Chapter Seven

Vin Tanner reined in Peso a few feet shy of Larabee's front porch and watched the progress of the two dirty, sweating men who labored in the hot noon-day sun. Both were stripped to the waist and dust caked their arms and shoulders, the sweat running n muddy rivulets down their chests and backs.

"Light and set," Chris said from his chair on the shady front porch as he followed the progress of the laborers with a pleased expression on his face. Forty new fence posts rose solidly from the ground, and from his vantage point atop the leggy black gelding, Tanner could count at least another twenty freshly dug holes waiting to be filled.

The dirt and dust that caked Larabee's boots and trousers, and the patches of dark sweat that stained his shirt attested to the fact that he had not been long idle. Swinging his gaze back to the fence line, Vin noted where the long stretch of completed fence ended abruptly in a stack of boards and an abandoned hammer hanging from a fence rail above an empty tin coffee can.

"Brought you the nails you wanted," the tracker said, swinging down and untying the heavy bag from behind his saddle. He nodded towards the new construction. "That looks to be a might more than just a new corral."

Larabee grinned, "I thought I'd take advantage of the extra help and put in a couple more pens while they were at it."

"What did Ezra have to say about that?" Vin wondered, climbing the steps and dropping into the empty chair beside Larabee.

Chris's grin widened slightly. "I didn't tell him. He pretty much lost track of what they were doin' after the twentieth post or so."

"He's slippin'," Vin commented. "Musta been all those blows he took to the head."

The tracker frowned and watched the Southerner's progress as he slammed the spade back into the ground and chipped away another shovelful of the hard packed earth. "I reckon he's gonna figure it out sooner or later, though. He appears to be healin' up some."

"He is a lot less colorful than he was last week," Chris allowed, noting the dark and livid bruises that had marked the gambler's face and torso were fading away to yellow and green. Beneath the grime and dirt that covered his skin, they were barely visible now. The older man shrugged. "He'll live. He bitches more about the dirt than the pain."

Vin chuckled. "He would."

From off in the distance, they heard the stady rumble of a wagon and glanced up to see a team and buckboard topping the hill, flanked by four riders.

"That will be Mary and Inez," Vin said, nodding towards the wagon. I ran into them in town, they said something about bringing dinner out to everybody, bein's how it's Sunday and all."

Chris did not miss the wistful tone in the Texan's voice. He understood it in a way. He only vaguely remembered the large Sunday dinners from his childhood, when his mother and sisters would cook enough to feed an army and all the family would gather around. It had been an experience largely lost to him until after he'd married Sarah, and even then the small, quiet gathering of her and Adam, Buck and himself had seemed but an echo of those childhood days. He suspected that Vin had never known those things at all. That was the difference between them. Vin was longing for something he'd never had, while he himself knew exactly what it was he was missing.

He watched the wagon draw nearer with an odd emotion twisting in his gut as he recognized Nathan, Josiah, JD and Casey riding along beside them and spotted Billy's towheaded blonde form clinging tightly behind the girl's saddle. If Mary had asked his opinion on the matter, he would have brushed her off, told her it was unnecessary –which probably was why she hadn't asked. Now that he saw them coming towards him, he was rather glad she hadn't bothered to mention it to him. Something told him this was all the family he was ever going to have. It was wrong to push them away. One never knew when you might lose them. It was a lesson he had learned the hard way. He was still learning it.

Rising from his chair, Chris stepped down off the porch to greet Mary and Inez as the fair-haired woman skillfully halted her bay driving horse in front of the little shack. Offering Mary his hand, he helped her down out of the wagon as Vin moved around to the opposite side to do the same for Inez.

"Chris! We brought you a picnic!" Billy called excitedly, barely waiting for Casey's hand as he scrambled down from behind her.

"So I see," he murmured, doing his best not to look too pleased as he met Mary's eyes. He caught Nathan and Josiah's knowing looks, and suspected he was failing miserably.

"Seeing as how you were all working so hard, we thought we'd bring you dinner," Mary explained, smoothing the folds of her skirt. She tossed a glance towards Buck and Ezra, walking back from the corrals covered in grime and sweat, and then turned a speculative blue eyes to Chris's own relatively unruffled appearance. "Although it appears some of you are working harder than others."

"The Sabbath is meant to be a day of rest," Josiah commented, dismounting his horse.

