Wolf Creek Widow. Penny Richards

The lacy pattern of sunlight and shadows gave his lean cheeks the impression of wearing war paint, like the pictures she’d once seen in a book. He looked untamed and dangerous. His sheer size and raw maleness were overpowering, making her feel weak and defenseless.

      “What are you doing here?” The breathless question sounded accusatory even to her ears.

      His troubled blue eyes seemed to take in every inch of her in a single glance. “Mother was worried that you’d gone too far or got turned around. She was afraid you didn’t hear the bell, so she sent me to find you.” His voice was deep and low, mesmerizing. The frightened fluttering of her heart slowed.

      “I was down by the creek. I’m fine. I’m here.” The explanation came out in a flurry of words that tumbled over one another.

      “So you are.”

      Did she imagine the flicker of gentleness that came and went in his eyes? Without warning, he reached out toward her. With a little yelp, Meg cringed and brought up both arms to cover her head in an instinctive gesture of self-preservation. The action was both instant and involuntary as he took her wrists gently.

      Breathing hard, eyes shut tight and little whimpers of fear escaping her, she waited for the blow to come, but instead she heard words murmured in a language she didn’t understand. Soft words. Soothing words.

      “Meg.” His deep voice persuaded, compelled. “Look at me.”

      Bit by bit, as if she were expecting it to be a trick, she did as he commanded and saw the remorse clouding his crystalline eyes.

      “I’m sorry,” he told her. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I was only going to get a twig out of your hair.”

      Trembling, Meg stood stock-still. She’d seen regret before. She’d heard all the ways to say I’m sorry. She’d learned not to believe them. Still, something held her immovable. What was it she saw or felt in him that told her she could trust him, despite his fierceness?

      “No!” she heard herself saying. “I...I’m s-sorry.”

      Moving at a snail’s pace so as not to alarm her further, he let go of her wrists. Then he held one palm up in a stop gesture and reached out with the other to pluck the twig from her tangled hair. Without a word, he held it out to show her.

      She felt like a fool for overreacting. “Th-thank you,” she whispered, daring to let her gaze make contact with the disturbing intensity of his. She saw nothing there but the same tenderness she heard in his voice.

      He nodded. “I know you don’t have many reasons to believe anything a man says, but I want you to know that I have never raised my hand against a woman, and I never will. You have no reason to be frightened of me. Ever.”

      Then, without waiting for her to answer, he held out his arm as if he were a well-heeled gentleman from the city and she an elegant lady going to some fancy social event. She looked from his arm to his face in confusion. She was no lady. He was no gentleman.

      When she made no move to take his proffered elbow, he stepped aside for her to precede him to the house. She brushed against him on the narrow path and caught a whiff of leather and pine. She stumbled and glanced up at him, even as he reached out to steady her. Once again her heart began to beat faster, but not because she felt threatened. Disturbingly aware of his nearness, she cast an occasional glance over her shoulder just to be sure he was keeping his distance.

      She didn’t want him too close. The question that tumbled through her mind was Why?

      * * *

      Nita Allen had been busy while Meg hid out in the woods. Her little house fairly sparkled. Ace’s mother had taken the cleaning begun by the church ladies a step further. She’d scrubbed the windows, polished the beat-up buffet table Elton had found dumped somewhere and brought home to her in the wagon, and washed the dust from her scant collection of mismatched plates and glassware. Even the globes of her kerosene lamps glistened. The scents of fried potatoes and pinto beans mingled with the sharp, clean odor of the lemon balm and beeswax used on the furniture.

      A crockery bowl with a blue rim was filled with crisp fried potatoes. The pot of beans with a dipper in it sat on a folded dish towel, as if the table were a piece of fine furniture that the heat might ruin. A plate of corn bread baked in a small iron skillet had already been sliced into wedges. A bowl of fresh butter sat next to a jar of pickled beets, and a small plate held wild green onions.

      It was like walking into a fairy tale. Thanks to two strangers, her tired little house felt like a home, but not because it was clean and tidy. Even though she worked hard and had little, Meg had always kept a clean house. Elton demanded that.

      The difference was in the feel of the house. She’d experienced no dread or fear when she’d walked through the door. No need to walk on eggshells to keep whatever tentative peace might be found on any given day. No need to guard her tongue lest she set Elton off with some innocent comment. No dread of when he might come back and shatter the temporary respite she found during his absences. No despair.

      The house felt warm. Welcoming.

      As she stood letting the differences register on her mind, her stomach growled. Nita smiled. Embarrassed, Meg turned away, but for the first time in weeks, she thought she might be able to eat more than a few bites.

      When they were seated and thanks had been given for the food, Ace began to pass the bowls. Feeling she should show her appreciation in some way, Meg scooped a few potatoes onto her plate and said, “The house looks so nice, Mrs. Allen. Thank you. And supper looks delicious.”

      “It was nothing. Things were already in order. It just needed the dust washed off. Did you have a good rest this afternoon?”

      The question surprised Meg as much as the answer that came to mind. She realized with something of a start that she had rested, and not just during the time she slept. There had always been something about her special spot that brought her at least passing peace. Today had been no different.

      “Actually, I did.”

      “That’s good.” Nita finished filling her plate and turned to her son. “Did you let everyone know Meg is back in business?”

      “I did,” he said, slathering some fresh-churned butter onto a piece of corn bread. “Hattie is really excited. So is Ellie.” He glanced at Meg. “Keeping up with the wash has been hard for them since you’ve been out of commission.”

      Though she did weekly laundry for a few of the more affluent people in town, Hattie’s Hotel and Boardinghouse and Ellie’s Café were Meg’s biggest customers.

      “I’ll take the wagon in and pick up what they have early in the morning,” Ace told her. “If you ladies will have the kettles boiling when I get back, we ought to be done by evening.”

      It was good to know that her services had been missed, but she hated relying on someone else to do her work, even though she needed the money.

      “I think I’ll be able to help with the ironing,” she said, looking from Ace to Nita, knowing Ellie and Hattie would have several tablecloths to do up with starch.

      “I don’t think it will hurt you, either,” Nita said, “as long as you don’t overdo things. I’ll bring my ironing board and iron in the morning. Together, we should be able to get it done in no time.”

      It sounded like a good plan, Meg thought. She would iron until she got tired, do any mending and gradually work back into her regular routine. A step toward taking control of her life once again.

      Meg had forgotten that the Allens would be leaving soon, probably as soon as the supper dishes were done. After all, they had their own chores to do. It occurred to her with something of a start just how much of a sacrifice they were making to help her. Their log cabin that sat on a small parcel of land must be at least four miles from her place.

      Though she hadn’t wanted to spend any more time with them than necessary, now that she knew they were about to go,