Five

Glory woke the next morning to a chorus of brays, moos, and rooster crowing. It took a full moment to remember why she slept in the barn loft. She rubbed her eyes and sat up. A book fell off her stomach to the hay.

Her journal was the one luxury she allowed herself. Jotting her innermost thoughts on paper gave her a sense of companionship, of having help in her struggles.

She barely recalled having written in it before she dozed off.

Curious about her last entry, she opened the page. Hell’s bells! She’d written Mrs. Luke McClain several times in flowing penmanship. Something for lovesick schoolgirls, not old maids.

She slammed the book shut before the crowing rooster above her head saw it and blabbed her foolish scribbling to the world. Her face burned and it wasn’t from the newly risen sun. If anyone—most of all Luke—were to see what she’d written, she’d die. She’d just dig a hole and bury herself.

She slid the book beneath the hay, hiding it from prying eyes.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo right back, you silly.”

The bird flapped his wings and flew down to roost on the pitchfork handle near Bessie. He opened his beak and set up an awful racket as if telling the milk cow what he’d seen.

“Shush, you big mouth. I’ve a good mind to pluck and boil you for supper.”

She pulled on the britches and tucked in her shirt, releasing a sigh. Only four more days until she could wear her dress.

On Sundays, she could be a lady.

But this was Wednesday, and though the day had just dawned, she already ran two hours behind.

While she tugged on the mule-eared boots, a heaviness landed square in the middle of her chest. Money—or rather the lack of it. Mr. Fieldings could surely take their land. Then she also had other considerations—her father’s dilemma. If she poured all her efforts into getting money for her mother to be with him, they’d lose their home. Besides, in her present state, her mother couldn’t withstand the rigors of travel. Glory knew she had to choose between the two.

Jo March sold her hair so her mother could go to her father’s side. An excellent idea, except no one in Santa Anna, not even in the whole county, had a use for shorn hair. Nope, she’d have to think harder.

Her sisters stumbled half-asleep through the barn door.

“Good morning.” Hope yawned, lifting the milk bucket from a nail.

Glory climbed down the ladder to the barn floor. “What’s the matter, Squirt? Jabber too much yesterday?”

“Don’ know what’s good about it. When I get big, I’m not gonna raise any chickens.” Patience snatched the egg-gathering basket. “An’ I’m gonna sleep till noon.”

“Don’t worry. When you get grown, you’ll have to do the same chores, like it or not. That’s life.” Hope put the bucket beneath Bessie and plopped onto the milking stool.

Glory suddenly decided she’d grown rather fond of eating. And keeping a roof over their heads took equal priority. Somehow, someway, she’d come up with two dollars by Saturday. Her mind eased with the choice made.

Papa, forgive me.

“I’m gonna have me a husband. One of those rich ones.” The little imp flounced over to the row of nests. “And I ain’t gonna live on no stinking farm either. I’ll be a city woman with pretty clothes. I’m gonna go to Paris like Amy March!”

That darn book had filled her with this nonsense.

“You’d best get those fancy ideas out of your head, Squirt. Sometimes you can’t help what you’re stuck with.” Glory scooped up some oats. She merely prayed for a break occasionally.

Luke’s horse nudged her hand, almost knocking the bucket to the floor when she reached over the stall. Lucky for him, she had a firm grip or he’d be rooting on the ground with the chickens for his breakfast. The pushy horse appeared to have taken lessons from his master.

Their short feed supply called for scrimping. She’d considered putting the animals out to pasture. Except the sea of dead grass changed her mind. And her soft heart wouldn’t allow it. They hadn’t caused their circumstances.

Earsplitting squawks drew her attention back to the row of hen nests. A brown leghorn took offense to being lifted off her nest and flew into Squirt’s face. Glory smiled when the girl skittered back in alarm.

Her smile vanished, however, when Patience dropped the egg she’d just plucked from the nest.

It spattered on the dirt floor with a squishy plop. Kind of soft—the sound a breaking heart makes.

“Patience! Please be more careful. We need every one of those.” Mentally, she subtracted the egg from the dozen or so she’d hoped to sell Aunt Dorothy.

“Don’t know what difference one old egg makes.”

“You will when you want me to bake another cake,” Hope said.

That settled the girl down and she continued her chores. Glory marveled at Hope’s ability to calm ruffled feathers. She lacked sorely in that area and came within a hairbreadth of telling them both exactly what the loss of one egg could mean.

