“Why, you arrogant, pigheaded...” She was nearly choking on the anger that erupted, catching her by surprise. Nobody had ever brought out her temper like this barbarian and his bullying tactics.
For a moment she was at a loss for words. She was so furious she couldn’t form a single, coherent thought. But her eyes, flashing fire, and the proud lift of her head spoke volumes.
“If you ever dare to do such a thing again, I’ll...”
“I’m sure you’ll fight me. Just the way you did this time.”
She felt the rush of heat at his taunt. How dare he remind her that she hadn’t fought him. If truth be told, she’d cooperated fully in that kiss.
Laying bare her shame was the last straw. She swung her hand in a wide arc and connected with his cheek. The impact had her palm stinging.
In silence she stalked from his room, slamming the door on the way out. In the kitchen she grasped the back of a sturdy chair and stood very still, taking in deep drafts of air to calm herself. Then, on legs that were still trembling, she made her way upstairs to her bedroom.
In his room, Malachite listened to the sound of her footsteps. When she was gone, he crossed to the window, idly rubbing his cheek while he surveyed the darkened shapes of buildings scattered around the town.
Millie Potter had come as a complete surprise. He hadn’t intended this. Any of it. Not the room in her boardinghouse. Not the kiss. And certainly not his reaction to that kiss. But, considering the chaos of these last few weeks, he shouldn’t be too shocked by the fact that nothing was going as he’d planned.
He unbuckled his gun belt, placing the guns beneath the pillow. Then he shed his clothes, blew out the lantern and climbed naked into bed. With his hands under his head he stared up at the darkened ceiling and imagined Millie in her bed, one floor above.
He fell asleep smiling. Unaware that the object of his thoughts was so distraught she sat stiffly on the edge of her bed, staring at the flickering light of the lantern. Trying to calm the wild racing of her pulse. Praying to cool the heat that raged through her veins. Struggling to erase the image of that smug, arrogant man one floor below who, with a single kiss, had turned her calm, orderly world upside down.
Chapter Three
“Mama, I can’t find my blue sash.” Five-year-old June danced barefoot down the stairs, long red curls flying, kid boots and stockings dangling in one hand.
Millie barely glanced up from the salt pork sizzling in the pan, praying that hard work would keep her mind off the man asleep in the adjacent room. “It should be on your dresser.”
“It wasn’t there. I looked.”
“Look again.” Millie cracked eggs into a bowl. If she was careful, she’d have enough for one more day. She’d traded more than the usual number with Rufus Durfee in the past weeks to keep her family supplied with enough meat. She hoped this unexpected boarder would provide money for a few more supplies. That is, if Malachite Jewel had any money. “Have April help you.”
“She won’t help.”
Exasperated, Millie turned. “Why?”
“She and Birdie are busy brushing out Birdie’s braids.”
“Now, why would Birdie do a thing like that?” Millie wrapped a towel around her hand and set aside a pan of biscuits to warm on the ledge above the fireplace. Then she started the coffee. “It took Birdie an hour to braid all that hair last night.”
“But that’s why she braided it,” the little girl said in a tone that suggested it made perfect sense. “So she could brush it out today. What about my sash?”
“Ask May to help you find it. But not until after you put on your boots. The floors are cold this morning.”
“Yes’m.” The girl flopped down in the middle of the big kitchen and struggled into coarse stockings and high-topped kid boots.
“Mama, I can’t find my slate.” It was six-year-old May, standing at the top of the stairs, shouting over the sound of girlish giggles that drifted from the upper rooms.
“It’s probably in the parlor,” Millie called. “That’s where you were doing your sums last night.”
“Oh. I forgot.” The tittle girl padded down the stairs, then returned minutes later carrying her slate.
Seven-year-old April paused dramatically at the foot of the stairs and announced, “Mama. Look at Birdie.”
Millie lifted a big skillet filled with browning slices of potato and onion and dutifully turned.
