a little of it into the tea. “I sold off the beef cattle and the spare horses after Mark died,” she said. “I wasn’t up to taking care of them, and I needed the money to live on. Steers and mustangs can be replaced. Land can’t. I’ll wear rags and go barefoot before I sell a single acre.”
Struck by the passion in her voice, Caleb studied the proud angle of her head and the determined thrust of her jaw. He had thought of Laura as fragile. But underneath her porcelain doll exterior was a core of tempered steel. He had glimpsed that steel when she’d turned on Zeke, sunk her teeth into his arm and grappled for the knife that would slash her face. Now he was seeing it again.
He should have guessed he would find her here, holding on to what was hers. So why hadn’t he turned around and left as soon as she opened the front door? Why was he still here, risking the chance that he might be recognized?
“But it doesn’t make sense to sit on the land while your money runs out,” he heard himself saying. “A ranch like this one could make you a right handsome living. You could run a herd of cattle, fatten them up on this good grass and ship them east by rail, or sell them to the army. Sheep would do all right in this country, too.”
She toyed briefly with her thin gold wedding ring. “You sound like my husband. He always said that one day we’d have the finest ranch in New Mexico.”
Caleb’s throat constricted around the piece of bread he’d just swallowed. He willed himself not to choke.
“I became a widow six months before Robbie was born,” she said. “I didn’t know the first thing about running a ranch. It was all I could do to survive and take care of my baby. When my nearest neighbor offered to buy the stock, I agreed to his offer, even though I knew he was getting a bargain. I needed the money.”
Caleb took a sip of cold cider and managed to swallow it. If he had any brains he’d get up from the table, thank Laura for the meal and ride away before he dug himself any deeper. But there was the matter of a small, broken boy who might yet need a trip to the nearest doctor. And there was the matter of this scarred, beautiful woman to whom he owed a monstrous debt.
Caleb’s mother had told him that among her people, if someone died because of another’s actions, the bereaved family had the right of adoption. They could claim the offender to take the place of their lost loved one and help provide for their family. It was a wise custom, one that served both justice and practicality.
Not that Caleb could ever replace Mark Shafton as husband, father and provider. That notion was unthinkable. But if he could teach Laura how to run the ranch, get her started with some cattle and hire some reliable help before he moved on, it might at least ease his conscience.
“You’ve got the makings of a good ranch here,” he said. “But the place needs some work. The windmill, the fences, the sheds…”
“Yes, I know.” She poured the tea into a small blue cup, set it on a saucer and added a splash of milk. “When Robbie’s a little older, I’ll have more time to spend keeping the place up. I’m not as helpless as I look. I can hammer nails and slap on whitewash with the best of them. But right now, I don’t dare turn my back on the little mischief. You saw what happened today.”
“I could help you,” Caleb said, feeling as if he’d just stepped over the edge of a cliff. “For a few good meals and a spot to lay my bedroll, I could have the place looking like new.”
She looked hesitant, and for an instant he felt his heart stop.
“You understand it wouldn’t be a regular job,” she said. “It would only be for a week or so, and I can’t spare the money to pay you. If you’d be satisfied with a bed in the toolshed and three square meals a day—”
Caleb forced himself to grin. “Lady, for pie like this, I’d mend fences all the way from here to California!”
She picked up the cup and saucer in her workworn hands. Again, as she moved toward the bedroom, Caleb sensed her hesitation. He was a stranger. And even if you were kind to them, strangers could turn into monsters.
“Give me time to think about it,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”
“Fine.” Caleb laid down his fork and rose from his chair. “While you’re thinking, I’ll go outside and start on that broken windmill.”
Without giving her a chance to protest, he walked out the front door and closed it behind him. By the time he reached the bottom step, his knees were shaking. What in hell’s name did he think he was doing? If Laura recognized him, he could be a dead man or, worse, on his way back to prison for life. Mount up and ride away, that would be the smart thing to do. Laura was a strong woman. She could manage fine without his help.
But the force that had drawn him to this place was pulling him deeper into Laura’s life. Whether it was guilt, duty or destiny’s unseen hand, Caleb sensed that he’d come here for a reason. Whatever the cost, he could not leave until he understood what that reason was.
Picking up the hammer and nails where he’d dropped them by the corral gate, he strode to the base of the windmill and began to climb.
Chapter Three
Laura had taken extra pains with supper, mixing up a batch of sourdough biscuits, churning fresh butter and adding a pinch of precious ground seasonings to the rabbit stew. Caleb McCurdy had put in a long, hard afternoon, she reasoned. Not only was the corral gate mended, but he’d replaced the missing vanes on the windmill and patched the holes in the roof of the chicken coop, to say nothing of setting Robbie’s arm. Since she had no money to pay him, the least she could do was serve him a decent meal.
Glancing out through the kitchen window, she could see him washing at the pump. He’d tossed his brown flannel shirt on a sapling and unbuttoned the top of his long johns to hang around his waist. He was bending forward, letting the water stream through his raven hair. Now, slowly, he straightened, raking his fingers through his dripping locks. Water flowed over his bare shoulders to trickle down along the muscled furrow of his spine and vanish beneath the damp waistband of his denims. He was as lean and sinewy as a tom cougar with no trace of fat on his lanky frame. Where the setting sun shone on his wet skin, he blazed with liquid fire.
Turning, he cupped his hands and sluiced water over his chest and under his armpits. The nicks and scars that marred his coppery body spoke of violent times and rough living. Laura’s fingers tightened on the frame of the window. Caleb McCurdy had appeared out of nowhere, like an angel in her time of need. But he was clearly no angel. His dark eyes were too feral, his reflexes too quick. He had all the marks of a wild animal, ready to strike out at the first unguarded moment. She could not afford to trust him—or any other man in this godforsaken, bullet-riddled country.
So why did she stay? Laura had long since stopped asking herself that question. She knew the answer all too well.
Another letter had arrived last week, this one from her sister Jeannie, urging her to leave the ranch and come home to St. Louis. There would be a room for her in the family home, Jeannie had said, and a room for Robbie, where he could grow up safe and happy, surrounded by people who cared for him.
For the space of a breath Laura had been tempted. But who would she be in St. Louis? The scarred sister, hiding from curious eyes in some upstairs room, a prisoner of her own ugliness. And Robbie—he would be the son of a dead father and an unseen mother, dependent on others for a leg up in the world. Here the boy was heir to five hundred acres of fine ranch land. Here he would