“At least I’m not gonna be some old maid like you, Glory.” The girl’s one last parting shot stung. It hurt because she spoke the truth.

“Mornin’, ladies.”

The deep male voice startled Glory and she jerked, almost dropping the precious bucket of oats for Caesar.

Luke stood a yard or so inside the barn. Not close enough to account for this strange sense of suffocating.

He had a large presence about him. One she’d first noticed in the emporium yesterday.

She’d often heard Mama speak of how Jack filled every nook and cranny when he entered a room. Though she didn’t think it applied to girth or height, she’d never known what Ruth meant before now.

Damn that accursed grin!

How could her heart beat so fast and stay lodged inside?

The man rested his weight on the gnarled walking stick they kept inside the kitchen door, her grandfather’s from days gone by. The heavy way Luke leaned spoke of the deep pain he endured. A pure miracle he’d managed to walk from the house.

“Good morning, Mr. Luke.” The pendulum of Patience’s sour mood immediately swung the opposite direction.

A taunting gleam in the man’s gaze disturbed her.

Glory wondered how long he’d been standing there…and what he’d overheard. She’d like to stuff a sock in Squirt’s mouth. Preferably one with a week’s worth of wearing.

“Figured I’d lend a hand with the chores. I’m used to rising at the crack of dawn. These ol’ bones couldn’t take a minute more of that bed. No sirree.”

“Me too. I like to get up early.” Patience skipped gaily down the length of the barn as if she did so each morning. She deserved the glaring darts Glory threw her way. And more.

Hope rolled her eyes and chortled softly without missing a stroke in her milking rhythm.

The humor escaped Glory. Then of course, the little chatterbox’s statement didn’t embarrass anyone else. Asking Luke to marry Glory and calling her an old maid—what would come out of the Patience’s mouth next? She shuddered to think, remembering her journal.

“Did you sleep at all, Miss Glory? I surely didn’t feel right taking your bed.”

“Nothing wrong with sleeping on hay.” She grabbed the pitchfork and lifted a mound of the stuff. Anything to keep her eyes from straying to the mended denims that clung as sleek as cat’s fur. “I do it every now and then to remind me where I came from, and where but for the pure grace of God I’d be.”

Also where she—all of them—might be again should foreclosure occur.

Cleaning stalls was dirty and hot, but she wasn’t about to hint that it bothered her. She could pull her share.

“Just the same, tonight we’re switching.” Luke hobbled along after her, holding on to the stick. “Anything a cripple can help you with? There must be something I can do.”

Nothing except get himself back to the house and out of sight. How was she supposed to do her work with him shoving his devilish grin and his lean form in her face at every turn?

“Sorry I’ve added extra work for you on top of everything else you have to do.”

Luke McClain made too many sinful thoughts swim through her head. She wondered if she was the only one who had trouble breathing. Recalling her own name seemed difficult enough when he was around. The morning had sure turned hot. Not a breath of air to be had.

“Staying busy keeps me from thinking about Perkins. And about how dearly I’d love to give you a piece of my mind.” She swung to confront him. “We needed that five hundred dollars.”

Her words slapped him.

Damn!

Luke cringed. Not that he didn’t deserve it. He was no saint by a long shot.

But neither did he need reminding of the grief he’d caused. His conscience made sure he didn’t forget.

For the thousandth time, he wished he could go back and undo it. He touched her arm, wishing to apologize. When they connected, a current crackled and he thought he’d grabbed the tail end of a lightning bolt.

“I’m going to make it up to you, I swear on my mother’s grave. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.”

* * *

Idleness was a poor bedfellow. A couple of days later, Luke figured he’d recovered enough to make a few much-needed repairs on the farm. He felt obliged for the disruption he’d caused. Besides, if he didn’t put his hands to work, he’d go stir-crazy.

Glory had ridden off on the white mule. Hope had Patience helping her with the laundry.

And Mrs. Day had taken to her bed with a headache. It seemed the woman’s sole enjoyment in life was reading aloud after supper…except for last evening. Strange for the woman to not once poke her head out. Hope took a tray in and came out with a chalky face. Glory had read aloud instead. Sounded real nice in her smooth-as-thick-cream voice. She seemed to have some trouble seeing the words though. He’d made the mistake of asking about that.

