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“He’ll settle down.” Jane hollered to make herself heard over Barton’s shrill lament. Hunting up a damp cloth, she wiped the baby’s face, which made him cry harder still. Then she scooped him up out of his high chair and bounced him gently, trying to comfort him.
The child’s sobs gradually subsided into wet hiccups. A warm surge of success buoyed Jane—indispensable. “There now, that wasn’t so bad.”
Time to wipe off the tray of his high chair and wash the breakfast dishes. Giving his warm little body a final squeeze, Jane set Barton down on the floor so she could tend to the other chores.
“Waaaa!” The crying returned in full force and increased volume.
Jane picked the baby up again. My, he was a heavy little armful! The gentle ache of her ribs sharpened. It took her longer to quiet him this time, but at last his tears subsided and he poked a plump thumb into his mouth. Shifting him to her hip, Jane managed to carry her breakfast dishes and his porridge bowl to the corner washtub. She dampened a rag and swiped it over the tray of his chair. It wasn’t as thorough a job as she would like to have done, but the best she could manage one-handed while balancing a heavy baby on her hip.
Zeke ambled to the kitchen door, grabbing his hat and coat from their pegs.
“Where are you going?” Jane asked.
The boy shrugged. “Poke around the corrals. Maybe saddle up Windsinger and go for a ride.”
Jane thought of the cowboy thrown from his horse. The one Mrs. Kincaid might be tending at this very minute. And what animals might be out in the ranch’s corrals? Bulls with sharp horns and heavy hooves, perhaps. Wild mustangs whose powerful bucking legs could shatter a man’s skull with one kick.
Ruth and Caleb Kincaid had left her in charge of their boys. Ruth trustingly. Caleb warily. More than anything, Jane wanted to justify Ruth’s faith in her and to win Caleb’s trust. How else could she make herself indispensable around the Kincaid ranch? If Zeke came to harm while in her care, she might find herself on the next train back to Boston, or perhaps hired to ply some unspeakable trade at the Double Deuce Saloon.
“I’m sorry, Zeke. I’m responsible for your safety. I’ll have to ask you to stay in the house with me until your folks get back.”
“Aw!” The boy thrust his hat back on its peg, but kept his buckskin jacket on. “I ain’t a baby like Barton. I’ve been going where I please around this ranch as long as I can recollect. Two years ago I ran off and joined the Cheyenne.”
If Zeke expected such a boast would impress Jane into setting him at liberty, he miscalculated.
“I’m sorry, Zeke.” He seemed like a good boy. If she denied him and he came to resent her presence, what chance was there that his father and stepmother would keep her around? “I could use your help while Ruth is gone. Barton doesn’t know who I am, and I haven’t got any idea where to find things. I’d be much obliged if you’d stay close by to advise me.”
He heaved a great sigh that reminded Jane of Mrs. Endicott when she finally submitted to the tiresome necessity of taking her pills. “I suppose I can hang around till Pa gets back. Best advice I can give you—if Barton starts to cry again, try sitting with him in the rocking chair.”
“Thank you, Zeke. I’ll remember that.”
Just to impress upon her that he was obeying under protest, the boy stalked off to another part of the house. Later Jane heard loud banging noises from upstairs, but she didn’t have the courage to go investigate what he might be up to.
Not that she had the opportunity, for Barton kept her well occupied. As long as she sat in the rocking chair, talking or singing to him, he was perfectly contented. And he would tolerate being held in Jane’s arms while she walked through the house, wistfully taking note of all the chores she could be doing to impress the Kincaids with her industry.
If she set him down, though, the baby would suck in more air than his small body seemed capable of holding. Then he would release it at high volume with a distressing infusion of tears. The sound of his crying made Jane’s insides contract and the muscles between her shoulders bunch up tight.
What was that smell? Something burning?
Ignoring Barton’s shrieks, Jane popped him into his high chair and checked the stove. The savory concoction of beef and beans had begun to scorch on the bottom of the pot. Jane stirred it several times.
Was it her imagination, or did she smell the tang of sourdough working?
A quick glance in the warming tray revealed a number of loaf pans covered with damp dish towels. Had they risen sufficiently? Was the oven hot enough to bake them? Back in Boston, Mrs. Endicott’s cook had prepared all the meals. Jane wished she’d shown more curiosity about culinary matters.
