Explaining Herself Read online

  He seemed a good man, even for a sheep farmer.

  They stopped for a midafternoon dinner, though nobody was hungry, washing up at a horse trough. God knew there was enough food. And they learned that there had been no change in Kitty's condition— or so they thought.

  Victoria surprised Laramie on the porch, drawing him around the corner of the house long enough to whisper, "The doctor wants to cut her leg off."

  He didn't bother to ask how she knew that when her older siblings didn't. Instead, he stared down at her tear-bright eyes, noticed how she was clutching her middle, and wished he knew what to say to make the hurt stop for her.

  He didn't have those words, so what she said next was an accusation. "You knew."

  He shrugged, inadequately. She glared up at him, her dark hair spiraling into tight curls around her face from all that time in the hot kitchen. No matter why she'd told him, she demanded more than he'd given in response.

  "It looked bad," he admitted, finally.

  She bit her lower lip, still hugging herself.

  "I'm sorry," he said. Then, almost against his will, he lifted his hand and drew his thumb gently across her poor, trapped lip.

  Her teeth let it go. "The doctor thinks it's bad too. That's why he wants to cut it off. Mama's fighting him on it. She says that if they set it as best they can, and just keep the infection out, there are doctors in Chicago and New York who can fix it better once she's well enough to travel. But the doctor says the infection could... It could kill her. And Papa doesn't know what to do."

  Tears began to slide from her eyes, down her cheeks, and Laramie drew his thumb across those, too. "I'm sorry."

  Her shoulders began to tremble, so he put his arms around her, drew her to him tightly and surely* held her as best he could while her arms slowly fell to his side and she cried against the front of his shirt—wet from the horse trough. He still had no words of comfort, but he hoped this somehow helped soothe her.

  Strangely, it soothed him.

  He lost track of how long they stood there like that, Victoria soft and tired and frightened in his arms, him doing little more than being strong and less visibly frightened and ... and there. The noise of the screen door slapping shut, on the porch around the corner, startled them both apart. He didn't breathe until he heard footsteps heading in the direction of the stables.

  Damn! Laramie pushed a hand through his hair, angry at himself now, angry at the world. He felt suddenly cold. He had no right to be the one holding her, comforting her.

  Victoria's gray eyes narrowed, as if she'd thought the same thing. But what she said was, "You'll tell my papa you mean to call on me, Ross Laramie."

  He blinked at her, startled.

  She wanted him to not just ask the boss, but tell him?

  "You've been wonderful today, and I need you, but I deserve better than to hide it," she declared, swiping the back of her hand across a cheek. 'You deserve better, too."

  As if she knew what he did—or did not—deserve.

  All he managed was a single, broken question. "Now?"

  She laughed then. It wasn't a pretty laugh, and sent her digging for a handkerchief—she found and gave back his spurs, with another sniffle—but it relieved him some anyway. "Of course not now. Not while Kitty . . . while she ..."

  He put a hand on her back and waited while she wiped at her face. Then she looked up, drier but no less determined. 'You will, though, won't you? I wouldn't ask, except I've gotten the impression you were . .. You .. ."

  Who could blame her? A less observant woman than Victoria could not have missed his interest. In a different world—one with a future, without his past— Laramie would be on Victoria Garrison's doorstep in a heartbeat. But their worlds were different. "I don't think I can."

  "You never know until you ask." At least she backed off of the idea of him telling Garrison anything!

  "I don't have ... prospects," he explained weakly.

  "But you can find some."

  He stared down at her, wishing he knew how to explain. If he trusted anybody with his secrets—the promises he'd made, the sins he'd committed—he guessed it should be her.

  But he wasn't sure he had the nerve to watch her face when she learned who he was. What he was. That he wasn't one of the good men at all.

  Apparently he stayed silent too long, because Victoria said, "Oh," and turned sharply away. "Never mind."

  He'd hurt her, the last thing he'd wanted to do. Panic burned in his throat, and his hand squeezed tight enough around his spurs to jab himself on the rowels. "Victoria."

  But she was circling the house. "My mistake!"

