obliged to haul wood and water while Garnet and Golda had fed their pa, marveling over how very well he was, considering he'd been deathly ill with brain fever only a few months ago.
Wyatt stood in the doorway to his cabin and stared at the chaos. Water boiled on the stove. A washtub Lance had hauled from somewhere in town sat directly in the middle of the one tiny room. Eugene lay on his back, a small grin on his chubby, wizened face, faking weakness simply to get out of the work.
Garnet and Golda were finishing up the dishes. His breakfast dishes. The breakfast he had made for himself and hadn't been afforded the opportunity to eat because of this damned intrusion. He stood in the door, scowling, a dark anger building in his chest. But neither of the women glanced up from their work to notice. Garnet, her dark lustrous hair tied back with a small length of muslin, stood at his wobbly table, her arms plunged into one of his only two buckets, sudsing his dishes.
His dishes! What would they do next? Wash his clothes? His entire cabin?
Garnet looked up from her work, turning her soft face toward him for the first time since her sister arrived. She looked appealing with the sparkle of happiness in her eyes. She was still too pale, but a small grin warmed the stern lines on her face and she looked young and beautiful.
"I left some flapjacks for you," she said. "Here, this dish and cup are clean. Golda just needs to dry them for you."
She gestured toward her young sister. The girl with the golden curls nervously wiped his tin cup. The cup he'd had for years, that had been banged and dented and even kicked by his horse. The cup he had never remembered washing. Not once. Ever.
Wyatt shook his head. "Where did you get the soap?"
"Young Mr. Lowell," Garnet answered brightly, as if the man had brought something more precious than gold. "He's turned out to be quite handy for a worthless, ne'er-do-well prospector."
"Garnet!" Golda scolded, setting the newly dried tin cup down on the table with a thunk. "Please, do not speak of Lance that way. He practically saved my life and risked his to rescue you."
"I didn't need rescuing and besides, it isn't proper to call a man by his given name." The softness of Garnet's mouth retreated into a severe frown. "Really, Golda, one would think you had no brain at all in that head of yours. Lance is just like Pa, can't you see that? And Pa's been nothing but an aimless dreamer. Look how he's treated us all our lives."
Golda's pink mouth pinched into an obvious pout, although she said nothing.
Wyatt felt a distaste burn like acid in his belly. This pouting display was another thing he so greatly disliked about women. He dared to walk past the two females, careful to keep his distance, on the way to the cook-stove. The coffeepot, apparently not yet a victim to Garnet's dishwater, sat neatly on the blackened stove top. If there was a God in the heavens, then the coffee would be burned, boiling hot, and thick as mud. Which, of course, was the next best thing to a full flask of whiskey.
He turned to face the women and held out his hand. "Give me the cup."
Golda jumped as if he had drawn his revolver and shot her through the heart. Her small plump hand flew to her chest and stayed there as if to stop the imaginary flow of blood. Some women, Wyatt shook his head, they were so jumpy.
"My cup?"
Garnet scowled, adding an impoverished look to her already stern face. She reached with her soapy hands across the rinse water and grabbed the newly cleaned tin. She held it out to him, clearly unable to step forward and bridge the short distance between them. She might be standing, but Wyatt could see the strain carving deep lines across her forehead and the pain pinching the corners of her eyes. Her leg had to be hurting her. Yet she wasn't saying a word.
Wyatt stood in the doorway to his cabin and stared at the chaos. Water boiled on the stove. A washtub Lance had hauled from somewhere in town sat directly in the middle of the one tiny room. Eugene lay on his back, a small grin on his chubby, wizened face, faking weakness simply to get out of the work.
Garnet and Golda were finishing up the dishes. His breakfast dishes. The breakfast he had made for himself and hadn't been afforded the opportunity to eat because of this damned intrusion. He stood in the door, scowling, a dark anger building in his chest. But neither of the women glanced up from their work to notice. Garnet, her dark lustrous hair tied back with a small length of muslin, stood at his wobbly table, her arms plunged into one of his only two buckets, sudsing his dishes.
His dishes! What would they do next? Wash his clothes? His entire cabin?
Garnet looked up from her work, turning her soft face toward him for the first time since her sister arrived. She looked appealing with the sparkle of happiness in her eyes. She was still too pale, but a small grin warmed the stern lines on her face and she looked young and beautiful.
"I left some flapjacks for you," she said. "Here, this dish and cup are clean. Golda just needs to dry them for you."
She gestured toward her young sister. The girl with the golden curls nervously wiped his tin cup. The cup he'd had for years, that had been banged and dented and even kicked by his horse. The cup he had never remembered washing. Not once. Ever.
Wyatt shook his head. "Where did you get the soap?"
"Young Mr. Lowell," Garnet answered brightly, as if the man had brought something more precious than gold. "He's turned out to be quite handy for a worthless, ne'er-do-well prospector."
"Garnet!" Golda scolded, setting the newly dried tin cup down on the table with a thunk. "Please, do not speak of Lance that way. He practically saved my life and risked his to rescue you."
"I didn't need rescuing and besides, it isn't proper to call a man by his given name." The softness of Garnet's mouth retreated into a severe frown. "Really, Golda, one would think you had no brain at all in that head of yours. Lance is just like Pa, can't you see that? And Pa's been nothing but an aimless dreamer. Look how he's treated us all our lives."
Golda's pink mouth pinched into an obvious pout, although she said nothing.
Wyatt felt a distaste burn like acid in his belly. This pouting display was another thing he so greatly disliked about women. He dared to walk past the two females, careful to keep his distance, on the way to the cook-stove. The coffeepot, apparently not yet a victim to Garnet's dishwater, sat neatly on the blackened stove top. If there was a God in the heavens, then the coffee would be burned, boiling hot, and thick as mud. Which, of course, was the next best thing to a full flask of whiskey.
He turned to face the women and held out his hand. "Give me the cup."
Golda jumped as if he had drawn his revolver and shot her through the heart. Her small plump hand flew to her chest and stayed there as if to stop the imaginary flow of blood. Some women, Wyatt shook his head, they were so jumpy.
"My cup?"
Garnet scowled, adding an impoverished look to her already stern face. She reached with her soapy hands across the rinse water and grabbed the newly cleaned tin. She held it out to him, clearly unable to step forward and bridge the short distance between them. She might be standing, but Wyatt could see the strain carving deep lines across her forehead and the pain pinching the corners of her eyes. Her leg had to be hurting her. Yet she wasn't saying a word.
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