She could always leave the dough and later claim not to have known it was there. But by then it might have overflowed the pans and made a sticky mess all over the bottom of the warming tray. She owed Ruth better service than that.
Desperately hoping she was doing the right thing, Jane lifted the pans down and set them in the oven. Then she dug in the wood box for a couple of good-size sticks to stoke the fire.
“Hush, Barton, hush. I’m coming.” She hoisted the squalling baby back out of his chair and bounced him on her hip until she feared her cracked ribs would break for sure. Did something else ail the little fellow besides missing his mother? Was he hungry? Thirsty? Tired?
The Kincaids had been right not to hire her in the first place. What had made her think she could look after a baby when she had almost no experience, only a pack of romantic daydreams about motherhood?
Jane collapsed into the rocking chair and snuffled back tears of sympathy for young Barton. And despair for herself.
The new filly shied away from John Whitefeather’s approach. The last shreds of patience slipped from his grasp like a greased rope. He’d tried a number of his most reliable techniques on the tetchy beast and she still wouldn’t let him near—not even to feed from a bucket of oats he held.
Finally he let her out into the paddock with Hawkwing and Zeke’s pony, Windsinger. Maybe they would let the filly know he was a man a horse could trust.
When his stomach gave a loud growl, John realized the time had gotten away from him. That often happened when he threw himself into gentling a particularly reluctant horse. Still, he could always count on his sister to drag him into the ranch house for meals.
But Ruth had gone with Caleb to tend young Cicero Price, and there was no sign of them back yet. Just then, John remembered Caleb’s parting words to him.
“Keep an eye on that Harris gal, will you? Can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about that gal I don’t trust.”
“Better late than never,” John muttered to himself as he headed for the ranch house. How much mischief could she have gotten into since breakfast? Even if she was the mischievous type—which John doubted. “I could use a cup of coffee and something to eat, anyway.”
The minute he walked through the kitchen door, the smell of burned food overpowered John’s nose, while the piercing howls of his infant nephew all but deafened him. The room looked like an orange Kansas twister had just blown through it.
A strange, frantic sensation tightened the flesh of John’s throat as his eyes swept the kitchen, looking for Jane Harris. Had she run off or locked herself in her room, leaving the boys to fend for themselves?
In front of the oven, a disheveled figure straightened up and set a loaf pan on the counter. The aroma of fresh bread almost battled the stench of burned beans. Three more times Jane Harris bent and straightened, like some kind of wading bird bobbing for food. Then she closed the oven door and rescued Barton from his chair.
As she stood there clutching the bawling baby, John thought he’d never seen such a pathetic looking creature in his life. The injuries to her face still had some healing to do, and her warm brown hair straggled from a once-neat roll at the nape of her neck. Her dainty green dress, better suited to a garden party than a Montana ranch, was spattered with gobs of bright orange, as was her face. She shrank from his gaze as though she expected John to draw a six-shooter and gun her down.
As Barton’s cries quieted, she spoke. “I don’t think the bread is ruined.”
She made it sound like a single hard-won victory in a day of disastrous defeats. For reasons he could not explain or justify to himself, John Whitefeather began to chuckle and then to laugh.
“This isn’t funny!” The terrified look left her eyes, replaced by a rather becoming flicker of fury. “I’ve tried my best, but everything’s just gone from bad to worse, and I can’t get a blessed thing done when I have to hold the baby every blessed minute.”
When a frightened filly had her back to the wall, often she would rear or buck, rather than cower. The Boston gal put John in mind of such a horse. And she wasn’t done yet.
“He spit out every spoonful of mashed carrots I tried to feed him. His brother’s off tearing the house apart nail by nail for all I know. Any minute, Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid are going to arrive home and put me on the next train back to Boston. If they don’t decide it’s cheaper just to throw me to the wolves!”
For an instant John feared the woman was going to burst into hysterical tears. Instead, she glanced around the kitchen and down at her carrot-dappled dress, then began to laugh with an edge of frenzy.
Two swift strides brought John close to her. When he held out his arms for his nephew, she surrendered the child without any pretense of reluctance.
John lifted little Barton high in the air and spoke to him in Cheyenne. “What kind of warrior are you to pour tears like a rain cloud and howl like thunder? Why do you torment the woman so she cannot work?”