Looking uncomfortable, Birdie Bidwell descended the stairs, avoiding Millie’s eyes. Her long braids had been brushed out, turning her pale hair into a halo of frizzy corkscrew curls.
“Oh my, Birdie, don’t you look pretty.”
“Really, Mrs. Potter? Do you think so? I mean...” Birdie worried the edge of her apron. “April talked me into it. But I was afraid...”
“She was afraid Gil wouldn’t like it,” June piped in.
“June Potter.” April’s voice rose in indignation. “That’s the last time we’ll let you share a secret.”
“See if I care. Besides, if that’s the way you’re going to be, I’ll just tell Gil what you and Birdie were whispering about last night,” the five-year-old taunted.
“Oh, no.” Birdie covered her face with her hands. “I’ll just die if Gil knows. Please, June. You can’t tell him. It’s a secret. You promised.”
“She isn’t going to break a promise.” Millie shot her youngest daughter a look that every mother mastered and was instantly recognized by every child. “Now, Birdie, I need you to run this tray over to the jail for Deputy Spitz and Beau Baskin. Then hurry back here and eat before you make everyone late for school.”
“Yes’m.” The girl started to fetch her wrap, when the bedroom door suddenly opened.
All four girls stared in surprise at the tall stranger standing in the doorway. He wore the garb of a cowboy. Black pants tucked into high boots. A black shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Leather holsters riding low at each hip. But his hair was the color of a raven, and he wore it longer than most men, letting it fall over the collar of his shirt. And around his throat was a strip of leather, which held a gleaming green stone that perfectly matched the green of his eyes.
Suddenly, all the childish chatter halted. There was a long, awkward silence as Millie’s three daughters darted to hide behind her skirts.
“Good morning. I see I startled you.” Malachite couldn’t help staring at Millie. His brow furrowed into a frown.
Last night she’d worn an elegant, fashionable gown that had made her look like a queen. Today she wore a simple dress of faded blue gingham. Over that she’d tied a white apron, which only emphasized her tiny waist. Her thick mass of red hair had been tied back with a length of ribbon. Already little wisps had pried loose. In the heat of the kitchen, they curled damply around her cheeks and neck.
“Good morning.” She felt a rush of heat and cursed the fact that she was blushing. But she couldn’t help it. Just looking at him reminded her of that kiss. And the long, uncomfortable night, she’d put in because of it.
If Malachite remembered, he was obviously not bothered by it. After studying her, he returned his glance to the children, who were staring at him.
“Who’re you?” June, the youngest and boldest of Millie’s daughters, took the lead, as usual.
“My name is Mal...”
It was on the tip of his tongue to say Mal Eagle. But just then Millie interrupted, “Children, this is Malachite Jewel.”
“Jewel?” Birdie instantly made the connection. “Are you Miss Diamond’s brother?”
To Malachite, that word still rankled. “I guess I am. And who are you?”
“I’m Birdie Bidwell. My folks live next door. I help Mrs. Potter whenever she needs me.”
“Hello, Birdie.” He offered his hand and she solemnly accepted.
“I’ve got to finish my chore.” She took the linen-covered tray from Millie’s hands and hurried out the door.
“And how about us?”
At June??
?s impertinent question, Malachite turned to the three little girls, whose flaming red hair and freckled faces clearly identified them as Millie’s daughters. It was a shock to realize that this was how she must have looked as a child. Like a blaze of fire. All pale porcelain skin and hair like autumn leaves.
“What are your names?” he asked.
“I’m June Potter,” the youngest said bravely, though her voice quivered, betraying the underlying fear. “I’m five years old. And even though Miss Pearl—that’s our teacher—says I’m too young for school, she allows me to go with my sisters. And she put me in first grade and put May in second. This is May.” She touched a hand to her sister’s shoulder. “She’s six. And April is seven and in third grade.”
“I can see that you like to talk.”
“Don’t you?” she asked.
“Not so much.” He knelt, so that his eyes would be level with theirs, and offered a solemn handshake to each. “I guess I’d rather listen than talk.”
