Rose might be seventeen but she knew about men. Mama lectured about the ideals of pure love and motherhood, a woman’s duty to her husband. She never mentioned the tingling heat, the emotions that even now stirred in Rose’s belly.
Papa was yelling at his wife to hurry and get the gentleman’s bill. She watched Mama scribble on the paper, with Papa leaning over her. There was no touching between them, no shared smile. No love, only commerce.
The Englishman appeared at the doorway, saw the Blaisdels, and said he would be staying an extra night, would they mind? Papa immediately smiled, his ugly face glowing. Of course, Mister Meiklejon, sir, could stay as long as he liked.
He stayed another week. The town was slow to accept his ownership of the Littlefield ranch, and Rose saw that this reluctance bothered him. The Englishman rarely spoke to her, but Rose knew he watched her, taking note of her dealings with the customers, probably deciding whether her manner was well suited to his new life.
When Mr. Meiklejon did leave—well into November—Rose purred as he leaned over her hand, raised it to brush its back lightly with his mouth, and murmured how much joy she’d given him. Rose blushed, knowing it set off her hair and features. A maidenly blush—a phrase she had read in a book from Miss Donald.
Surprisingly the gentle kiss had the same effect as Jack Holden’s mouth had had on hers. Mr. Meiklejon also kissed her mama’s hand and patted each of the younger girls, thanking the family for their kindnesses. Papa then ordered them all back to work as he marched off to add up the bill.
They were busy that winter. Twice Gayle Souter had driven into Socorro to pick up wire, which was the talk of the whole area. The Englishman was fencing his land, including several springs. He was shutting off water to cattle and wild horses. Folks were downright mad.
Christmas morning came with no word from her outlaw or the Englishman. Four customers were in the dining room and Mama was fashioning a hurried meal. The Blaisdel family would share their few presents and a platter of leftovers in the evening when the travelers could want nothing more.
Rose went outside, stared down the deserted street, and shivered. But she did not return to the stuffy warmth of the hotel for her shawl. A dog trotted sideways toward a dead rabbit. Rose watched the dog circle its prey, sniff, and jump back, then dig at the corpse and jump again when the fur moved. The dog lay down, took the rabbit carefully in its mouth, and chewed slowly, making no holes or tears. Finally the dog rose with the rabbit in its mouth, and trotted toward an alley. Quite unexpectedly Rose wished she had that choice to trot down a street, turn a corner, and disappear.
“Ma’am?”
Rose jumped. She had thought herself alone, yet a man had been watching. She turned to inspect her inquisitor and was disappointed. He was small, mostly tendon and bone. She stared rudely, saw a pair of pale green eyes looking back. He had black hair and a dark beard, making his thin face even less respectable. She wondered where had he ridden from, why he was here on Christmas day? His horse was covered with dried sweat, the man’s clothes caked with dirt, boots worn through, hands badly scarred. She kept staring, and he watched her until she became flustered. The eyes widened, then narrowed, and she saw his face twitch, his mouth open slightly as if catching her scent.
“Ma’am. The name of this town?”
When he spoke, there was humor in the lift of his mouth. He noticed everything she decided, and hugged herself. He would know all about her. “This is Socorro. Where’re you headed?”
“What territory, ma’am?”
Rose’s arms folded directly beneath her bosom. “How could you not know where you are? Don’t you know to ask someone?” Now she was angry.
He looked at her, his eyes glittering. “That’swhat I’m doing now, ma’am. Asking someone who knows where I am.”
When she hugged herself, it wasn’t for warmth. Christmas Day on an empty street and she was confronted by a wild man who didn’t know the day or the country he rode. He scared her—those steady eyes, his reddened hands crossed on the saddle horn. He wouldn’t let her go. She cried out: “It’s Christmas Day, don’t you know that at least? It’s Christmas and you’re alone.”
“Ma’am.” The man tipped his hat, stroked his nervous horse. The horse quieted, those large, scarred hands lay on the saddle horn again, and Rose licked her lips. “Maybe you best get in with your own family. Ma’am. Good day.” He reined the mustang around and rode at a steady, deliberate walk down the long main street, headed toward the mountains.
Mama’s voice called for potatoes. Rose licked her lips, tasted salt. “Yes, Mama.” New discoveries moved within her, new emotions and feelings. The harsh eyes remained with her; the deep sadness when she spoke of Christmas. Cruel, but the words had been forced from between her lips. She needed to know his name. She could feel those ruthless hands outlining her mouth.
Her movements as she went for the potatoes were pure memory. The door pushed open, the weighty lid of the vegetable bin raised, the potatoes dug free of their sawdust bed. She watched her hand as it reached and closed the heavy wooden lid. She swallowed and thought of other things. Then she ducked through the low, root- cellar door and blinked as she reentered sunlight.
Jack Holden was there, leaning on an old cottonwood trunk. His tall form relaxed as it graced the gnarled tree.
“Darlin’ girl, you look a picture.” He held out one hand.
Rose licked her lips as Mama’s voice came through the high window. “Rose Victoria, the potatoes! There’s another guest wanting a meal and I’ve got.…”
Mama’s voice was gone, buried with Jack’s mouth. The potatoes fell from her arms; his mouth parted her lips with his tongue.
“Girl!”
The voice was angry, and Jack moved aside, but his hand grazed her hip when she passed. “Good bye, little girl.” He was gone as suddenly as he had appeared.
Rose got to the kitchen door and Mama took the potatoes.
Chapter Five
The fast-walking sorrel took Jack Holden from Socorro, with Jack laughing at his folly. It had been a stupid thing to do on a Christmas day but it had given him great pleasure. It pleased him to tease the caged animals. He knew that these actions would one day get him killed, but there had to be a way of dying—loving with a pretty girl would do him fine. Courting kept him from dwelling on the loss of Katherine Donald. The Blaisdel girl was more his style—flash and little substance—like his choice in horses.
The sorrel shied at a blowing weed and Jack spurred the big horse back into line. He would not ride one of the small Spanish pacers; they did not suit his wry vanity. It took a blooded horse to carry all of Jack Holden.
Several hours from town, the sorrel went to its knees. Jack stepped down as the horse buried its nose in soft sand. He grabbed the head and yanked until the horse stood. The right front tendon was thickening.
The saddle was a burden, and walking was never good. Jack managed a mile, which ate up the bleak warmth of the afternoon. He put the saddle down, sought out a comfortable tree, and decided to wait. The territory was full of people, and some didn’t know it was Christmas.
He hadn’t counted on the particular horse and rider that finally approached him. Jack was in full sight of the trail, smoking a cigar. The small horse, a dark roan, was just sturdy enough to carry Jack and his saddle until he got to Son Liddell’s pasture. But as Jack watched the rider, he figured he’d have to share the roan, not steal it. When the horse and rider got closer, Jack saw nothing to change his mind. The man was small but he came at Jack without hesitation.
Jack saw the watchful eyes, the nerveless hands gentle on the reins. He’d not get the roan by sweet talk or a