Two deep dimples blossomed on either side of Barton’s mouth as he crowed with laughter.
John lowered the child to his shoulder. “I’ll keep him quiet for you and I’ll go talk to Zeke while you clean up the kitchen.”
“Why?” Suspicion brooded in the woman’s eyes.
He’d expected some timid sign of gratitude, like the smile she’d offered last night when he’d convinced Ruth and Caleb to let her stay on at the ranch. Her question, posed with a guarded posture and wary tone, puzzled him.
“Why should you clean the kitchen? If you can’t see that for yourself, ma’am, I don’t think you’re going to be much help to my sister.”
“I know why the kitchen needs to be cleaned.” She stiffened and pushed a fallen lock of hair out of her eyes. “What I want to know is why you’re willing to help me. When I first arrived in town yesterday, you looked at me like I was a dead whale rotting on your shore. Later you spoke up for me with the Kincaids and now you propose to take charge of the children so I can set this mess to rights. What is it you want from me, Mr. Whitefeather?”
The maverick filly out in the corral had exhausted his patience. He didn’t have a scrap left for this Boston filly who provoked a dust devil of contrary feelings within him.
“What do I want?” he snapped. “How about a crumb of thanks? Or is that too much for a Montana half-breed to expect from a prissy New England lady?”
Her fair complexion paled even further, until Barton’s spewed carrots stood out like a faceful of bright freckles. In John’s arms, the baby began to fuss. Rubbing the child’s back and rocking him, John softened his reproach of Jane Harris so as not to upset Barton further.
“Last night, when you found out you didn’t have a job, you looked like somebody pretty near the end of her rope. When I walked through that door a few minutes ago, you appeared to have gone downhill in the meantime. Call me a gullible jackass, Miss Harris, but I’ve always had a soft spot for folks who are in trouble. If you can’t accept a little help with good grace, I reckon that’s your problem.”
She thought his words over for an instant, then whispered, “I suppose it is.”
Miss Harris looked too doggone appealing, and he wanted to stay mad. So John spun away from her and headed off to find Zeke.
Over his shoulder he called, “Get busy and clean up around here. I’m doing this for my sister, not for you. She’ll be tuckered out when she gets back from doctoring Cicero. I don’t want her coming home to a kitchen that looks and smells like this one does.”
Behind him he heard absolute silence, which pricked his curiosity so much he almost looked back. Instead he forced his feet down the hall and up the stairs to Zeke’s room.
He tapped on the door. “Zeke, it’s me and Barton. Can we come in?”
The door swung open. John almost flinched at the sight. He’d seen hog wallows cleaner than Zeke’s bedroom.
The boy must have been cracking walnuts open with a hammer, for shells were spread across the wood floor like a crunchy carpet. Either the bed hadn’t been made that morning, or Zeke had climbed back under the covers recently. Discarded clothes lay everywhere. A company of painted toy soldiers littered one corner of the room where they had fallen in some pretend battle. Others sprawled behind a fortress of building blocks whose walls had been breached by imaginary artillery.
Picking his way through the walnut shells, John cleared a spot on the rumpled bed, then sat down and began to bounce Barton on his knee.
Zeke glanced around his room, as if noticing the mess for the first time. He knelt down and began sweeping the walnut shells into a pile.
“Did she say you had to hang around indoors all day, too?” The boy’s lower lip thrust out in a stubborn pout.
Sometimes John wondered if his young friend didn’t have the worst qualities of both his parents—Caleb’s stubborn streak and Marie’s spitefulness.
“Nope.” John shook his head. “I came in to get some coffee and a bite to eat.” Jane Harris had driven any thought of food or drink from his mind. “You housebound for the day?”
“Uh-huh. She thinks I’m some kind of danged baby, like Barton. I told her I’ve been going where I want and doing what I please on this ranch since I been out of dresses. Told her how I ran off and joined the Cheyenne.”
John swallowed a smile and nodded, remembering how the boy had appeared at their camp, wanting to become a Cheyenne warrior to avoid going to school. “Was that likely to convince her it’s safe to let you out of the house?”
“Reckon not.”
“I don’t think she was trying to be mean to you, or treat you like a baby, Zeke. Your folks went off in a big hurry this morning and left Miss Harris to look after you boys without any time to prepare. It’s not easy being put in charge when you aren’t ready. Lot of responsibility. Lot of things can go wrong and it’ll be your fault if they do.”
