And yet, if Kennisaw had had to die, Garret was glad it had been in such a place, with someone kind to tend him, and not alone on some barren wasteland with the scavengers circling, waiting with fiendish patience for the time when he'd be too weak to fend them off.
He glanced up uncertainly at the woman who stood there so quiet. Damn, he'd never known one before that could keep her mouth shut this long—especially when confronting a man who deserved a real tongue-lashing.
What had the sniping little cat with the pigtails said? That the woman—Sister Ashleen?—was a nun. That explained her saintlike silence. Wasn't there a rule that kept them from talking in those convent places?
What it didn't explain was why she looked so damned vulnerable and sweet, and why, despite everything he'd said and done, her eyes were pools of compassion, soft with a sudden understanding so clear, so deep, it seemed to Garret as if she could touch secret places inside him.
Hidden places that he had almost forgotten existed.
He cleared his throat, driven at last to break the silence himself. "I suppose I should thank you," he said, the gruff edge to his voice more fitting for an epithet.
Roses stole into her cheeks. "For what? Ruining your night's entertainment? Biting your lip? Or shoving you in the horse trough?"
Humor. He hadn't expected it from her. Didn't deserve it. Or was she trying to bait him into an apology? She'd see him in hell first.
"You know damn well what for, lady. For taking Kennisaw in. For being there when he died."
She looked down into Kennisaw's still face, and Garret could have sworn those indecently long lashes of hers were damp with tears. Tenderly she drew the quilt up beneath the red whiskers.
"I didn't do it for you."
She raised one hand to shove a wayward golden curl from her forehead, and Garret was suddenly aware of how exhausted she appeared, how fragile. Blast, it was a bloody miracle he hadn't broken her in half, the way he'd crushed her in his arms, the way he'd ground his kiss down on those winsome wood-sprite lips.
He regarded her, wary.
"The children and I would like to be there when—well, when you have Mr. Jones's wake," she said. "When I was walking about the town tonight I saw a church. I could talk to the priest."
Garret shook his head, his voice harsh even to his own ears. "The only god Kennisaw believed in was the mountains and an eagle soaring. He wouldn't want some hypocrite spouting lies over him."
She winced, and Garret knew he'd hurt her. Again. He wondered why it should matter.
"I'll get my horse, get Kennisaw out of your wagon quick as possible," Garret bit out. "You're probably anxious to get on with... well, whatever you were doing before."
"We were going to Oregon," she said in that lilting, sweet voice. "But we're not anymore."
"Thank God Kennisaw shook some sense into you before he died." Garret felt an unexpected surge of relief. "It's pure hell on the trail. No place for a woman."
Was there defiance in the tilt of the chin suddenly jutting toward him, belligerence in the eyes that had been filled with sorrow?
"I assure you, Mr. MacQuade, in the last months I've been countless places that could have been labeled pure... whatever blasphemous rot you were spewing. And as for Mr. Jones shaking sense into me, his reaction was quite the opposite of yours. He encouraged me, told me—told me I was strong enough to carve out a life for the children. He even offered me a place of my own."
Garret gave a hollow laugh. "Kennisaw Jones never owned anything but his fiddle, his gun, and the clothes on his back."
"That's why I couldn't take it." She went to where a bit of weathered canvas was tucked carefully upon a small wood table then turned, unwrapping what the fabric contained. "The land he tried to give me—it belongs to you." She extended a piece of paper toward Garret, and he stared at the lumpy official seal, so faded, so battered, like the dreams his father had dreamed the day he'd shown them the land grant for Stormy Ridge.
The sight of it after all these years was like a knife thrust, the memory of Tom MacQuade's usually stoic face beaming with rare pleasure filling Garret's mind. His father had clapped Garret on the shoulder as if the boy had been a man, and there had been wonder in his eyes.
Someday your sons will work Stormy Ridge land, boy,Tom MacQuade had said.For a hundred generations there will be MacQuades on this land.
But Tom MacQuade's plans of rich fields and seas of livestock had crumbled into nothing—nothing save a vast emptiness in Garret's heart.
Garret glared at Sister Ashleen. "That land is worthless. No good to anyone anymore. The whole place has probably gone back to scrub timber—even what fields we had managed to clear."
"I'm not afraid of hard work, Mr. MacQuade."
"Well, how do you feel about bears, Miss—I mean Sister Mary Ashleen?" He sneered, wanting to infuse a healthy fear in this dreamy-eyed little waif. "The house—whatever's left of it—is probably full of God knows what kind of animals. That's if you're lucky and bushwhackers or outlaws haven't found it and taken it over."
"Mr. MacQuade, the land is yours. I've already said—"
