his chin at a stubborn angle.
“I don’t mind if he stays a little longer,” Gideon said, surprising her. “We’re not quite finished with our lesson.”
Finished or not, Evelyn had to stamp out the adoration taking root in Walt’s eyes. He could not be allowed to become attached to her family’s sworn enemy.
“You’ll have to finish it later.”
Pushing to his feet, Gideon approached, a defensive slope to his broad shoulders. “What’s the problem, Evelyn?” He spoke quietly. “Surely you don’t believe a few minutes in my company will sully your son?”
She fought the urge to take a step back. He was too close, his manly scent—a combination of campfire and leather—luring her closer. The wide, solid planes of his chest looked like the perfect place of refuge, a place to rest her head and, for a brief moment, give up control. Lean on someone else’s strength. The sweetness of that prospect had her swaying toward him.
His sleek brows furrowed in response.
“I—” She scrambled for something sensible to say, stunned at herself. Gideon Thornton was the last person on earth she should be seeking support from.
Liar. Thief. Adversary.
Gentle. Patient. Kind.
Before she could unravel her thoughts, he clamped his jaw. “No need to say anything else. Your opinion of me is quite clear.” He motioned for Walt. “Breakfast time, kiddo. Go help your ma.”
The joy leached from Walt’s face. Small shoulders drooping, he trudged across the dirt floor. Indecision knotted her insides. Was she wrong to interrupt? Of course she didn’t actually think Gideon posed a threat to her son, but a lifetime of warnings could not easily be brushed aside.
Hunkering down to Walt’s level, she took his hand and caressed a thumb over his soft skin. “How would you like to help me make flapjacks?”
He kicked up a shoulder. Dug the rounded toe of his boot in the reddish dirt.
“I found our crock of maple syrup. That would taste good on top, don’t you think?”
He nodded, but no smile appeared. He didn’t want to leave Gideon. Swallowing a sigh, she shot the cowboy a parting look, which he missed because he’d already turned away to tidy up the space. Judging from his ruler-straight spine and careful movements, he wasn’t any happier than Walt was.
On the walk back to the campsite, one disconcerting question drummed through her mind. How could someone so distasteful, so despicable—according to her brothers—treat her son better than his own father had?
Even if her husband were around to defend himself, he wouldn’t see the need to answer to her or anyone else. Drake had been the center of his own universe. His goals and his comforts were all that had mattered. Whenever she’d asked him to pay more attention to their son, he’d shrugged her off. A toddler isn’t worth my time. When he’s old enough to understand grown-up stuff, then I’ll take him under my wing. Infuriating, foolish man. He died not knowing the treasure he’d rejected.
Sitting on a low stool at Petra’s side, she situated Walt between her knees and showed him how to direct the milk into the pail at their feet. His initial hesitation gradually faded, and when the cow’s tail swished against his ear, he giggled. The carefree laughter, like a bubbling spring, made her yearn for more. To hear him say “Mama” and “I love you.” To hear him sing again in his pure, lighter-than-air voice.
Theo had warned her not to push him, and she’d taken his advice. It hadn’t been easy. Living with this unnatural silence, wondering if he’d ever speak again, had filled her with troubling anger. This was Drake’s fault. She wanted to rant and rave and vent her frustration at a dead man. What did that say about her as a person?
“All done,” she said, masking the unpleasantness boiling inside. “Good job, sweetie. Now let’s go make flapjacks. I’m hungry as a bear, aren’t you?”
By the time the fluffy cakes were stacked in trenchers with a hefty slathering of syrup, Walt’s earlier unhappiness was forgotten. He dug into the meal with gusto. With logs for seats and no table to speak of, they ate with the trenchers in their laps, the great outdoors their dining room. Couldn’t ask for a nicer view. The birds whistling overhead and the rush of water were nice touches. However, she could do without the pesky flies.
Her gaze drifted to the stable, where Gideon had his head bent to an unknown task. He hadn’t worked on the walls so far this morning, despite the fact there was a pile of logs behind the structure ready for use. Unusual that he’d chosen to erect the animals’ shelter before his own. If his cabin had already been built, would he have given up his living quarters for them? Not for her, but for Walt? The question was an unnecessary one but interesting. If not for his purchase of Petra, she would’ve said outright that Gideon Thornton giving up his home for the likes of her was about as likely as a wolf giving up his prey. Now she wasn’t so sure.
Chapter Five
Gideon was in the middle of assembling the pulley system when an unexpected sound mingled with the birdsong, swelling above the horses’ nickers and the breeze rippling through the high grass. Evelyn. Singing. Her smoky voice belted out a lively tune, one he didn’t recognize, in a language he didn’t understand. Her playful tone told him this was a happy song, maybe even a silly one.
Unable to resist a peek, he set aside the rope coil and wheel and, standing, went to lean against the half wall. At the stream cleaning their breakfast dishes, she serenaded the boy in an attempt to draw him out. And although Walt smiled and bobbed his head, he didn’t join in.
Yearning for what he could never have captured him in its torturous grip, and he wished them far from there. Resentment curdled his stomach. Why did they have to intrude upon his much-needed solitude?
“I see you have company,” an accented voice said from the doorway.
Gideon half turned, not surprised his friend had managed to approach without his realizing it. Lars Brinkerhoff might have been Danish by birth, but his years with the Cheyenne had molded him into an adept hunter and trapper, able to blend in with his surroundings.
“You spoke to Elijah and Clint, I take it.”
“Ja, that I did.” The big Dane nodded, cornflower-blue eyes bright with concern in his tanned face. “I am sorry to hear about this complication.”
Lars joined him at the wall, his arms poised along the roughened edge. He tipped his head in Evelyn’s direction. “Beautiful song.”
Gideon didn’t comment.
“Is the widow Russian?”
“Her ancestors are.” He dragged his gaze from her animated form to the man at his side. “Do you understand what she’s saying?”
“She is singing about a cat and mouse who, though natural enemies, have become the best of friends.”
Enemies who became friends. He’d been right. It was a ridiculous song.
“Any news on the cause of the Ramsey fire?” He sought to get his mind off the intriguing widow and onto more neutral matters.
Lars