“Like April. She doesn’t talk much, either. Your hair is long. Are you an Indian?” June asked.
“My mother was Comanche.” Malachite waited for a reaction.
“Our mama’s...” The little girl turned to her mother. “What are you, Mama?”
“My parents came from Ireland,” Millie said as she tended the stove. “But in this country we’re all American.”
“You’ve got pretty eyes,” June babbled, studying the stranger. “They’re as green as that stone you’re wearing.”
“Men can’t have pretty eyes,” May corrected her little sister.
“Why not?”
“Because ladies have pretty eyes. Men have...” The six-year-old considered a moment. “Men have handsome eyes.”
Because she was so serious, Malachite choked back his laughter.
“Anyway,” June said, “that pretty stone matches your handsome eyes.”
“Thank you. The stone is called a malachite. It was a gift to my mother. That’s where I got my name.”
“It sounds like something out of the Bible, doesn’t it, Mama?” Without waiting for a reply, June said, “We were named after the months we were born in.”
Malachite couldn’t help teasing, “Then I’ll bet you’re glad you weren’t born in January, February and March.”
The three girls burst into giggles. It was clear that they’d never thought of that before.
“Sit down, children,” Millie called. “Your breakfast is ready.” She’d had time to prepare herself to face this man without blushing. “You too, Mr. Jewel.”
Mr. Jewel. The absurdity of it, and the formality, had him biting back a grin. “Where would you like me to sit?”
“Here.” Millie indicated a chair at one end of the table. She poured coffee, then placed the cup beside his plate. “How would you like your eggs?”
He glanced at the girls, who continued watching him as they took their places around the table. “How are you having your eggs?” he asked them.
“Scrambled,” they called in unison.
“I’ll have mine scrambled, too.”
Minutes later, when Birdie breezed in, they passed around platters of sizzling salt pork, scrambled eggs and fried potatoes, as well as steaming biscuits and a crock of honey. Then, at a look from Millie, they bowed their heads.
“We thank Thee for this food,” little June said aloud.
“Amen,” the others responded, before digging in to their meal.
“Mrs. Potter.” Birdie buttered a biscuit, then popped it in her mouth. “Deputy Spitz said he thinks the only reason Beau Baskin gets drunk every week is so he can enjoy your good cooking in jail.”
“Is that so? If Beau didn’t spend all his money over at Buck’s saloon, he could afford to buy his meals here.” Millie took a seat at the opposite end of the table. But when she looked up, Malachite was staring at her in a way that had her ducking her head.
“You cook for the jail?” he asked.
She nodded. “The town pays me. I used to send over the marshal’s meals, too. But now that he’s married to Ruby, it isn’t necessary. I just supply a meal whenever there’s a prisoner, which isn’t often in this town. Except for Beau Baskin, who gets drunk once or twice a week and spends the night in a cell sobering up.”
Birdie said over a mouthful of biscuit, “Deputy Spitz says he asks to work whenever Beau spends the night, just so he can enjoy your good cooking, too.”
Millie laughed. “Well, we won’t bother to repeat that to Deputy Spitz’s wife, or he may end up having to take all his meals at the jail.”
“Why?” June asked innocently.
“Because,” Birdie said in the tone of an older friend who is accustomed to answering youthful questions, “Mrs. Spitz would be jealous if she knew that her husband liked your mama’s cooking better’n her own.”
“But why?” June persisted. “Everybody knows Mama’s the best cook in Hanging Tree. Why should Mrs. Spitz mind?”
“She just would.” Birdie turned to Millie. “Are you going to take us to school today, Mrs. Potter?”
Millie nodded. “I guess I have no choice. Amos Durfee sent word that he needs his boys to help in the mercantile today. And since Travis Worthing is taking his father’s place on the ranch until his return from Abeline, that just leaves me. Are you sure your mama can spare you today?”
