She nodded, chewing on the first bite of food. “Once a week.”
“What do you do with it?” He selected a slice of bread and cut into the slab of creamy spread, smoothing it back and forth as he cradled the crusty heel in his hand.
“Sell most of it in town. Along with the vegetables and my extra eggs.”
“You alone here?” His voice was lazy against her ears, the faint drawl softening his words.
She stiffened and stirred the stew with her spoon. “Looks like it, doesn’t it?”
“Your brother around, Katherine?” The woman glanced up, her blue eyes widening with a faint trace of alarm.
“If you’re Roan Devereaux, you should know to mind your own business where my brother’s concerned.”
“Your pa spoke of him.”
“Did he now?” Her words were flat, disbelieving, as if such a possibility were doubtful.
Up against the wall of her distrust once more, he heaved a sigh of disgust. “You’re not what I expected, you know,” he said with a grunt of exasperation. “Your pa would have had me believe you were the best thing to come along in his life. ‘My daughter, Katherine,’ he used to say.” His voice was a close imitation of her father’s Irish lilt.
“Well, I am what I am,” she said, grinding out the words. “My pa’s dead and buried, and I owe you for dragging him off a battlefield in Virginia, Mr. Devereaux. If I can repay you in some way, I’ll do what I can. But we won’t be discussing my brother.”
“What happened to your pa?” he asked quietly, his spoon midway to his mouth as he listened to her terse speech.
She pursed her lips and clasped her hands at the edge of the table. “He was breeding a mare and the stud went crazy for a minute. Pa didn’t move quick enough. If he’d been just a few inches one way or the other, it mightn’t have happened, but one hoof caught his temple and he never woke up.”
“Were you here alone?” He watched as she brushed her fingers along the smooth edge of the table, intent on their progress as she touched the worn wood.
“Yes, I was alone.” She rose abruptly and reached for his bowl. “Would you like more stew?”
The matter was closed. Her movement, her pinched expression and her pursed lips told him she would speak no longer of the death of Charlie Cassidy.
He handed her the heavy bowl and nodded. She might not be overly friendly, but the woman sure could cook. “What kind of meat you got in that stuff?” He tilted his chair a bit as he watched her brisk movements.
“Rabbit.”
His brow rose. “You shoot it?”
Her glance withered him effectively. “No, I hit it with a rock,” she said dryly.
He grinned. Perhaps with a little luck, he could get a new horse here after all. Apologies to the stallion he’d picked up for a song just outside of Lexington, but the horse wasn’t what he wanted for the long road he’d soon be traveling.
And maybe with a small dose of gentlemanly courtesy, he’d even find a bed hereabouts for the night. Anything would be better than the hard ground he’d been sleeping on lately.
The canvas cot he found in the barn was too short, and he grumbled loudly as he awoke for the third time since midnight. It creaked ominously as he shifted once more, turning himself over gingerly as he sought a modicum of comfort. The other choice had been the hayloft; even given the presence of mice, it might have been the better of the two, he decided glumly, staring into the darkness.
She’d offered the shelter of the barn without much prompting. In fact, her brisk words had come as a bit of a surprise as he’d leaned back in his chair, his appetite eased by the rabbit stew.
“You’re welcome to stay out back if you need a place for the night.” Busy at the sink, scrubbing at the empty stew kettle, she’d spoken over her shoulder offhandedly, then swung back to her task.
Hesitating only a few seconds, he’d answered, “That’s kind of you, ma’am. I’d be obliged to take you up on the offer.” His elbows rested on the table, and leaning forward, he watched her. “Maybe we can talk about those horses out in the corral, come morning.”
She was silent, but her movements slowed as she appeared to consider his words. Then she lifted the clean kettle from the soapy water and rinsed it with a small dipper. With deliberate motions, she wiped the inside dry with the towel she’d flung over her shoulder earlier.
“I’ve got nothing to sell right now.” She put the pan on the stove with a resounding clang, and its moist surface sizzled on the hot metal.
“Noticed a nice-looking mare that was a good size,” he observed idly, his eyes narrowing as he caught a glimpse of slender ankles beneath her swaying skirt.
“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” she’d said dismissively.
“Well, it’s morning now,” he muttered. “Pret’ near, anyway.” With one last turn, he kicked at the blanket that covered him and rose from the narrow cot. In the depths of the barn, he heard the rustling of straw as an animal stirred.
Probably the cow, he decided, getting anxious the way cows usually do about dawn. Time for milking soon. He wondered if Katherine was up yet, if that rope of hair was loose or already braided up and hanging down her back. Shoving long legs into his pants, he reached for the shirt that lay over his saddle, next to where he’d spent the night.
He shook the image of her from his mind as he buttoned and tucked his shirt, tightening his leather belt above his hips before he pushed open the barn door. The sky was pink, there on the eastern horizon, and an owl swooped low in a final flight before the sun sent him to his perch. From the corral, he heard the soft nicker of a horse and the answering call from within the barn. His stallion hadn’t taken to being put in a stall when three fillies were just outside the upright slats of the wall next to him.
Roan Devereaux knew the feeling He’d sensed the same yearning last night, just for a moment, when Katherine Cassidy had risen on tiptoe to light the lantern hanging over her table. The movement had drawn the fabric of her dress tautly against her form, and he’d felt a twinge of response as he watched her. Beneath the shapeless dress was a woman’s body, and his own, needy as it was, had answered in a predictable manner. Something about the sun-ripened skin of her cheeks and the length of her slender neck appealed to him. Or maybe it was the intelligence that dwelt in the depths of her gaze as she glanced in his direction, silently weighing him and his purpose here. At any rate, the little brown mud hen was a complex female, he’d decided reluctantly.
“One thing’s for sure, she’s off limits to you, bucko,” he said between gritted teeth, shoving a hand into his back pocket.
The memory of Charlie Cassidy was fresh in his mind and the respect he’d felt for the man spilled over onto the woman who was his daughter. Seeking out an old friend, more for the sake of friendship than the hope of buying a horse, he’d allotted only two days for this detour.
Louisiana was due south, and
