This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [41]
It was Sadie who broke the silence, rescuing Summer and not Slater. She poured a mug of coffee and sat it on the table.
“I’m the one who is forgetful of my manners,” Summer said tightly. “This is my friend, Mrs. Bratcher.”
The rapid thrust of his gaze moved over Sadie, interest in his eyes.
“Slater McLean, Mrs. Bratcher.”
“Do you take sweetnin’, Mr. McLean?” She pushed the cup toward him.
“No, but I have a fondness for doughnuts.” He smiled his one-sided smile.
Sadie seemed to be perfectly at ease. Her face lit up and she grinned at him.
“I ain’t never seen a cowhand that wouldn’t trade his pocket knife for a pan of doughnuts. ‘Pears you ain’t no different than the rest, Mr. McLean.”
“I get a craving sometimes for something other than refried beans and tortillas.”
Sadie giggled and Slater laughed back at her. Summer swallowed with difficulty. It seemed to her she was the only person in the whole world whose stomach was tied up in knots. Sadie’s catlike green eyes absorbed the lines of distress on Summer’s face.
“Take yore coffee to the veranda, Mr. McLean. It’s powerful hot in here. Here’s a cup for Summer, too. I’ll bring you all a hot cake from the next batch.” She tossed her head and grinned at him. “I’m gonna need this here table for my doughnut-makin’.”
Slater’s glance at Sadie held a quality of conspiracy that caused Summer’s heart to beat painfully.
“I can see that we would be in your way.” He picked up the two mugs. Summer followed him on wooden legs.
She sank down on the bench and accepted the mug Slater held out to her. She felt tired and strangely bewildered. Her face was quite still, depleted of all her strength. Under Slater’s sharp gaze, she was still, small, young, alone.
“You don’t like the way I handle your brother?” There was a tiny hint of a taunt in his voice. He sounded as if he wanted to hurt her, and not because of the way she had failed with John Austin. She was convinced it was something personal about her that angered him.
She bit her lower lip, looked at the expanse of blue sky and didn’t answer him.
“Well?” The expression of anger was still on his face; the muscles clamped above the jawline.
She had to meet his eyes, because to have avoided them would have been the last indignity.
“It isn’t that.” She closed her eyes to escape the mesmerism in his. “You can’t know how it was.”
“I think I know.” His voice was softer. “We’ll share it now.
Her eyes flew open.
He turned away, reaching into his pocket for his tobacco. In that silence, the match flared; he lit his smoke and blew out the flame. Then, he picked up her hand, turned it palm upward and looked at it. It was a small hand, still very young, but it had the callouses of hard work on it. Her eyes came up to his. They were sad, sober eyes, but deep down in them Slater could see a yearning beginning to dawn.
“This is what you brought your brother here for, isn’t it, Summer? You wanted my pa to help you guide him, discipline him. He’s a very clever and unusual child . . . and strongwilled. You do too much for him, protect him to the point of making him weak. I’ll not allow you to do it any longer.” He sat looking at her. They were so near they touched.
“But he’s so young. . . .”
“Not so young that he doesn’t know how to manage you. He has that age-old wisdom and knowledge of how to work a woman, far beyond his years. He’s not an ordinary boy, and he’ll need a heavy hand for a while.”
“You think I tied him to my apron strings.” Summer looked at the smooth side of his face, the scarred side turned away from her. He opened and shut the fingers of the hand she allowed to lie in his.
“It was necessary. Without those apron strings, you couldn’t have gotten him here. But there comes a time to cut him loose.”
“Now is the time. Is that what you’re saying?