  And the fact that she had other, more important worries than him tonight did nothing to belie the fact that she was right.

  Half right.

  It had been both their mistake.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Vic hated being wrong, even about little things, but being wrong about Ross hurt. Maybe he did enjoy holding her, kissing her. But he clearly didn't intend to court her. And since he had kissed her, and she had kissed him, that must make her, well. . . loose.

  Which was nowhere near as bad as what it made him.

  She paused on the stoop outside Laurel's kitchen, hurt and confused. She'd thought she understood him, that she'd sensed a goodness in him, a real caring.

  How could her instincts have been so wrong?

  The door from the kitchen opened and Audra stepped out, her pretty face drawn with the same edge of fear the rest of the family wore. Victoria opened her arms, and they held each other. Audra was barely two years younger than she, but it seemed like a long two years.

  Especially tonight. Well-behaved Audra would never act the way Victoria had with Ross Laramie.

  "Have you heard anything?" asked the younger girl tentatively. Audra didn't normally approve of Victoria's nosy ways; clearly she was desperate.

  Vic wasn't about to burden her younger sister with the doctor's dire warnings about possible gangrene and amputation. "I'm sure they'll tell us if anything important happens."

  Audra nodded, trembling.

  "And Mama came down to fetch supper," Victoria reminded her. "They wouldn't be eating if they thought the situation was too desperate, would they?"

  "No," whispered Audra. "No. I guess they wouldn't."

  Victoria gave her a squeeze and, arm in arm, they went inside to join Laurel, Elise, Mariah, and little baby Garry.

  She had more important things to worry about than Ross Laramie's sincerity—or lack thereof.

  When the menfolk finally returned from burying the horse, Collier moved immediately to Laurel's side. Stuart went to Mariah, lifting little Garry from her lap into his thick, working-man arms. Thaddeas scooped Elise up and put her on his shoulders. Vic held hands with Audra.

  Ross Laramie and Nate Dawson stayed out on the porch, in the late-slanting sunlight of this never-ending day. Then Papa and the doctor came downstairs and she forgot about everything else.

  Papa stood behind Vic and Audra, putting a steadying hand on one of their shoulders each, while Dr. Crowley announced, "Your sister is a very lucky little girl."

  The exhalations around the room were audible.

  "She's awake, with no serious damage to her head or spine. That, however," he warned, "is the good news. She also has a broken arm and some broken and cracked ribs. The injury that most concerns me"—his gaze lifted to Papa's—"concerns us, is her left leg. It is badly broken, and I fear that at the very least she may need crutches or even a wheelchair for some time. Possibly the rest of her life."

  Now the room hung silent except for baby Garry's gurgles from Stuart and Mariah's joined arms. Victoria noticed that Collier had leaned his head onto Laurel's shoulder, to hide his face, as he held her from behind.

  It was Papa who added one firm word: "But..."

  "But," agreed the doctor reluctantly, "that will be a matter for physicians more experienced than myself. In the meantime, I will return daily, for at least a
week, to monitor her progress. Mr. and Mrs. Pembroke, I suggest you prepare yourselves to have guests for some time."

  "We're glad to," said Laurel immediately.

  And as if they'd just gotten out of church, everyone started talking at once. Collier assured the doctor that he could still reach Sheridan by twilight and offered to accompany him. Stuart, after a quick discussion with Mariah, insisted that he do it—he should get back to their ranch, and he trusted Thaddeas to bring Mariah and Garry safely home the following day. Audra hugged Papa so hard that her long, strawberry-brown braid started to come loose, and Elise wanted to know when she could see Kitty, and if Kitty got a wheelchair, could she ride in it.

  'You can take turns seein' her," allowed Papa.

  When Victoria noticed her father silently watching her, and met his gaze, he said, "Awful quiet, Victoria Rose."

  His stern, gray eyes teased her. That, more than anything, reassured her that Kitty would get well. Victoria traded hugs with her father, and her sisters, and her brother and brothers-in-law. She gave Mariah's darling baby a happy kiss and, waiting her turn to go into the bedroom, asked questions of the others as they left.

