This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [21]
“Sit down. I’ll fix your meal while I’m waiting.”
She had expected him to protest, but he limped over to the table and eased himself into a chair, extending his leg out in front of him. Summer moved swiftly and efficiently between the work counter and the stove. Lifting the meat from the skillet, she broke two eggs into the fat; while they were cooking, she took biscuits from the warming oven.
Scarcely looking at the bent dark head, she placed the plate of food on the table and returned to the stove to pour two mugs of coffee. With both her hands curled about the warm cup, she sat quietly and watched him eat. The light from the window shafted across his right cheek, showing up an ugly white scar that curved from the middle of his ear up and over his cheekbone and down to the corner of his mouth. Thick black lashes hid deep blue eyes, when he looked up to see her looking at him. There was an awful, strained silence as they stared at each other.
“S. McLean?” Summer said carefully, as if the words were strange and she were terribly afraid of them.
“Slater McLean.” His voice held a tinge of regret.
“You wrote the letter?” Summer’s eyes held his.
“Yes.” He looked down at his plate. “It’s what Pa would’ve done if he was alive.”
“Sam McLean is dead?”
“Five years now. But even then, he wanted you to come home.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Or meet me in Hamilton?”
“Would you have come with me?”
She studied his face; one side so smooth and handsome, the other puckered, distorted. Most men, she thought, would have grown a beard to hide at least part of the disfigurement.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said at last. “My mother told me to find Sam McLean and I . . .”
“Say no more,” be interrupted curtly. “I understand.”
“What ever happened to your face?” The words were out before she could stop them.
There was an awful moment of silence while the enormity of her rude question shamed her. His thick dark lashes came together over the hard gleam in his eyes, and the left comer of his mouth slanted upward as he smiled.
“You’re not supposed to mention it. You’re supposed to look away and pretend it isn’t there. It’s ugly and offensive, but I’m grateful it’s where it is and not two inches to the left where it would have cut across my eye, nose and mouth. I can see, smell, eat, and I’m alive. And that is important to me.”
His mockery affected her more than she was prepared for.
“I’m sorry. It was rude of me to ask, but I had no idea you were so sensitive about it. No amount of pretending is going to make it go away, you know.”
“On second thought,” he said icily, “I think I prefer your outspokenness to sly glances.” He made to get up. “More coffee?”
When he was seated again, she asked, “Why didn’t you ride with us? I saw you in the store.”
“On my way to town, I found Indian signs. We haven’t had Indian trouble for a year or two. Figured I’d better scout ahead.”
“I was scared,” she confessed.
“Only a fool wouldn’t be scared of Apaches,” he said drily.
“You were the one Bulldog was worried about.” She made it a statement. “He called you a stubborn mule.”
He almost smiled. “He’s an old cluckin’ hen.”
“I don’t mind his gruffness. I like him. Jack, too.” She laughed, remembering how surprised Bulldog was when he met her at the hotel. “Didn’t he know I was grown up? He thought he was meeting two children.”
Slater’s eyes never left her face. Her sparkle was infectious. He smiled, showing even white teeth, and she was surprised at the change it made in his grim face.
“Time doesn’t mean much to Bulldog.” He continued to watch her.
“I invited Sadie and her little girl to come out and live with us after Bulldog said we were going out to a homestead. I had the idea John Austin and I would be living out on the prairie, miles from anyone else.”
She stopped talking. With a sense of shock, she realized he was waiting for her to say something more. She straightened her back and said nothing, but her eyes were drawn to his, and he held them, probing them, before