This Calder Range (Calder Saga 1)

The instant Benteen recognized her intention, his hard fingers circled her wrist in a painful grip. “Let it burn, Lorna.”

“No.” Her eyes were smarting with tears, not understanding him at all. For the first time in her life, she defied male authority. “I’m not going to let you burn your mother’s picture, regardless of what she did.”

“It’s a picture of my mother,” he snapped. “I’ll say what happens to it.”

“No, you won’t.” She switched the poker to her other hand and raked the wooden frame away from the tiny flames licking at it. “It’s a picture of the grandmother of our children. We’re going to keep it.”

Lorna was trembling at the anger boiling around her. Any second she expected Benteen to strike her, the feeling of imminent violence was so intense. Her hand was shaking badly, but she continued her frantic effort to save the picture.

His grip had nearly cut off the circulation in her fingers when he suddenly let go of her wrist. “She deserves to burn in hell!” He rasped the condemnation. “Keep it if you want, but I don’t want to ever see it again!”

Her knees gave out as his long strides carried him away from the fireplace. Lorna knelt weakly on the hearth, the daguerreotype saved. The front door banged shut behind him as he strode out of the house.

“What happened?”

Lorna glanced over her shoulder. Her mother was poised just inside the parlor, concern in her expression. Unaware of changing loyalties within her, Lorna didn’t answer the question. The angry and bitter feelings Benteen had revealed to her were something private that shouldn’t be told, not even to her mother.

Laying the poker aside, she turned back to the smoldering fire and gingerly picked the heated wooden frame out of the gray ashes. Part of the frame was charred on the edges, and a corner of the daguerreotype was scorched a yellow-brown. The dark-eyed blond woman in the picture smiled back at Lorna, unscathed by the flame. Lorna blew away the fine dusting of ash and stood up, no longer weak.

“Would you put this in my little chest?” She handed the framed picture to her mother without answering her question. “I’m going to keep it for Benteen.”

“Yes, I’ll put it away for you.” She frowned at the burn marks, her questioning glance sweeping Lorna’s face. A sadness drifted across her expression as Clara Pearce noticed the new trace of maturity in her daughter’s eyes. She was growing up—and growing away. There was only that one glimpse before Lorna turned away to pick up her heavy shawl from the sofa arm.

“I’m going after Benteen,” she said, and walked to the door.

As Lorna came out of the house, she saw Benteen at the hitching post, untying his horse’s reins. She pulled the wool shawl more snugly around her shoulders and hurried down the steps to the picket gate.

Except for one glance when she reached the gate, Benteen took no notice of her. She knew he’d mount and ride away if she didn’t stop him. With the freshness of his father’s death on his mind, she didn’t want them to part on a quarreling note.

“Would you help me hitch Dandy to the buggy, Benteen?” she asked to break the silence between them. “I’d like to go with you to the cemetery and show you where we buried your father.”

When he finally looked at her, there wasn’t any trace of the anger he had directed at her earlier. Lorna breathed easier. But his expression remained hardened, shutting in his feelings so they couldn’t be observed.

“Yes.” He agreed to harness the bay gelding for her.

Leading his horse, Benteen walked around the picket fence enclosing the front yard of the house and headed for the rear of the dwelling, where a small shed housed the Pearces’ buggy and a horse stall. Lorna followed, cutting through the yard.

A silence flowed between them. While it wasn’t an easy one, it wasn’t uncomfortable either. Lorna watched quietly as Benteen tied the buggy horse in its stall and began buckling on the harness. Activity seemed to provide a release for some of his simmering tension. There was less suppressed violence in his movements as they became smoother, more natural.

With the harness in place, Benteen backed the gelding between the buggy shafts and hooked the traces. He turned to help Lorna into the spring seat, treating her with a measure

of aloofness. She made room for him on the seat, hoping he would ride with her, but he passed her the buggy reins and mounted his horse.

Benteen rode alongside the buggy, escorting her along the town’s rough streets to the small cemetery. Dismounting, he tied his horse to the back of the buggy and came forward to lift her to the ground.

“His grave is under that big oak,” she pointed. “I hope that is all right.”

“Yes.” His tight-lipped reply revealed nothing.

There was an instant when Lorna thought Benteen was going to reject her silent wish to accompany him to the grave site. Then his arm curved behind her, his gloved hand flattening itself near the base of her spine. Together they walked along the well-trodden path through the cemetery, past wooden markers and headstones, to the large oak tree dominating the area.

Winter had stripped the leaves from the tree, exposing its symmetrical skeleton of spreading branches and limbs. There was only a hint of green buds. A breeze whispered through the scattered piles of fallen leaves, a lonely sound made poignant by the simple wooden cross standing at the head of the elongated mound of earth. Its dark shape stood out sharply against the mixture of winter-brown grass and new green sprouts pushing up around it.

When they reached the grave, his guiding hand fell away from her. Out of the corner of her eye, Lorna saw him take off his hat and hold it in front of him with both hands. The breeze ruffled the ends of his dark hair as he stared at the cross. The lettering read simply: “Seth Calder. RIP.”

“We didn’t know your father’s birthdate,” she explained quietly. “We thought you could add whatever you liked to the marker when you came back.”

“That’s fine.”