pail. Of course, she might have expected this. The townspeople would read the worst possible scenario into the most innocent actions. But she hadn't seen any of them racing out here with offers to help her since Will's death. Flushed with anger, she turned to face the preacher. "I assure you, there is nothing the least bit improper about my relationship with Mr. Fox. He is my employee. He sleeps in the barn."

  Reverend Deering paled and tugged at his collar. "Of course not, Mrs. Bright. I never meant to imply --"

  She handed him the cup of water. "Now that you've done your duty and paid your call, is there anything else you need to say?"

  He took a long drink. "I'll be preaching my first sermon in Pony Springs tomorrow. I hope I'll see you there."

  She held herself still, wary of showing too much interest in the invitation, though a little flare of hope shot up within her. "It's been a long time since I've been to church," she said.

  He focused kind blue eyes on her. "Why is that?"

  Chin up, she tried not to let the hurt creep into her voice. "I wasn't made to feel welcome the first few times I attended, so I quit coming."

  His face sagged downward, a picture of distress. "Now I understand the importance of my visit today."

  What an odd thing to say. "What do you mean?"

  He shook his head. "Only that it's clear that there are many here the church must reach out to.” He handed her the empty cup. "I hope you won't let your past experiences keep you from attending worship tomorrow. I mean to make a difference here."

  His earnestness moved her. "I. . . I'll give it some thought," she said. "Thank you for stopping by."

  "Until tomorrow, then.” He reached out and clasped both her hands in his, a gesture filled with encouragement and comfort. She followed him out onto the porch and watched while he fetched the bay and mounted up again. When he was on his way once more, she returned to the kitchen, feeling unnerved by the encounter. Preacher Deering had been kind, in spite of her less-than-welcoming attitude. Maybe she would go to hear him preach tomorrow.

  "So what did you think of Pony Springs' new pulpit pounder?” Will's voice came from near the stove, where a wooden spoon was tracing figure eights in the pot of simmering beans.

  She went and took the spoon from him, flinching only a little at his icy touch. "Were you listening to us the whole time?"

  "Someone had to make sure dinner didn't burn."

  "Since when are you so interested in cooking?"

  An empty chair pushed back from the table. "I like the smell. Since I can't eat anymore, I have to be content with savoring the aroma of food. So tell me, did you like Reverend Deering?"

  She shrugged. "He seems like a nice enough man."

  "He really knows horses, too. You saw the bay he was riding? Fine animal, that. I spotted him yesterday when he came into town."

  She tasted the beans and added a little salt. She hadn't thought before about what Will did when he wasn't with her. "What were you doing in town yesterday?"

  "Oh, just looking around. Deering came alone -- no mention of a wife. And of course, you can't get any more respectable than a preacher. The minute I laid eyes on him, I knew you'd like him."

  Almost choking on her own breath, she whirled to face the chair, the spoon in her hand dripping onto the floor. "No, Will! You can't be serious!"

  "Why not? He's the perfect man to look after you and the ranch."

  She shook her head. "I'm sure Reverend Deering isn't interested in me that way."

  "Why not? This is a prosperous ranch. You're a pretty woman. What's not to interest a
man?"

  She turned back to the stove and began stirring the beans so furiously she was in danger of turning them into soup. "I'm sure the reverend is more concerned about his ministry here."

  "He'd be concerned about you and the ranch, too, if he received a 'calling' to do so. He seems very big on callings."

  She gasped. "You wouldn't!” The spoon slid into the pot as she clenched both hands into fists. "I told you before I'm not interested in remarrying. Now that Micah is here, I'm managing just fine."

  The chair scraped against the floor and a sudden chill cloaked her back. "Micah Fox is only a temporary solution. You need someone who can take care of the ranch like an owner. And someone to take care of you like a husband."

  She stiffened. "So what I want doesn't matter at all? You'd marry me off to a man I don't even know?"

  "All I'm asking is for you to give him a chance. He's everything you could want in a second husband. Trust me."

  The coldness at her back melted away, and she knew he was gone -- too obstinate to entertain any further argument from her. She slumped against the dry sink, feeling angry and defeated. How do you know what's best for me? she wanted to ask him. You were married to me, but that doesn't mean you could know what's really in my heart.

  How could you, when I'm not even sure what's there myself?

  #

  Micah turned the doctored gelding loose in an empty stall, then busied himself with odd jobs around the barn. He had no desire to join Tessa and the preacher in the house and endure more of Tessa's uneasiness and the preacher's questions about Indians.

