Whitefeather's Woman. Deborah Hale

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