  When her turn arrived, she kissed her sister, promised to read to her, and began to think she could finally relax.

  Then Kitty asked, "Is Mr. Laramie still here, Vic?"

  Victoria lifted wide eyes to her father, who looked surprised but not upset. Mama said, 'You should rest for now, baby. You've had a lot of visitors."

  "But you always say that thank-you's and sorties are best said right off," protested Kitty, an edge of determination in her wan voice.

  Mama smoothed her hair gently back. 'You're right. We do say that. But only if you feel well enough."

  "Best said right off," insisted Kitty.

  So Victoria said, "I'll. . . fetch him." But she wished, more than ever, that she hadn't all but begged the man to court her. Or that he hadn't refused.

  Now that she wasn't quite so worried about Kitty, she wasn't sure which part of that combination bothered her the most.

  When Laramie first heard the news from the porch, he almost didn't believe it. Even after being trampled by a stallion, Kitty would survive?

  Hell, if Mrs. Garrison had her way, the child might even walk again. What was it Victoria had said? Doctors in Chicago and New York.

  Must be nice, he thought wryly—then frowned at his own bitterness. Watching the family through the parlor windows, seeing them hold each other and weep and laugh in shared gratitude, made him feel lonely, was all.

  Either that, or he was a bigger shit than even he had realized. After all, he knew some men who would be glad to have a fancy lawyer defend them on murder charges, too. Mrs. Garrison had hired a professional for him, too.

  But why? Why would a rancher's wife spend so much money on an immigrant boy? Was it from guilt over her family's involvement? Would he ever know?

  Through the window, he watched Jacob and Thad-deas Garrison exchange nods while Thaddeas hugged Victoria. Their sister was alive. Sometimes God cared after all. But his own sister was still dead. Worse yet, he'd been in Sheridan for weeks and done nothing to keep his promise to her.

  Worst of all, he was no longer certain that he could.

  Without a word to Dawson, Laramie swung off the porch and strode through the last dregs of sunshine to the old homestead cabin, the one Victoria said she'd helped renovate. Leaning against a tar-paper wall, he tried to imagine her chopping wood or toting water. The only way he could picture it was to see her talking at the same time, which made him want to smile. And that unnerved him.

  Whether it should or not, something was happening, had already happened between them. Something important, which he would have to honor, though not the way she wanted.

  He still couldn't court her.

  But he also wondered if he had it in him to kill Victoria's brother or her father—even if one proved to be the man he'd sworn to destroy. Whoever had betrayed Julije still deserved death, or worse. And yet, if it was a Garrison, how could he deliberately put Victoria through what he'd watched her go through today?

  The sacrifice wasn't what she wanted from him.

  It wasn't even close to what he wanted for her.

  A sharp whistle drew his gaze to the house. Victoria stood with Nate Dawson on the porch. Dawson beckoned.

  But Laramie watched Victoria as he returned, reluctant to face her anger, and surprised by her request.

  "Kitty wants to see you," she said, focusing on his chest instead of meeting his eyes.

  Laramie looked at Dawson, but the hand shrugged.

  Laramie looked back at Victoria and nodded. Then, since she hadn't seen his nod, he said, "All right."

  And he followed her upstairs.

  Kitty Garrison looked fragile in the Pembrokes' big feather bed, even with her mother sitting on the bed beside her and her father standing stern guard by the window. Her bandaged face had swollen, making her lopsided. Her hurt arm hung in a gingham sling. Laramie couldn't see her bad leg, but the shape of the blankets indicated that someone had propped up the covers to keep their weight off of it.

  He hesitated in the doorway, feeling guilty that he could resent anything, no matter how briefly, about such a child's recovery. Then Mrs. Garrison beckoned him nearer, so he came to the bedside.

  "Miss," he said, confused. "I hope you feel better."

  The words sounded foolish to his own ears. She had to be feeling like hell.

  The little girl looked up at him with eyes pinched either from pain or poor vision. Likely both. "Thank you, Mr. Laramie, for saving me from the stallion. I'm sorry I made you do that."