"I would greatly appreciate it if you would remind Mr. Larabee of that," Ezra complained, picking up his shirt, waistcoat and jacket from the end of the porch where he had left them, carefully folded. "He does not appear to recognize the difference."

Nathan chuckled. "Ezra, I reckon the good Lord will take a day's honest work from you any day he can get it."

It was a sign of the gambler's exhaustion that he did not have a ready retort. He settled for shooting the healer an acid look and stalking off around the corner to wash and properly attire himself before further socializing in the presence of the women. Buck, on the other hand, appeared to have little concern as to his state of undress. Sauntering over to the wagon, he flashed an irrepressible smile at Inez and looked hopefully at the picnic baskets loaded in the back of the wagon.

"So what did ya bring?" he asked, lifting up one of the gingham table cloths that covered the food with a grimy hand.

Inez swatted him away. "There will be nothing for you, if you don't wash up. I prefer my food without the seasonings of the barn yard."

"Yes ma'am," Buck said, not quite chastised. Still, he obediently made off in the direction of the horse tank to remove the worst of the grime.

Chris shook his head. "Some day I'm gonna fill his canteen with water I've washed my horse in an' see how he likes it. I'll have to refill the stock tank when he's done. The horses won't want to drink out of it."

Vin rolled an amused eye towards him. "You drink outta his canteen lately? As often as he changes the water in it, I doubt he'd note the difference."

The women wasted no time in selecting a spot and directing the men to haul the baskets to the shade of the small saplings that stood just behind the little cabin. Mary, Inez and Casey quickly began unpacking the baskets while the men spread out the blankets in the shade.

"Drat!" Mary exclaimed, searching through her baskets. "I'm short two plates. I must have left them on the table at home."

"I've got a couple in the house," Chris said as he worked to loosen the knots that bound his bedroll blanket. It had been while since he'd used it, and the leather had dried out a bit.

"I will get them," Inez said, rising to her feet.

"They're on the table," Chris said, and flashed an apologetic look. "I can't speak as to how clean they are."

Inez merely smiled and shook her head. –Men. She expected no less. Strolling up to the forlorn little two-room dwelling, she entered and was surprised to see how orderly it was. There were no furnishings save a bunk, a table and two chairs –all rough, but handmade and sturdy. A small two-burner stove stood against the back wall and a variety of bridles, halters and ropes hung neatly from pegs on the wall just inside the door. Two rough shelves behind the stove held the few staple groceries, but she could see no cooking utensils save a blackened coffee pot and a well-seasoned skillet. She shook her head as she picked up the two battered tin plates from the table. It was a wonder to her that men were able to survive at all with their own meager cooking skills.

Stepping off the porch and into the sunlight, she glanced down at the plates and understood Larabee's sheepish comment about the condition of his dinnerware. There were indeed bits of old food particles stuck to the plates, and a hint of rust bloomed where the enamel had chipped away to expose the tin. She knew that hot water was too much to hope for, but at least there was soap and water, and she fully intended to use both. Rounding the corner of the shack, she headed toward the rain barrel and halted suddenly at the sight of the man standing before it.

Lathered from head to shoulders, Ezra reached blindly for the tin wash basin and bailed a pan-full of the tepid water from the rain barrel. Dousing his upper body as best he could, he wiped the water from his eyes and froze as he heard the sharp, feminine intake of breath behind him.

Damn.

He felt the panic welling up inside of him, could practically feel the horrified eyes that even now must be traveling over the multitude of knotted scars that crisscrossed his back. He fought back a surge of anger at both himself and the intruder. He did not want anyone's pity; he had more than enough of his own supply. He should have kept his shirt on, but he disliked ruining a garment unnecessarily and it was not a sight that Chris or Buck had not seen before. If it disturbed the two men, the pretended not to notice and he pretended not to notice their rather transparent effort they made in doing so. Schooling his face to remain impassive, he slowly turned around, fully expecting to meet the shocked gaze of Mary Travis or Casey.

To his surprise, it was Inez who stood before him, and he realized it was not the scars on his back that had shocked her. –They wouldn't of course. Aside from himself, and Nathan, she was the only other person so intimately familiar with them. She had helped to treat them, had seen the raw and bloody mess he had been when they had brought him back to town after the unfortunate incident and Randall's station. No, he realized, it was not the scars she was staring at, but the bruises. He flushed a bit and clenched his jaw as he felt her eyes travel across his ribs and over his chest where the dark purple marks were still fading away to sickly greens and yellows. They had not spoken of the events in Ridge City, but she knew damned well how he'd gotten them. He forced himself to meet her gaze, saw the mixture of anger and shame that burnt in her brown eyes and determined that he did not wish to speak of it now, either.

