This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [4]
“Well, one of ’em ain’t a kid, so watch yore manners.”
“Is them the Kuykendalls, Bill?” A short, bowlegged, gray-whiskered man came puffing in through the saloon door. “Ain’t ya in a mite soon?”
“No, I ain’t a mite soon. And you ain’t neither.” Bill eased the trunk off his shoulder and lowered it to the floor. “You ain’t never been on time in yore life, Bulldog!”
“Well . . . I . . .” Bulldog’s expression was of surprise, then pleasure, as he stopped speaking and looked at Summer.
Summer looked back with interest, then shook her head, an unconscious habit of hers when confronted with curious eyes. The lamplight caught the movement, and her hair shone blue-black against the walls of the room. Dust clung to her face and dress and her hair was disheveled, but no one noticed, least of all the man called Bulldog. He thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“You were expecting children? Didn’t Mr. McLean tell you about me and my brother?”
“Well, yes’m, he did. But he didn’t say nothin’ ’bout one of ya bein’ so growed-up.”
“One of us is indeed growed up, as you can see.” Pride added a touch of hauteur to her voice.
“Yes’m. He tol’ me a boy and young lady. I jist never give it no thought you’d be so growed and purty.”
“You got a room or don’t ya?” The stage driver was impatient to be on his way.
“They got a room. Give me the key.” Bulldog picked up the key, lifted the trunk, and started up the stairs.
“He’ll look after you, miss. Don’t pay no never mind to how he looks, but listen to what he says.” The driver chuckled.
“Thank you,” Summer called after the ambling form of their driver.
The room at the end of the upstairs hall was small, but had a good-sized bed and a cot. A bureau and washstand with a blue-glazed pitcher and bowl were the only other furnishings.
Bulldog set the trunk at the foot of the bed, and John Austin went immediately to the window to look down on the busy street.
“Ma’am, I’m just plain old sorry I warn’t thar to meet ya.”
Summer smiled. Her heart was lighter than it had been in months. This man, this small, grizzled cowboy, was her first link with the Sam McLean who would take care of them. All she had to do, her mother said, was tell him who she was. He would take the responsibility for John Austin.
“It’s all right. The driver looked after us.” Her mouth curved in a lovely, sweet smile and her eyes sparkled with excitement. “Will Mr. McLean be coming for us?”
Bulldog looked uncomfortable. “No, ma’am.”
It was the expression and not the words that affected her. She went quite still, as if she were suddenly depleted of all strength. Her hands pressed down the sides of her dress.
“You’re taking us to him?”
“No, ma’am . . . yes’m . . . thar aint nothin’ but a creek a’tween the two places. Yore place is fixed up real good fer ya, and ya can have a Mex woman to come and stay if ya wants.” His hard hands twisted his hat. He sensed her disappointment and didn’t know what to say.
Disappointment wasn’t exactly the word for what Summer felt. Heartsick might have described her feelings better, or anger at herself for her impossible dreams. And dream she had, because she needed hope badly. She had built up an imagined figure; a tall, strong rancher, hard from life on the prairie, but kind. He would be someone of their own . . . a second father, a friend. Was it possible her mother had been mistaken? That Sam McLean didn’t want to be responsible for them? How could she and John Austin make a living out on a homestead, even if it was just across the creek from Sam McLean’s?
Summer swallowed the lump in her throat and blinked. Her small, round chin tilted, her dignity returned in the guise of very stiff, proud posture.
“It was kind of Mr. McLean to see us to our . . . ah . . . homestead. Please express our appreciation and tell him we’ll try not to be a bother.” Summer’s lips pressed together, revealing more in silence than in words.
Bulldog scratched his head and looked down at his feet.
“Can