That’s how he’d felt when Bearspeaker and the other elders had made him their chief. Always, he worried if he was doing the right thing. Like now—working in the white man’s world to provide a place that belonged to them. Would he have done better to settle them on the reservation with other Cheyenne bands? If any of his people suffered because of his decision, John wondered how he would bear the burden on his conscience.
“If you say so.” Zeke gathered up his dirty clothes and set them on the end of the bed. “She’s kind of pretty, ain’t she?”
“You reckon?” John shrugged and wrinkled his mouth into a dubious frown.
“Yep.” Zeke dug out a wooden box from under his bed and put all his soldiers away. “Not pretty like Ruth or Aunt Lizzie, of course. And for sure not like Jon Watson’s ma, that Uncle Brock married.”
John had to agree. His sister and Caleb’s sisters-in-law were all very striking women, each in her unique way. Ruth with her long raven hair, Lizzie with her riot of golden curls and Abby with her bright coppery mane. Alongside them, Jane Harris looked like a drab little meadowlark in the company of a raven, a goldfinch and a robin. Still, the little lady from back East had a waifish charm that drew his eye far more than it ought to.
Zeke stacked his blocks into a neat pile in the far corner. “She ain’t a Montana kind of gal, that’s for sure.”
A yelp of laughter burst out of John, which set Barton gurgling along with him. “We’re agreed on that, son. You appear to know a whole heap about women.”
“I oughta.” Zeke winked. “Plenty of courting going on around here lately.” He continued to tidy his room in silence, then he added in a more serious tone, “I reckon Miss Harris needs somebody to take care of her.”
For some reason the boy’s words dug into John’s conscience like cold steel. “If she’s going to last in Montana, Miss Harris needs to learn how to take care of herself, son.”
A tentative tap sounded on Zeke’s door, followed by a bolder one. With a guilty start, John wondered how much of his conversation with the boy Jane Harris might have overheard.
Perhaps Zeke was pondering the same thing, for he looked a little shamefaced as he pulled the door open.
Before Jane Harris could get a word out, he launched into his apology. “I’m sorry I didn’t stick around and give you a hand with Barton, ma’am. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you he hates carrots even worse than he hates peas. Night Horse explained to me about you being respons’ble in case I get hurt while my folks are gone.”
Jane Harris looked from Zeke to John and back, a shadow of uncertainty in her eyes. “Night Horse?”
“My Cheyenne name.” The gruffness of his voice took John aback.
“So you’re not Apache?” One slender hand flew up to cover her mouth—too late to prevent her words escaping.
Zeke scowled with boyish scorn. “Don’t you know nothing, ma’am? Apaches live way in the south. This here’s Cheyenne, Crow and Sioux country. Night Horse is a real live Cheyenne warrior chief, and he made me an ornery Cheyenne brave.”
“Honorary brave, Zeke.” John bit back a grin. So had Jane Harris, unless he missed his guess.
“Why is a Cheyenne warrior chief working as a ranch foreman?” The lady’s wide eyes betrayed a shade of fear. And possibly a glow of respect?
“Long story, ma’am. Long, dull story.”
“No it ain’t,” piped up Zeke.
John gave the boy a warning look, but addressed his words to Jane Harris. “Was there something you wanted, ma’am?”
“Ah—yes, there was, as a matter of fact. I’ve got the kitchen scrubbed down as best I can and I managed to save some of those beans. The scorched ones I fed to the pigs. It won’t be enough for supper, I’m afraid. Especially if Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid get home in time to join us. After I change my dress, I wondered if you gentlemen might give me a hand fixing something more.”
John rose from his seat on Zeke’s bed, little Barton gathered close to his chest. The baby blinked heavy eyelids and sucked on his thumb.
“I reckon we could do that, ma’am.” Somehow, during his conversation with Zeke, the flash of anger he’d felt toward Jane Harris had eased. “Later, I can show you how Cheyenne women keep their hands free to work when they’ve got little ones to mind.”
“Thank you, Mr. Whitefeather. Or should I call you Night Horse?”
He liked the sound of his Cheyenne name on her tongue. A little too much, perhaps.
“Plain John will be fine, ma’am.”
Chapter Four