Inez saw the taut way that he held himself, the green eyes devoid of expression, and knew that raw and powerful emotions were roiling somewhere beneath the still waters of that infuriating poker face. She'd had ample opportunity to observe this man –to observe all of them—in the year since she had come to this place, and she was starting to think she might perhaps know a little of the puzzle that was Ezra Standish. She had seen him in some of his finest moments –and in some of his worst. She had seen him when he had lain bloody and broken and too close to death in that little room over the saloon. For all that he might be able to hide it from the others, there were glimpses of the inner man that he could not hide from her. –No matter how much he might wish otherwise.

You are a decent man, Ezra Standish, she thought grimly, no matter how much you try to deny it.

Something in the way he held himself reminded her of a wild creature, skittish at the scent of danger and ready to flee. Breaking his gaze, she moved past him to the water barrel and scooped more clean water into the basin.

"The scars have healed well," she commented, scraping a few flakes of soap into the water with the edge of one of the dinner plates. She knew better than to look at him directly, and settled for catching a glimpse of his image in the cracked mirror that hung beside the rain barrel.

"Thanks to your kind ministrations," the words were easy, but his movements were not. He was watching her intently, the green eyes wary as he dried himself off with the old flour sack towel and reached for his shirt.

"Was that why you did it?" Even as she asked the question, she wondered if he would bolt. Her dark eyes tracked his movements in the dusty, cracked reflection of the looking glass. Her words caught him squarely in the back. She saw their effect ripple across the sinewy, scarred muscles of his shoulders as he froze, struck motionless in the act of putting on his shirt. He turned to look at her, and she cast her eyes back to the plates in the wash basin.

She could hear the soft intake of breath behind her, and knew the expression that must be crossing his features. The green eyes would have narrowed just a bit, and a smile would be tugging at the corners of his mouth as he brushed the tip of his tongue against his lower lip. It was one of his only tells, that expression. It was the look he wore when he was trying to decide just how far he could shade a particular truth. She kept her eyes glued to the battered plate before her. She did not believe he had ever lied to her before. He frankly had never had reason. Even so, she did not wish to watch his face if he were going to do it now.

"It might have been one of the reasons."

Whatever words she had been expecting, it was not these. She dared to glance in the mirror once more. He was staring openly at her now, his face expressionless as he watched carefully for her reaction. She stilled, realizing he had neatly parried her question with his own and that the course of this fragile conversation was once again in her hands. She dried the plate with the fabric of her skirt –which she deemed cleaner than the towel—and set it down carefully as she turned to face him.

"Because of what I did for you?"

He said nothing.

She cocked her head. "You did not have to do it," she said quietly. "I considered us even the night the soldiers came."

"I know." He finished buttoning the collar of his shirt and drew on his waistcoat.

"Then why did you go after him?"

Ezra plucked the silk cravat from the pocket of his frock coat and began to knot it around his neck with nimble fingers. He fought to conceal his agitation as he struggled with the knot. Of course she would want to know. He was not a selfless man by nature, and his actions in Ridge City had been a mystery even to himself. She would want the truth of him, and up to this point he had always managed to give it to her. What could he say? He'd done it because someone had to? Because McQueen had it coming? Because someone had to teach the man that that ill use of women would simply not be tolerated in this country?

They were all truthful statements, and yet, they were not the truth. The truth was something else entirely.

I did it, Inez, because I could not bear to see the fear in your eyes.

Of course, he could not tell her that. He glanced down at the knot he had finished. It was uneven. Scowling, he jerked it loose. His fingers scrambled at the tie and the snagging splinter that had imbedded itself in his index finger suddenly caught on the smooth fabric. Ezra bit back a soft oath and jerked his hand away, glaring at the offending digit.

"Here, let me see."