“Yes’m.” Birdie glanced at the stranger, then explained. “My pa got thrown from a horse more’n two years ago. Doc Prentice fixed most of his broken bones, but there’s nothing to be done for his back. Doc says he’ll never walk again. So Ma has to stay close, to run and fetch for him. And I do what I can to help earn my keep. I help Mrs. Potter here, and then I help Miss Jade at the church.” While she spoke she got to her feet and started to clear the table. “But mostly I help my ma.”
Millie filled a basin with hot water from the stove. While April washed the dishes, May and June dried, and Birdie reached over their heads, putting the clean dishes away.
Malachite sipped a second cup of coffee and watched as Millie filled a basket with cold chicken, hard-boiled eggs, biscuits and fruit.
Then his gaze slipped to the neighbor girl, laughing and chatting, and all the while working diligently. It occurred to him that when he’d first left the village of his mother’s people, he’d expected the life of the white man to be somehow easier than that of the Comanche. What he’d learned was that life everywhere was difficult and demanding. But it wasn’t only the Comanche who looked out for the aged, infirm, widowed or orphaned. Despite the fact that Millie Potter was obviously struggling to raise three little girls alone, she was willing to help a neighbor, as well. He wondered just how many chores Millie Potter took on to keep her family in food and clothes. He’d spotted a cow and chickens in the shed. All the rest of their food would have to be bought or bartered. From the size of her brood, it would take some doing. The house was sturdy, but in obvious need of repair. And the furnishings, though clean and comfortable, were showing wear.
When the girls finished their chores and went off to fetch their warm wraps, Millie removed her apron and glanced around her neat kitchen.
“The charge for the room is fifty cents. You can leave the money on the kitchen table. When you’re ready to leave for your father’s grave, you can let yourself out and latch the back door behind you.” She tossed a heavy shawl over her shoulders.
Malachite wasn’t fooled by her cool, professional manner. It was plain that Millie Potter was in a hurry to get away from him. A small, perverse part of his nature made him want to see how far he could push her.
“Where is the schoolhouse?” He shoved back his chair and stood.
“On Jewel land. A couple of miles from the big ranch house. Across Poison Creek.”
He took a step closer, watching the way her eyes warned of a challenge as he advanced. “Then why don’t we ride there together?”
She was hugging the shawl to her, as though for protection. “There’s no need...”
r /> He reached out and caught the ends of the shawl from her hands, running the soft strands between his thumb and finger. “Do you object to my company, Mrs. Potter?”
At the intimacy of his touch, she drew herself up to her full height, bringing the top of her head nearly to his chin.
He was playing with her. Trying to push her into a corner. Well, two could play that game. She’d show him. “Why should I object? It’s a long way to the Jewel ranch. I welcome someone to share the chore.”
Instead of letting go of the shawl, he wrapped the ends around his finger, drawing her fractionally closer.
At once her cheeks were suffused with color.
Millie glanced up and thought, for a brief moment, that she’d detected a hint of laughter in his eyes. Did he know what his touch was doing to her? Was that why he insisted on tormenting her like this? “I’ll remind you, Mr. Jewel, that if you don’t unhand me this minute—” she hated the way her voice sounded, tight, breathless, but it couldn’t be helped “—I will be forced to defend myself as I did last night.”
His voice was warm with laughter, though he kept his features carefully schooled. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, now, would we?” Very slowly he released the ends of her shawl.
As she walked away, the smile that had been playing at the corners of his lips bloomed. Millie Potter was uncomfortable in his presence. But to her credit, she didn’t back away. Or give an inch.
He returned to the bedroom for his cowhide jacket and wide-brimmed hat. The day was proving to be much more satisfying than he’d anticipated.
And all because of one little fiery-haired, blue-eyed female who looked better in a housedress and apron than most women could in silks and satins.
As he made his way to the shed and began hitching the horse and wagon, he found himself wondering what Millie Potter would look like in nothing at all.
It was too bad he wouldn’t be around long enough to find out.
* * *
“Do you drive the girls to school every day?” Malachite guided the horse and wagon across a rain-swollen gully. He found the press of Millie’s thigh against his a pleasant distraction. Almost as pleasant as her soft, lilting voice.