  Maybe he'd been wrong to touch her, back there when she tried to turn away from him. He thought he'd seen something in her eyes, some longing that echoed his own empty feelings, and he hadn't been able to stop himself from reaching out to her. But he must have been wrong. She wanted nothing to do with him.

  He waited until the preacher left before he washed up at the pump and went in for supper. Tessa turned from the stove as he came through the back door and greeted him with a smile that halted him in his tracks, like a man surprised by unexpected beauty. He'd known prettier women in his time, but none with this combination of delicateness and strength that moved him so. She was like some wild flower that had been trampled and bruised, but continued to bloom, unbowed.

  "That gelding looks like he's coming along real well," she said, placing a cup of water at his place at the table.

  He nodded and moved to his chair. "He'll do."

  She slid a plate of beans in front of him, and another of corn bread, steam curling up from its surface. Then she filled her own plate and sat across from him. "I'll need you to hitch the wagon for me in the morning," she said. "I've decided to go into town. To church.” She glanced at him, her eyes asking his opinion or approval, he wasn't sure which.

  "Reverend Deering's church?” His stomach tightened as he said the man's name.

  She nodded, and crumbled a piece of cornbread atop her beans. "He seems very nice. Very sincere."

  Micah shrugged off this praise. "Doesn't know much about Indians."

  She nodded. "But he struck me as the type who would be willing to learn."

  "You've taken a shine to him mighty fast.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. Who was he to judge her choice of friends?

  "I do like him.” Her voice trembled. "He's the first person from town who's had two nice words to say to me since Will's passing."

  Of all the things she might have said, this shocked him most. He stared at her, at the pale part separating the thick strands of her brown hair. She looked very young to him, too young to know such grief. "I don't understand. What did you ever do to anybody in that town?"

  She shook her head and studied her plate, her fork making roads between hills of beans and cornbread. "More what I didn't do, I guess. I didn't conform to their idea of what was right and proper."

  Her words were like sparks that started a burning in his chest, spreading warmth throughout his body. "You didn't fit in."

  "No.” She shrugged and he could almost see the thought behind the gesture. She was shrugging off self-pity, refusing to dwell on the past. How many times had he done the same? "Maybe Reverend Deering will help to change all that," she added. "He said he was sent to talk to me. Seems like I ought not pass up the chance to make peace, so to speak."

  He clenched his jaw to keep back the ugly words that matched his ugly feelings. He had little charity in his heart for any people who would shun this young woman who hardly seemed capable of harming a flea. He'd spent too many years on the receiving end of wounding words and stinging looks from folks like them. A few kind words from a preacher couldn't wipe all that away.

  "Will you hitch up the wagon for me?" she asked.

  He nodded. "Of course.” He looked across at her bowed head, at her fingers smoothing the edge of the tablecloth. She looked so forlorn, and alone. "I'll drive you into town if you like."

  "No!” She looked up, eyes wide, and covered her mouth with two fingers, as if she wished she could take back that sudden denial. "I mean... well, it's nice of you to offer... but. . . "

  He gripped the fork so hard it was in danger of bending. Fool! he cursed himself. Of course she wouldn't want to be seen in town with the likes of him. "I understand.” He shoveled a forkful of beans into his mouth, though now they tasted like so much sawdust.

  The silence around them had the heavy quality of the air before an impending thunderstorm, thick and hard to breathe. "Of. . . of course you may come to church with me tomorrow," she said after a long moment, her voice thin and waivery. "I would never deny you the opportunity of Christian worship."

  The stilted speech grated on his nerves. "Don't worry yourself over my soul," he snapped. "I've been baptized proper enough, in Peach Creek on my fourteenth birthday.” He broke a wedge of cornbread in half. The rich corn aroma wafted to him on the steam, reminding him of the mist that had hung heavy on the water that long-ago day. Without much effort, he could still feel the stinging cold of the creekwater closing over his head as the preacher bent him backwards and dunked him under. He'd come up sputtering, hoping for a new beginning, and some kind of acceptance from those around him.

  But all the river water in the world couldn't change the color of his skin, or bleach out the black of his hair. "You go on by yourself tomorrow. Make your peace. I've got plenty to do around here as it is."

  They ate in silence for a while. He hardly tasted his food, his senses overwhelmed by an awareness of her and the sadness that hung like a veil around her. Was she thinking about past hurts or regrets? Was she fretting over the future, and what people would say when they learned she'd hired a half-breed to come work for her?

  "You're welcome to a bath tonight.” The soft words startled him as he was scraping the last of his meal from the plate.