He was only distantly aware of her voice. All of his focus was suddenly given to the slim, bronzed fingers that closed over his own, turning his palm over in hers. Her hands were unlike those of other women he had known. They were not soft and delicate like his mother's –those were the hands of a gentlewoman, a woman of leisure. Nor were they the firm but genteel shop keeper's hands of Mary Travis or Gloria Potter. They were hard, and work worn, the calloused skin polished smooth from the long hours of wiping glasses and tables. They were strong and dexterous, moving with vibrant energy that reminded him of Inez herself: always moving, never still.

She frowned at the splinter, black and ugly and imbedded deep. "Come out into the light," she said softly, pulling him out from under the edge of the lean-to. "I think I can get it."

Placing her thumbnail at the base of the splinter, she applied pressure, forcing it up from beneath the skin. She felt the finely trained muscles jump beneath her fingers as Ezra flinched and she admonished him quietly. "Be still! I almost have it!"

He stood like a rock then, his fingers as rigid as a marble statue while she gently prodded at his hand.

"Senor Tuttle, stopped in today," she said conversationally as she bent over his hand.

Ezra arched one auburn brow. "The window-glass man? Doesn't he know you're closed on Sundays?" The new town ordinance had been in effect for more than a month.

Inez shook her head. "Oh, he did not come to drink. He was looking for you."

"For me?"

She smiled at the caution in his voice. "Si," she said, as she prodded at the splinter. "He wanted to thank you."

"Thank me?" He repeated, clearly bewildered. "What on earth for?"

"For recommending him to the man who owns the Hotel in Ridge City," Inez replied. "He said that between what he sold here after the Nichols family shot up the town, and what he sold to replace the windows in Ridge City, and the new windows that Dave had to put in after the cowboys came this week, his company was so impressed that they are giving him a promotion. They are calling him back to St. Louis to manage all their other salesmen. He will not have to travel any more."

Ezra raised an eyebrow. "Well, at least someone is reaping the benefit of the whirlwind. –Ouch!"

Her deft fingers had finally grasped the tiny particle, extracting it with a quick, though painful motion. She smoothed her fingers across his battered palm, taking note of the scratches and blisters.

"Senor Larabee seems to be getting his money's worth," she observed.

Ezra snorted. "And then some."

Squeezing his hand gently, she let her gaze travel up his sleeve to his shoulders and chest, the darkest of the bruises were still a shadow beneath the fine linen of his white shirt. He was not a large man, she thought, but what there was of him was lean and well built and quick to move. Even still, McQueen must have topped him in both weight and height –not to mention reach. And to hear Ike Deavers tell it, McQueen had been a fighter once, on the Bowery –wherever that was. She still could not understand it. He had been outmatched in size and perhaps even skill. There had been nothing in it for him: no money, no angle that she could see, nothing but bruises and jail time and now hard labor paying off the bail money he owed to Chris Larabee. It went against everything he claimed to be, and yet he still had done it. Why? She raised her eyes to his face, seeking an answer she knew he would not give her. But he must have had his own questions as well, for he was regarding her just as intently, his pale green eyes revealing only curiosity as he stared down at her.

Releasing his hand quickly, she reached up before he could react and took his jaw between her thumb and forefinger. He flinched instinctively at her touch, but did not pull away as she turned his face towards the sunlight to better inspect the damage. The cuts across his cheekbone and along his hairline had nearly healed but his lower lip was still slightly swollen and marred by the small black scab where it had split. The black eye had faded to a mottled shade of olive that almost matched the green of his iris. She cound herself lost for a moment in that jade-green orb, for there at last she found the answer which she had been seeking in the steady gaze. He had done it for her, and nothing more.

"Was it worth it?" She asked softly, dropping her hand away.

He stepped back from her and smiled faintly, recalling Larabee's answer to almost the same question. That particular answer, however, did not seem quite as fitting.

"I thought so at the time," He said quietly.

"Hey Chris, can I go look at the new horses?"

Chris leaned back on the blanket and smiled as Billy looked eagerly to the corrals where the four colts and two fillies stood drowsing in the late summer sun. "Just stay on this side of the fence," he warned, "and don't get too close. There's one or two of them that might take a chunk out of your hide."

"Don't be too long," Mary called. "We'll be ready to eat in a minute." She sighed and shook her head, her cornflower blue gaze following the boy all the way up to the lot. "He's been pestering me again about getting him a pony. I told him we don't have the money to buy one, let alone keep one at the livery." She shook her head. "And apparently just renting Duke from Yosemite whenever we need a horse simply isn't good enough."

