A Gown Of Spanish Lace Part 7

"I don't need to talk things over with the gang," cut in his father.

Laramie paused. He was inclined to rise and walk out the door. His father was not being at all cooperative.

Yet he needed some answers. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves and decided on another approach.

"Wella"bein' yer sona""

He had never done that beforea"never inferred that he should be treated differently from any other gang member simply because he was the boss's son.

His father did not take kindly to the words now. His dark eyes lifted, and a scowl deepened the creases on his cheeks above the line of his dark beard. "An' I say," he thundered, his fist coming down on the table and making his cards dance, "when the time comes fer you to be given privileges, it'll be because I give 'em to ya. Ya hear?"

"Yes sir," answered Laramie, and he touched his hat in unconscious subservience.

"Now git out there an' follow yer orders," barked the big man.

Laramie nodded and left the room, more troubled than ever.

"Ya really think this is gonna work?" asked Sam as he poured them both a cup of strong coffee after the boss had calmed down some.

The big man looked up and his eyes began to twinkle. " 'Course it's gonna work," he growled pleasantly. "He's riled up already."

It was midmorning before Laramie felt in control enough to take the fresh pail of water to the south cabin. He deliberately made plenty of noise with the bar on the door to give her lots of warning that he was coming.

She was at the table, sitting on the log stool that had been provided. An open book was spread out before her, and she nervously looked up from it as he pushed open the door.

Her hair was no longer spilling about her shoulders but had been pinned up behind her head. It made her face look even smaller, her eyes larger. They were dark blue and as open as her book. She looked both scared and confused. Laramie looked away quickly, feeling that he was looking into her very soul and thus invading her privacy.

"Brung yer water," he said for something to break the silence, even though he knew it was quite evident what he had brought.

The plate was on the table. Some of the food had been eatena"but not as much as should have been. He supposed that, under the circ.u.mstances, she found it hard to have much of an appet.i.te.

He checked the fire but found that she had recently added wood. At least she could take care of herself, he thought.

He wanted to check to see if she had other needs, but he knew he had to get out of there quickly. He was most self-conscious in her presence. She sat there watching him, saying nothinga"just looking alone and scared and out of place.

He was at the door before she spoke. Her voice was low and softa"and trembly.

"The slop pail," she reminded him.

He stopped in his tracks and looked at her. Her voice had surprised him. He was used to male voices that were little more than dark growls.

"The slop pail is almost full," she explained. "It is all I have fora""

She stopped and looked down in embarra.s.sment. Her cheeks flushed. "Foraeverything," she finished softly.

He nodded and lifted the pail.

His anger flamed again as he carried the pail down the path to the edge of the bush and dumped it. "What a way for sech a little bit of a thing to live," he exploded. "It's jest plumb crazy."

He had to renew her wood supply. He was glad for the ch.o.r.ea"it gave him reason to swing the axe in his frustration. He cut far more than he needed. By the time he was done he was sweating in spite of the cold winter day. He put down the axe and pulled his sleeve across his brow, knocking his Stetson into the snow. He had forgotten it was up there. With soft curses he reached down and retrieved his hat, whipping it against his knee to shake off the snow.

He still hadn't figured anything out. He had gotten no answers from his father. Nor was he likely to. He didn't know why she was there or how long she was expected to stay. He only knew that they had a girl in camp and that he was expected to guard her. She was living in deplorable conditions. Even a man would hate the bareness, the crudeness of the cabin, the isolation.

Then an unfamiliar idea crossed his mind and caused him to flush slightly. Was that why he was riled? If it had been a man in there, he wouldn't have given him a thoughta"except to watch him carefully and guard his own back. But a girl. It wasn't a case of just guarding her; he had to somehowa"care for her. And he had no idea how to go about it.

Ariana paced back and forth across the squeaky boards of the cabin, trying to sort through her troubled thoughts.

On the one hand she felt terror. On the other hand she dared hope. For what? She wasn't sure. But the young man, though hardly to be considered friendly, had not really been menacing.

But he was the boss's son. He was her prison guard.

He was strangely quiet. Hardly seeming to acknowledge her presence. She had the impression he did not care much for his a.s.signment. Did not want her in the camp any more than she wanted to be there.

Ariana trembled slightly. No, it was not realistic. Sam might have been persuaded to be an ally, to help hera"but not this cool, distracted young man with the steely blue eyes.

She s.h.i.+vered again at the very thought of the silent, cold look that he had turned upon her, and a tear trickled down her cheek.

She was helpless and at his mercy. At the mercy of the entire camp of loud, offensive men. She still had no idea why they had taken her, but she prayed as she paced that the awful ordeal might soon end.

Chapter Eight.

Guardian Laramie stacked enough wood against the wall of the cabin to keep the fire stoked for many daysa"even if the temperature continued to drop. Cautiously he surveyed the room with each trip he made. He noticed that the girl had very little in material comforts.

She had rinsed out the sc.r.a.p of towel in the basin and hung it to dry by the iron stove. She must have brought a comb with her in that little bit of a cloth bag, for one lay on the shelf by the pitcher. There was no soap, no mirror, no garments, except for the heavy coat hanging on the peg, hat and gloves tucked up beside it. On the floor was a pair of fur moccasins. He was sure they were much too big for the small feet tucked under the table.

Apart from that, the room was bare. Bare and miserably dirty. His own stark quarters were in better shape. At least he could sweep them out and chase down the cobwebs with the broom.

