Breathless(16)

His voice was as soft and filled with intent as she imagined a lover’s invitation might be. Startled, she shook her head. “No. I—I have to get back to my office.”

As she fled from him for the second time that day, she didn’t see his knowing smile when he hefted the axe and returned to work.

At dinner that evening, Portia sat across from him at the table, still thinking about her reaction to him and the water jug. She hazarded a look his way and he smiled. Whatever she was coming down with must be serious for her to imagine licking him like a tamed cat. Or a lover, quipped an inner voice she’d never heard before. That caught her so off guard, she dropped her fork and it clattered onto her plate.

“Something wrong, Portia?” Eddy asked from her seat at the table.

“No. Just clumsiness on my part. Sorry.” Embarrassed, she kept her eyes from Kent’s but his presence continued to plague her and she was at a loss as to how to make it stop.

Regan’s voice distracted her from her inner turmoil. “I told everyone on my route today about Mr. Blanchard’s wake. If all the people who said they’d be stopping by to pay their respects actually come, there won’t be enough room in his parlor.”

“He was well loved,” Rhine said.

“He was,” Regan replied somberly. “But you know each time I thought about him today, it was about something that made me smile.” She looked over at Portia. “Remember when we were chased by those hornets and had to jump in the pond to escape them?”

She laughed, “I do. Why he didn’t wait to smoke them out at night like Tana told him I’ll never know.”

Regan supplied the answer. “Stubborn.”

Portia nodded.

“Who was Tana?” Kent asked.

“An Apache who worked for him,” Portia said. “The nest was a good size and it was right under the lip of the porch, so Mr. Blanchard got a ladder—”

“Which Portia and I were holding,” Regan added.

Portia grinned. “He lit a torch, climbed the ladder, and tried to set the nest on fire.”

Regan laughed, “Those hornets came tearing out of that nest and we dropped the ladder at the same time that he jumped down. They chased us all the way to the pond.”

Eddy took up the tale, “The girls came home soaking wet from their braids to their boots.”

Regan said, “Tana laughed so hard he fell on the ground.”

Kent asked, “Does he still work at the ranch?”

Rhine replied solemnly, “No. He joined Geronimo when he escaped from San Carlos back in ’81. Blanchard said he was killed in Mexico during a gun battle with the 6th Cavalry.”

Portia remembered how saddened he’d been by the news. She and Regan had been as well. The old Apache taught them many things about life in their new home, and because he refused to speak English, they even spoke a bit of the Apache language.

Kent asked, “So what’s the situation with Geronimo now? I think every newspaper in the country covered his surrender last year.”

“Tenuous at best,” Rhine said. “There are rumors that he’s ready to bolt again. Can’t blame him. His people are penned up like animals, dying from disease and starvation—soldiers torturing them for sport. I wonder what we Americans would do if somebody with bigger guns invaded us and started stealing our land and killing our kin. We’d go on the warpath, too, I’d bet.”

Portia agreed. For the past thirty years the Apache had been doing their best to retake the land their people had lived on for as long as they could remember. Portia couldn’t condone the killing and raiding they’d been doing in retaliation, but because the government had broken treaty after treaty, the old chiefs like Geronimo and Cochise felt they had no other choice.

“Have you finished reviewing Blanchard’s ledgers?” her uncle asked, interrupting her thoughts and changing the subject.

“I have and everything is in order.”

“Good. I’ll turn them over to the Landry’s bookkeeper in the morning. Once the sale is finalized Kent will be our foreman.”

“He mentioned it earlier.” She gave him a quick glance.

“The sooner the two of you can discuss how the place is run, the better.”

“How about after we’re done here, Portia?” Kent asked.

Portia froze. Lord knew she wanted to come up with an excuse to delay it. Her reaction to him by the woodpile had left her scandalized enough to last a lifetime, but she knew she had no legitimate reason to weasel out of it. “That would be fine. We can use my office.”

“Okay.”

Again, she caught herself staring at his lips, the slope of his beard-brushed jaw, his eyes. She quickly dropped her gaze but not before noticing Eddy’s slightly raised eyebrow and the silent look she and Rhine passed between themselves. Pretending there was nothing amiss, Portia took a sip of her wine, set the goblet down with a slightly shaky hand, and returned to her meal.

After dinner, she and Regan were in the kitchen cleaning up. Portia was doing her best to ignore the amused look her sister had been wearing since entering, but unable to bear it any longer, she said, “Okay. Out with it. You obviously have something to say.”

Hands in the soapy water as she washed the dishes, Regan replied, “Who me?”

“Yes, you. Tell me before I bash you over the head with this last chicken leg.”