Chris shot her a speculative look. "Plenty of room for an extra horse here," he said mildly.

Mary glared at him. "I've heard about nothing but horses for the last two weeks. –Don't you dare encourage him!"

He grinned. It was already too late for that. He couldn't help but notice Billy's fascination with the young, half-broken animals when they'd stopped to look at them on their last fishing trip. The boy had been particularly taken with the little buckskin filly. She was the smallest of the lot, but she had a quiet eye and a steady way of going. She had been Harland Rogers' first pick when Chris had brought the man by to sell off some stock and raise the money for Buck and Ezra's bail. The cattleman had offered him a pretty sum for the filly, thinking she would be an excellent mount for his daughter. Chris had no doubt that the man was right, but had discovered that he was suddenly reluctant to part with her.

He'd cursed himself for a fool when Rogers had offered him a hundred and he'd turned him down flat. It was more than she was worth as she stood –probably only a few dollars above what she would bring as a quality ladies horse, broken to ride and drive. It was certainly far more than he had paid for her. Still, he could not help but think of the shine in Billy Travis's eyes as he'd stroked the filly's inquisitive muzzle. He'd settled instead for selling Rogers two of his better colts, already started under saddle, for a price that was less than he'd intended and still short of what he'd needed to retrieve Buck and Ezra.

Chris watched as Buck lifted the boy up onto the top rail of the fence and the filly came over to greet them. He did not regret the decision, he decided. It was just that Mary Travis was going to take some convincing. A shriek of laughter caught his attention and he turned his head to see JD chasing after Casey, who danced before him waving his bowler hat just beyond reach. Nathan and Josiah sat a few feet away, leaning back on their elbows and watching the scene with no small amount of amusement. Vin had taken a seat against the trunk of one of the cottonwood trees and was blowing softly on his harmonica, a halting, tuneless melody that faded on the breeze.

Something caught at his insides then, an old feeling so long buried that it was almost unfamiliar. Chris felt the wonder of it spreading through him as he realized what it was: happiness. He had almost forgotten what it felt like. But here in the meadow, surrounded by friends and laughter and a new future rising before him, he could feel the warmth of it curling inside him once more. He let his gaze travel slowly from face to face, memorizing each expression, savoring this moment that would not last long enough. He had come to think of life as a gray existence dotted sporadically with equal moments of joy and sorrow to break up the monotony of everyday living. As a result, joy –when it came—was something not to be wasted.

He felt Mary's gentle touch on his arm, and looked up to see an odd expression of satisfaction lighting her face.

"Look," she said softly, nodding her head towards the house. He followed her gaze to where Ezra and Inez stood beside the rain barrel, his palm outstretched in hers and their heads bent together. The Mexican woman was saying something, her gaze intent as she studied the Southerner's hand. Probably clucking over a blister or a splinter, Chris thought dismissively. Lord knew the gambler had earned his share of them this week. He flashed his gaze back to the corral where Buck was helping Billy feed the horses. Too bad Wilmington wasn't seeing this, he'd be kicking himself that he hadn't thought of that particular tactic. He'd turned the air blue this morning when he'd missed and hit his thumb with the hammer.

He said as much to Mary and she scowled at him, a small crease wrinkling her brow. "No," she said more urgently, "look."

He turned his attention back to the couple and finally understood what she was seeing that she had missed. Not Inez, peering at the gambler's abraded palms, but at the man himself. Standish stood still and silent, his hand seemingly forgotten as his eyes traveled intently over the face of the woman before him. Chris suddenly realized that he could not recall seeing Ezra look at a woman quite that way. –Not the soiled doves, nor the widow on the wagon train, nor even that little Chinese girl he'd taken pity on and rescued from the railroad camp a few months back. Certainly he'd never taken such notice of any of the other women in town. –Which was probably a good thing, Larabee reflected. If he'd caught Standish looking at Mary Travis that way, he'd have been entirely too tempted to shoot the Southerner. The wayward thought brought him skidding to a mental halt. He was not ready to ride that trail just yet. Neither, he suspected, was Mary. Even so, he could not prevent himself from meeting her knowing gaze.

"I think," she said with a smile in her voice, "that you are going to owe me a waltz before this is through."

He flashed her a brilliant smile. "A man shouldn't wager with what he can't afford to lose."

"I'll hold you to that, Mr. Larabee."

"I'll bet you will."