“Nothing wrong with my eyes, McClain. Concentration is the problem. Keep losing my place is all.” Then she firmly shut the book, her glare ending further discussion of the matter.

The answer merely aggravated his concern. He’d noticed other times when he could have sworn she had problems seeing, and the panic that had crossed her features.

Nope, Glory hid a secret beneath her stubborn pride. She had trouble. Something a pair of spectacles would help?

If only he could hang around a bit longer. The lady would deny it to her dying breath, but she needed him. Maybe after he finished with Perkins…

Evenings had become his favorite hours of the day. Glory could be the spittin’ image of Jo March. Fact of the matter, he seemed to have landed smack dab in the middle of a real-life storybook.

Shoot! What was he thinkin’? Next thing he’d be spouting off a bunch of poetry or some such nonsense. Must be getting soft. He grinned. No, he took that back. Glory Day was the soft one—outwardly. He hadn’t minded one bit when she’d accidentally bumped against him with those hips that drove a man wild. Lush, ripe curves.

Damn, she’d be the ruination of him yet.

Oh, but what fun if he could afford to let his imagination run rampant?

The stern features of Mother Day quickly stifled those visions. Her frailty could be an act. She’d probably have him strung up before he could whistle “Dixie.” Suddenly, the image of a rope dangling before his eyes made him switch horses in midstream. He turned his thoughts in a more gainful direction.

Each day put more miles between him and Perkins. Being unable to ride didn’t sit well. He’d give himself two days more, then he’d go whether up to it or not.

An object in his pocket poked, jarring his memory. He pulled out the tin star that said Texas Ranger and touched the metal reverently. He fingered the dent a bullet had left, recalling the time and place.

Grief, thick and overwhelming, squeezed his chest.

It’d belonged to Max Sand, his best friend and partner. A scorching day. Horse thieves ambushed Max and him near Chandler’s Peak over by Goldsboro.

His hand trembled under the weight of the memory and he almost dropped the badge. It took six bullets to put Max down. He kept standing long after an ordinary man would’ve fallen. Max died in his arms despite his bumbling attempt to stanch the flow of blood. The tin star brought back all of his shortcomings and his promise to Max.

He squared his jaw.

Since then, he’d learned the killer’s name.

A quick glance at the sky told him time was wasting. “Mad Dog, you’d better run like hell.”

Hate left a bitter taste in his mouth. Luke dropped the star into his pocket. The reasons to get back on his feet had multiplied to three.

Irritated with the delay, he vented an oath. The walking stick protested as he leaned, taking stock of the neglected surroundings.

His energy would be better put to use doing needed handiwork. He limped to the barn for a hammer.

A few well-placed tacks fixed the torn screen door. He replaced a broken porch step and did half a dozen other small tasks. Grunting with pain, he managed to crawl onto the roof, where he patched a hole above the kitchen. Then, he turned his attention to the shabby barn.

“Patience Ann, put down those kittens and help me.”

Frustration filtered through Hope’s usual way. He’d not once heard her voice raised. He paused outside the barn door to watch the sisters. A familiar whine drifted on the slight breeze.

“Washing clothes is no fun. When I grow up—”

“I don’t want to hear that babble. If you don’t get busy hanging these clothes on the line to dry, you won’t live past today. We all have to do things we don’t like. But that’s the way it is. Grin and bear it.”

“Donkey head,” Patience called her older sister.

“Mule breath,” Hope threw over her shoulder.

Luke laughed. Normal behavior for siblings everywhere, it appeared. Squabbles he’d had with his big brother, Duel, swirled through his head. He’d not taken Duel’s well-intentioned bossiness a bit better. Must be a law against accepting correction. Patience required a firm hand. She had a mite too much sass.

The girl needed her father. They all did. Glory’s fierce determination as provider would put her six feet under without relief soon. He dearly wished for different circumstances that would prolong his stay. The family had a tough row ahead of them. Still, he reasoned, catching Perkins would help more.

Watching Glory work from daylight to dusk brought a hardness to his jaw. A trip to town before breakfast to sell milk and eggs; then she hauled water from the creek in a feeble attempt to keep the pitiful garden going.

Back and forth she went, almost dropping with exhaustion.

At one point, he’d grabbed the buckets from her, only to have them snatched right back, accompanied by a tongue-lashing.

“Kinda brazen for a man with only one good leg, aren’t you?”