For the rest of the day Laramie watched for an opportunity to speak with Sam alone. He would get no answers from his fathera"he knew that nowa"but Sam might be another matter.

He thought of Sam as a reasonable man, and had always been on good terms with him. It was Sam who had taught Laramie his basic letters and sums. Laramie figured that Sam was likely the only one in camp who could have done so.

No, that wasn't true. Laramie remembered being surprised one time to find Shadow reading fluently. Who knew what other secrets the men of the camp might have? No one ever asked them to share about their past.

But Sam, as his father's right hand, might have some valuable information. If Laramie could just ease it from him.

It was almost sundown before Laramie found himself alone with the little man. They were both in the crude barn, preferring the company of their mounts to the company of the men in the smoke-filled, smelly cabin.

Laramie let his eyes travel around the dark enclosure to be sure they were alone.

"Sam," he began, choosing his words carefully, "ya know I got me this here new duty."

Sam nodded and rubbed the curry comb over his horse's withers.

"Wella"I don't rightly know how to take it on," went on Laramie.

He waited. There was no response.

"I don't know nothin' 'bout lookin' afteraafter a woman," he added. "Know far more about carin' fer a horse."

Sam chuckled, then said, straight-faced, "Reckon there's not much difference."

Laramie waited.

"Ya gotta feed 'em an' keep 'em warm and healthy," commented Sam.

Laramie stopped his brus.h.i.+ng. "Buta"it's the healthy part what gets me," he observed in a soft drawl.

"Meanin'?" asked Sam, not missing a stroke.

"Wella"fer startersa"how long ya think she's gonna be here? Thet might have a heap to do with what she be needin' to stay healthy and all."

It didn't look as though Sam was going to be drawn in. He shook his head to indicate he had no information, or else would give none.

"Well, it seems to me thet she's needin' more'n a basin and a slop pail," argued Laramie.

Sam chewed on his mustache.

"Wella"she did ask me fer a tub of some kind," he replied with little concern or emotion.

"A tub?"

"She wanted to bathea"wash her hair an' her clothes, she said. Womenfolk do thet. Right in the dead of winter," Sam noted with some astonishment.

Laramie nodded. He led the brush over the chest of his horse and on down the left front leg.

"Where we gonna git a tub?" he asked.

Sam shrugged. "I've no idee," he answered.

"But thet was what she asked fera"a tub?"

Sam nodded and spit into the straw at his feet.

"Then I guess I'll jest have to ride on out and find us a tub," mused Laramie to himself.

Sam's head came up. "Ya can't do thet," he exclaimed. "Yer pa'd have yer hide."

"He told me to take care of her," said Laramie, his hand continuing the even strokes with the brush.

"He said to guard her," growled Sam. "Nota"fuss."

Laramie let Sam's words drift into the air of the steamy barn, and then he turned to the older man.

"I really don't see much difference," Laramie said softly, "her being a woman. Ya can't do the one without the other."

Mrs. Benson rose from her knees and wiped her eyes one more time. One day had slowly pa.s.sed into another, day after day, and still there was no trace of Ariana.

She had grieved and hoped and wept and fretted and prayed. She had tried with all of her heart to trust. She had pleaded with G.o.d. Had begged for His intervention. She had even bargaineda"offering her own life in the place of her daughter. Still, the searchers returned empty.

But this morning as she wept before the Lord, a strange peace had entered her aching heart. She couldn't explain it. Wasn't even yet sure if she could fully trust it. But something seemed to be a.s.suring her that Ariana, wherever she was, was in G.o.d's care. Her mind had told her that ever since that first dreadful night, but now her heart was answering yes.

"G.o.d," she whispered softly into the quiet of the room, "help me to trust. Help me to go on with life. Help me to forgive those who have tried to find her and have now gone back to minding stores and caring for businesses. They tried, Lord. They tried everything they knew. They couldn't go on searching forever. They have livesa"families of their owna"to tend to. Help me to leave Arianaain your hands."

She blew her nose and straightened bent shoulders. Somehow she would find the strength to go on. She knew that strength must come from G.o.d.

"Where'd ya git thet thing?" asked Sam, his eyes round with amazement.

Laramie reined in his horse, bringing the pack horse to a halt as well. The tin tub b.u.mped up against the outstretched boughs of a spruce tree, and Laramie pulled the lead to ease the horse over so there would be no chance of damage to his important cargo.

"Found it," he said simply as he swung lightly down from the saddle.

Sam lifted his hat and scratched his balding head.

"Yer gonna take a heap of teasin' iffen the fellas see ya with thet," he observed.

Laramie simply shrugged his wide shoulders and busied himself with untying the ropes that held the tub in place.

Sam chuckled. "Ain't seen nothin' like thet since I was a kid," he observed as he ran his hand over the cold metal.

"Can't figure how one carries it when it's full of water," mused Laramie as he lowered the tub to the snow. "It's heavy as is."

"Ya don't," explained Sam patiently. "Ya put it where ya want it an' then pour the water in."

Laramie looked surprised. "How do ya git the water outta it?" he asked innocently. "Thing ain't got no drain spout."

"Ya dip it out," Sam answered.

Laramie stood to his full height and rubbed the back of his hand across his brow.

"Seems like I got me a powerful amount of work here," he said softly. "Sure hope she don't count on using it too often."

Then he turned back to his saddlebags. "Got a few other things, too," he informed Sam in conspiratorial tones.

"Like?" asked Sam.

"Some soap. Couple towels. This herea"what ya call ita"wash towel."

"Washcloth," Sam corrected.

"Some hair soap."