  He blinked, unsure he'd heard correctly. 'You're .. . ?"

  She looked down at her covers now, her good hand fidgeting with the sheet. "If I hadn't gone where I wasn't supposed to, you wouldn't have had to do that," she explained with warbling solemnity. "I feel just awful that I got him killed."

  Behind him, Victoria protested, "Oh Kitty, no!" Laramie felt her nearness—even if she wasn't there to be near him.

  "I did," insisted the child, her voice climbing in pitch. When she tipped her head back to stare at Laramie again, he recognized the pain and guilt in her blue eyes.

  From a mirror, long ago.

  He'd gotten good at hiding those feelings, but if anybody could still see them, it was him.

  "At least, I helped," she added tearfully, actually grieving for the horse that had tried to kill her. "And because of me, you had t-to shoot him. And that must feel just awful. So I'm s—sorry."

  Then she began to cry too hard to continue, despite her mother's steadying hand on her thin shoulder.

  Laramie carefully sank to a crouch beside the bed so he could look at her straight on, his heart pounding. "That's not how it is," he told her evenly. "That horse was bad."

  She shook her bandaged head. "Nooo!"

  "Maybe he wasn't born bad," he insisted, unsure where all these words were coming from—maybe Victoria, standing so near that her skirts brushed his hip, had a lingering influence. He didn't question it. He just talked. "Maybe if his world hadn't changed, he would have been fine. But things do change. He couldn't have his world anymore. There was a bounty on his head. He had to be captured or killed, and the Pembrokes—they figured capturing him was the kinder thing. But there he was in that corral, his mares sold away from him, and I don't guess he wanted to live that way. Critters that get trapped, they turn mean. They hurt so bad inside that they don't know anything else but to hurt other critters. And whether they intend it or not, that makes them bad. Do you understand?"

  She nodded, her pinched gaze now locked onto his.

  Laramie didn't look away either, mainly because he was afraid to see what anybody else in the room thought of his speech. That had to be more words than he would sometimes string together in a month.

  "So ..." The way Kitty bit her lip looked familiar to him now. "So you think maybe he didn't mean to hurt me?"

&nb
sp; "I guess maybe he didn't want to live in that corral anymore, and you gave him a way out." He hesitated. "Maybe it was a kindness."

  Kitty reached out her good hand then and laid it on his own. His left hand. His gun hand.

  "I'm still sorry I made you and Collier help," she whispered. "I'm sorry you hurt now, too."

  Laramie stared at the contrast of their hands, and all he could manage was a nod.

  "And that," interrupted Mrs. Garrison firmly, "is enough for now. It's time for your pain medicine, Kitty."

  The little girl nodded. "My heart doesn't hurt so bad anyway," she announced unevenly, patting Lara-mie's hand once with her own before he managed to draw away.

  And he did draw away. When he stood, it was so quickly that he almost stumbled.

  He had to get out of here.

  Mrs. Garrison looked up at him, a strange calm in her searching eyes. "Thank you for that, Mr. Laramie."

  He had to get out of here now.

  Somehow he managed not to bump into Victoria as he spun to leave. He shouldn't be in this house, this room. He shouldn't be talking like this to a little girl, and he damned well shouldn't be thanked for it!

  "Good night," called Kitty, but he didn't slow to return the wish. He wasn't sure why he felt so panicked—so trapped—but he did, and instincts were instincts.

  As he descended the stairs, he could see Garrisons sitting in the parlor and Garrisons on the front porch—but he knew the escape routes. He cut out the back way, through the kitchen, instead. Only on the stoop, noting that the sun had finally set, did he slow his steps, let his head fall back. This long day had nothing to do with him. He shouldn't have let it. This was the Garrisons' world, not his, and Kitty's guilt over the death of a wild stallion didn't—

  Damn it, it did matter. It shouldn't, but it did.

  Then, just to add to his evening's confusion, he heard the screen door behind him open, then shut. Maybe he smelled her. Maybe he sensed her. Maybe, after sneaking through the underbrush with her, he knew the sound of her petticoats. No matter how, he recognized Victoria without turning around, before she even started talking.