  He glanced up and saw her eyes fixed on him, meek and apologetic. "I think I have some clothes packed away that will fit you."

  He wanted to harden his feelings against her, to fix a safe distance between them. Instead, the words he spoke were gruff, half-joking. "You think after a week of shoveling manure I need a bath?"

  A half-smile danced to her lips, shy and flirtatious. "I wasn't trying to be rude, but now that you mention it. . . "

  He didn't think she meant to tease him, but the look sent a spasm to his groin, a shock of desire made stronger by the knowledge it could never be satisfied. He'd have to content himself with moments like this, when he could imagine they were close. He nodded. "Sounds like a good idea."

  "I'll leave the water in the tub for you," she said. "When I'm done, I'll put a lamp in the window. You'll have the kitchen all to yourself."

  He started to tell her he'd spent too much of his life 'all to himself' but rejected the idea before it was fully formed. Tessa was extending him a kindness, not an invitation. He'd do well not to forget it.

  #

  Micah waited that night until he sa
w the lamp in the window, then slipped into the kitchen. The door creaked loudly as he closed it behind him, announcing his entrance. He flinched at the sound. No matter that he was here at Tessa's request, he still felt like an intruder. He'd never ventured closer than the well pump after dark, though more than once he'd stood out by the corral and watched until the light in her bedroom window blinked out.

  A zinc hip bath sat near the table, half-filled with water. A kettle steamed on the stove. A man's shirt, trousers and summer drawers were folded neatly on the table. He unfolded the shirt and held it up to his chest. Tessa's husband had been a broad man, thick through the shoulders and arms. He tried the pants and found them too short, but tucked into his boots, they would do. The garments were clean and ordinary. They told him nothing he wanted to know: what had Tessa's husband been like? How did she feel about him? Did she grieve for him, still?

  He laid aside the clothing and turned to the fresh towel and soap that rested on a chair beside the tub. The towel was worn soft, and the soap smelled like lavender. Like Tessa. He glanced overhead. Was she still awake, listening to him moving around down here? Did his presence in her house disturb her? Or was she already asleep, her drying hair spread out across her pillow?

  He forced the image from his thoughts and turned back to the bath. Working quickly, he added fresh water from the kettle, then stripped off his own worn-out garments and sank into the tub.

  A sigh escaped him as the warm water flowed over him, teasing knots from muscles and aches from joints. When he'd first come, as a boy of twelve, to live with his white relatives, he'd thought they meant to boil him alive in the hot bath. But he'd soon learned to look on a good soak in a tub as one of the advantages of living a white life, along with fried chicken every Sunday and thrilling stories revealed in their printed books.

  He'd have to ask Tessa if she had any books to lend him. It had been a while since he'd had a new one. He sank further into the bath, letting the hot water flow over his torso. The water was milky from where Tessa had bathed before him, and lightly scented with her perfume. He breathed in deeply and relaxed further, his imagination wandering to thoughts of how she must have looked, seated in this same tub, her hair undone and hanging damp past her full breasts. . .

  He bit back a groan and sat up straighter. Such thoughts were dangerous and best put behind him. It wouldn't do him, or Tessa, any good to pursue such fantasies. Hadn't he learned a lesson from the last time he'd dared to think of a white woman in less-than-distant terms?

  True, he'd done little to encourage that woman, Margery Watkins. But when a handsome woman forces herself upon you, going so far as to visit your tent at night, what is a normal, healthy man to do but return her attentions? He smiled at the memory. Ahh, Margery! They'd spent some pleasant hours together, though in the end he'd barely escaped being run through by a jealous colonel.

  Fortunately, he'd come to his senses in time to escape such a fate. He'd resigned his commission as Army guide and headed north. He'd outrun one brand of trouble only to meet up with another.

  Clearly, the attraction in this case was all one-sided. Tessa Bright wasn't an Army-raised adventuress, like Margery. Tessa was too respectable by half to think of getting involved with someone like him: a despised half-breed, penniless and homeless to boot. She might talk about not fitting in with people in town, but she had no idea what it meant to be a true outcast. Associating with him would damn her forever in the eyes of the respectable people in town -- even that 'sincere' preacher who professed such an interest in Indians. Reverend Deering's friendliness would likely fade when confronted with a breed who made the mistake of trying to be 'one of them.'

  Still, even a lady like Tessa might get lonely, and make a mistake she'd come to regret. Sometimes, like this afternoon in the barn, he imagined he could feel the longing in her, a need for comfort that matched his own. He'd have to take care not to encourage her, to ward off disaster for both of them.