This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [20]
She walked on slowly, feeling the sun hot on the back of her neck. Excitement stirred inside her. Be calm! she commanded herself. She had to appear calm.
The floor of the veranda was made of stone set deep in the earth. The shade of the veranda, the cold stone floor and wall, made coming in from the outside a cool retreat. A heavy wooden door with wrought-iron hinges stood open, and she could see a spacious room running the width of the house. Overhead, huge, ancient-looking timbers supported the ceiling connecting it to the stone walls, directing the eye to a massive fireplace. Bright Mexican rugs dotted the stone floor, and large, deep chairs, a couch, several tables and a glass-fronted secretary furnished the room.
She hesitated in the doorway. It was so quiet it was eerie. She took a deep breath.
“Mr. McLean.” Her voice didn’t come out very loud and she called again. “Mr. McLean.”
There was nothing to break the silence but her voice. She moved into the room and toward the door beyond. She peered down a long hallway into the first open door. A large trestle table and handsome cabinets filled with dishes and silver assured her that Mr. McLean was not poor.
A large black cook-stove dominated the kitchen. Behind it, arranged neatly, hung an assortment of pots and pans. From the rafters hung bunches of dried spices, chili peppers and colorful gourds. A skillet was left burning on the fire, greasy smoke filling the air.
Instinctively, Summer went for the stove, her eyes searching for something with which to grasp the hot handle of the skillet. Seeing nothing, she bunched her skirt in her two hands and moved the pan to a cooler part of the stove. Standing back, she let her skirt fall back down around her ankles. In spite of the quiet, she had the feeling she was not alone. Swinging around, she jumped with surprise, her hand going to her mouth.
Someone was standing in the gloom at the far end of the room, standing quite still and watching her. While she stared, the figure moved and materialized slowly, became a tall man with a dark shirt and pants, straight black hair and a lean, swarthy face, whose right cheek was badly scarred. There was something about the outline of him, the way he held his head, that caused Summer’s legs to tremble and her heart to pound in the most alarming way. It was him. The man from the street in Hamilton and the man from the store where they loaded the supplies.
“I’m looking for Mr. McLean.” Her voice seemed dreadfully loud.
“You found him.” He didn’t look at her, but moved toward the stove.
“I mean . . . Sam McLean.” Summer looked at his back. He had pulled the skillet back over the flame and dropped a piece of meat into the hot grease. The only noise that broke the silence was the sizzle of cooking meat. He didn’t answer.
“I’m Summer Kuykendall, from over across the creek. I came over to thank Mr. McLean for . . . letting his men escort us from town. John Austin and I . . . John Austin is my brother. We came from the Piney Woods. You see, our mother died and she told me that. . . .” Suddenly, she couldn’t stand the sound of her own voice. Her words seemed so trite, so unnecessary. The man was ignoring her, keeping his face turned away from her, and it made her angry. “Is there someplace where I can wait for Mr. McLean? It’s . . . it’s just not my nature to be beholden to someone and not be able to thank them.”
“There’s no need to feel beholden.” The man’s curt tone matched hers.
Summer was about to make a sharp retort when the man moved. His leg almost