Elizabeth Lane - The Stranger

Caleb gripped Robbie’s wrist with one scarred brown hand. The other hand rested on the spot where the boy’s forearm was bent like a badly hammered nail. Gently at first he began to apply pressure, stretching the arm and pushing the break into position. Laura had read that the bones of small children were like green willows, more apt to bend and splinter than to snap. From the look of Robbie’s arm, the bone was still in one piece. Still, the pain had to be excruciating. She bit back her own sobs as her son began to whimper, then to scream.

“Done.” Caleb eased back on the straightened arm. Sweat was streaming down his face. “Good boy, Robbie. You’re as brave as any man I know. Now, if your mother will wrap your arm to cushion it and hand me the splints…”

Robbie’s screams had subsided to jerking sobs. Easing him back onto the pillows, Laura wrapped the first layer of flannel lightly around his arm, then handed Caleb the splints. He held them in place while she wound the wrappings. Working so closely together, it was difficult to avoid contact. The male aromas of sage, wood smoke and fresh perspiration crept into Laura’s senses until she felt strangely warm. Each accidental brush of his fingers against hers sent a jolt of awareness shooting up her arms and prickling through her body. She focused her attention on Robbie, diverting her thoughts from the rough-looking stranger who’d invaded her life. Soon he’d be gone. Then she could get back to the safe, private world she’d created for herself and her son.

He stepped away from the bed as Laura finished the wrapping and knotted the end of the flannel strip. Robbie lay back on the pillows, quiet now.

“Keep the arm raised as much as you can,” Caleb said. “That will ease the swelling.”

Laura rearranged the pillows to support the splinted arm. “I’m going to make you some chamomile tea, Robbie. You can get up later, after you’ve rested awhile.” She glanced back at Caleb, who was moving toward the bedroom door. “I’m beholden to you, Caleb McCurdy. Why don’t you bring your food into the kitchen and eat at the table. I’ll get you some cold cider and a slice of apple pie to go with the sandwich. That’s the least I can do.”

He hesitated for the space of a breath, as if pondering her offer. Then he thanked her and left the room. Laura covered Robbie with the soft merino blanket that had comforted him since babyhood. Bending, she brushed a kiss across his forehead. “Your father would have been so proud of you, my little love,” she murmured. He gave her a teary smile. She kissed him again and hurried out to the kitchen.

Caleb unwrapped his sandwich and laid it on the chipped bone china plate Laura had placed in front of him. He had sat at the same table five years ago. This time he occupied the place at the end, where Mark Shafton had sat on that day of horror.

Caleb was hungry and the food was well prepared. But his dry mouth had lost its ability to taste. Why had he come back here, to this place, these memories and this beautiful, damaged woman? He should have headed west to California or south to Mexico, where he could put the past behind him. Instead he’d chosen to open old wounds, and he was already bleeding.

Laura stood at the stove, measuring dried chamomile into a porcelain pot. He noticed the way she kept the left side of her face turned away from him, hiding the scar. “We don’t get many travelers out here since they finished the railroad,” she said, making polite conversation. “Where are you headed?”

“Texas. San Antone, most likely. Thought I’d take my time and see some new country on the way.” Another lie, as was everything he’d told her except his name. “I don’t see any hired help around,” he said, changing the subject. “How do you manage out here, a woman alone with a youngster? Wouldn’t you be better off selling the place and moving to a town?”

“I might.” She poured boiling water into the teapot. The flowery aroma of chamomile drifted into the room. “But I stay here to keep the land for Robbie. That’s what his father would have wanted—a legacy for him, his children, his grandchildren…” Her voice broke slightly as she spooned some honey out of a jar and dribbled a little of it into the tea. “I sold off the beef cattle and the spare horses after Mark died,” she said. “I wasn’t up to taking care of them, and I needed the money to live on. Steers and mustangs can be replaced. Land can’t. I’ll wear rags and go barefoot before I sell a single acre.”

Struck by the passion in her voice, Caleb studied the proud angle of her head and the determined thrust of her jaw. He had thought of Laura as fragile. But underneath her porcelain doll exterior was a core of tempered steel. He had glimpsed that steel when she’d turned on Zeke, sunk her teeth into his arm and grappled for the knife that would slash her face. Now he was seeing it again.

He should have guessed he would find her here, holding on to what was hers. So why hadn’t he turned around and left as soon as she opened the front door? Why was he still here, risking the chance that he might be recognized?

“But it doesn’t make sense to sit on the land while your money runs out,” he heard himself saying. “A ranch like this one could make you a right handsome living. You could run a herd of cattle, fatten them up on this good grass and ship them east by rail, or sell them to the army. Sheep would do all right in this country, too.”

She toyed briefly with her thin gold wedding ring. “You sound like my husband. He always said that one day we’d have the finest ranch in New Mexico.”

Caleb’s throat constricted around the piece of bread he’d just swallowed. He willed himself not to choke.

“I became a widow six months before Robbie was born,” she said. “I didn’t know the first thing about running a ranch. It was all I could do to survive and take care of my baby. When my nearest neighbor offered to buy the stock, I agreed to his offer, even though I knew he was getting a bargain. I needed the money.”

Caleb took a sip of cold cider and managed to swallow it. If he had any brains he’d get up from the table, thank Laura for the meal and ride away before he dug himself any deeper. But there was the matter of a small, broken boy who might yet need a trip to the nearest doctor. And there was the matter of this scarred, beautiful woman to whom he owed a monstrous debt.

Caleb’s mother had told him that among her people, if someone died because of another’s actions, the bereaved family had the right of adoption. They could claim the offender to take the place of their lost loved one and help provide for their family. It was a wise custom, one that served both justice and practicality.

Not that Caleb could ever replace Mark Shafton as husband, father and provider. That notion was unthinkable. But if he could teach Laura how to run the ranch, get her started with some cattle and hire some reliable help before he moved on, it might at least ease his conscience.

“You’ve got the makings of a good ranch here,” he said. “But the place needs some work. The windmill, the fences, the sheds…”

“Yes, I know.” She poured the tea into a small blue cup, set it on a saucer and added a splash of milk. “When Robbie’s a little older, I’ll have more time to spend keeping the place up. I’m not as helpless as I look. I can hammer nails and slap on whitewash with the best of them. But right now, I don’t dare turn my back on the little mischief. You saw what happened today.”

“I could help you,” Caleb said, feeling as if he’d just stepped over the edge of a cliff. “For a few good meals and a spot to lay my bedroll, I could have the place looking like new.”

She looked hesitant, and for an instant he felt his heart stop.