This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [22]
When she did speak, her voice was calm, firm; it surprised her.
“We’re going to plant a garden right away. And there’s another thing. . . .” Her voice trailed away only because she didn’t know how to put into words that their cash money was gone and she needed a way to earn more.
“And . . . what?” he prompted.
She folded her hands in her lap and bent her head, her lids drooping over suddenly moist eyes, her courage leaving her.
“I want to discuss the bill at the store.” She hoped, desperately, that he didn’t know how nervous she had become. Looking straight into his eyes, she added, “You needn’t feel you must be responsible for us.”
“You’re not a charity case, if that’s what you’re thinking. The land was your mother’s. We only used it all these years. Sam’s instructions were clear. He wanted you to come home and have what was yours. He was . . . fond of your mother.”
Her spirits rose a little. But she wished he had said it was what he wanted, and not what Sam wanted.
“Sam left you a small amount of cash money. I’ll keep it, if you like, until you need it. In the meanwhile, if there’s anything you need, let me know. Your place is part of the Keep, and we take care of our own.”
Their eyes met in silent assessment of each other. He knew every question and answer that flitted through her mind; she could see it in his eyes. Summer’s chin began to tilt and she tossed her head back as if to shake the hair from her face. She knew this was her outward sign that inside she was nervous, afraid, uncertain. She wanted to remember another time, but his eyes drew all coherent thinking from her mind, and she asked rather absently:
“Why did he name the ranch McLean’s Keep?”
The rare smile surfaced again. “To Scots, the word ‘keep’ means fortress, castle, lands, possessions. Sam McLean loved everything Scottish. He built this Spanish-style house because it suited the land and the materials were available, but everything else on the Keep is Scottish. He worked hard and was frugal as only a Scot can be. This place proves what one determined man can build in a lifetime. I intend to hold it in trust for the next generation of McLeans.”
Summer carried the cups and plate to the counter to hide her unexpectedly flushed face. He was standing when she turned, and she saw him wince as he put his weight on the injured leg.
“Shouldn’t you stay off that leg?” She tilted her face up to look at him, and almost automatically he turned the smooth cheek toward her.
“Yes,” he assented begrudgingly. His eyes glinted briefly when he looked into her wide violet ones. “Don’t tell Bulldog I admitted it.”
Her eyes searched his face, her hand on the back of the chair steadied her.
“I came to thank Sam McLean,” she said quietly.
He grinned down at her. “Consider it done.”
She smiled back, somehow not wanting to leave, but since he didn’t say anything, she moved to the door. He followed, and they walked through the dining room and into the large room fronting the house. His pace was slow and he held his leg stiffly.
“It’s a beautiful house,” Summer said admiringly.
“You don’t remember it at all?”
She looked about the room and shook her head.
“You don’t remember hiding behind the couch and jumping out at me when I came through the door?”
That made her look up at him, her eyes wide. She studied his face. It told her nothing except that he was fascinated by her expression.
“And the swing I made for you?” The smile left his face. “And how afraid you were to cross the footbridge?” It seemed to Summer he watched her with his whole body, not just his eyes, and that all his muscles were coiled, taut, in anticipation of her answer.
She moistened her dry lips. She felt as if she were in a vacuum, being drawn toward him.
“You . . . You promised to come . . . and fetch me home.” Her eyes were filling with tears and her lips trembled.
“That I did, summertime girl.” The words were so softly spoken they barely reached her ears.
Summer opened her mouth, but no sound