“You just can’t abide anyone lending a hand, can you?” God, what a stubborn woman. Didn’t make a lick of sense.

“Go sit down. You’ll start your leg bleeding.”

After she and the mule completed a dozen trips, he’d had enough. Despite her cussed independence, he led Soldier from the barn and tied two barrels on the paint’s side.

“What are you doing?”

“Earning my keep.” He tugged on his horse’s bridle.

“We don’t need you. I can take care of this farm.” The fire flashing from her blue eyes had caught him by surprise. “We’ve gotten along perfectly fine without a man this far, and we sure don’t need one now. So you can put your horse back up and get out of my way.”

“Two can carry twice as much. I’m helping.”

He had to strain to catch her muttered reply.

“If that’s the case, you can do that by healing your leg and riding out of here.”

Luke had scratched his head in confusion. “Didn’t know my company was so dadblasted bothersome.”

“Now you do.” She’d kicked a clump of dried grass with her toe. “You’re a bother, McClain.”

Long into the afternoon, Luke still mulled over the words. He didn’t think Glory meant to sound rude. The tone of her voice didn’t mesh with the words. No hardness in the accusation. Her voice had been too soft. He suspected his bothersome nature wasn’t solely due to the extra work he heaped on them. Could be his presence aroused womanly desires she’d buried deep beneath that gritty exterior.

Women. Trying to reason their ways boggled a man’s mind.

He turned to go inside when he caught a flash of white from the corner of his eye. The mule rose from the creek bed with Glory astride.

“Have mercy!”

What he saw stepping from the incline wasn’t a woman dressed in men’s clothes riding on a white mule. A fairy princess on a snow-white stallion rode toward him. She wore a silk gown laden with pearls and rubies and emeralds.

Glory brought an ache in his chest, the kind that posed more danger than what came from her Winchester.

She held him mesmerized in the spell. Every intention vanished into the mist of the daydream he shamelessly created. Through half-closed lids, he watched her lift the floppy hat. At a shake of her head, the golden corn silk strands tumbled around her shoulders in a glistening swirl. Waning sunlight danced off the thickness. He imagined mischievous fairies cavorting in the field of spun gold.

The vision stole not only his breath, but his very thoughts. Surely he hadn’t made that tortured groan aloud.

Rooted to the spot, he stared as she raised her arm and slipped her fingers through the silky mass. Blood hammered in his ears. His eyes widened to better catch the faintest details of her outlined breasts taut against the fabric.

Her proud carriage spoke of self-confidence that she could do anything she set her mind to. The strong spirit enveloping her settled around his shoulders.

While he waited for her at the barn door, he listed all the reasons why he should resist the one thing he most wanted to do.

His duty.

His purpose.

His secret devotion to his brother’s wife.

The stabbing pain was red-hot and searing.

“I see the hunter gods smiled on you today.” A tremor ran through him as he reached to help her down.

For an instant, she seemed about to hand him his head on a platter. Then almost shyly, she accepted his grip and dismounted.

“Pure luck, McClain.”

He suspected she tucked that shyness behind the gruff exterior because it was easier than dealing with other emotions. Ones that scared the living daylights out of her. And him too.

Glory untied the legs of two large gobblers and let them fall to the ground.

“Nice shot,” he said, examining them. “Punkin might have a point after all when she claimed you could shoot whatever you aimed for. Now, I’m not sure filling my leg full of lead was all that accidental. Could be—”

“Could be you talk too much.” She probably meant the flippant tone as a warning. “As you said, you can’t believe everything that impossible sister of mine says.”

Luke should’ve let the comment pass, but he couldn’t help stirring the boiling pot…even if he got scalded. Manure for brains, his father had said many a time.

“Like the part about you never having a beau? Or never lettin’ a gentleman call on you? Or is it the part about never having been kissed that’s bunched your tail feathers in a wad?”

A shocked gasp filled the space. “Mr. McClain! That’s my business. What right—”

Before he realized his intentions, he slid his hand beneath her hair. With a tug on the back of her neck, he pulled her against him. Glory trembled under his touch, a fragile leaf in a storm’s path.

Her soft lips parted slightly in anticipation as her eyelids fluttered down to hide the solid, blue gaze that rocked the foundation of his soul.

Sure as his name was Luke McClain, he knew he had to kiss her. Knew he had to taste the forbidden nectar or die from pure want.

At that moment, he knew he wanted to be a bother more than anything else.