This Loving Land by Dorothy Garlock Page B

that caused Summer’s legs to tremble and her heart to pound in the most alarming way. It was him. The man from the street in Hamilton and the man from the store where they loaded the supplies.
    “I’m looking for Mr. McLean.” Her voice seemed dreadfully loud.
    “You found him.” He didn’t look at her, but moved toward the stove.
    “I mean . . . Sam McLean.” Summer looked at his back. He had pulled the skillet back over the flame and dropped a piece of meat into the hot grease. The only noise that broke the silence was the sizzle of cooking meat. He didn’t answer.
    “I’m Summer Kuykendall, from over across the creek. I came over to thank Mr. McLean for . . . letting his men escort us from town. John Austin and I . . . John Austin is my brother. We came from the Piney Woods. You see, our mother died and she told me that. . . .” Suddenly, she couldn’t stand the sound of her own voice. Her words seemed so trite, so unnecessary. The man was ignoring her, keeping his face turned away from her, and it made her angry. “Is there someplace where I can wait for Mr. McLean? It’s . . . it’s just not my nature to be beholden to someone and not be able to thank them.”
    “There’s no need to feel beholden.” The man’s curt tone matched hers.
    Summer was about to make a sharp retort when the man moved. His leg almost buckled under him. It was then that she noticed his feet were bare.
    “Sit down. I’ll fix your meal while I’m waiting.”
    She had expected him to protest, but he limped over to the table and eased himself into a chair, extending his leg out in front of him. Summer moved swiftly and efficiently between the work counter and the stove. Lifting the meat from the skillet, she broke two eggs into the fat; while they were cooking, she took biscuits from the warming oven.
    Scarcely looking at the bent dark head, she placed the plate of food on the table and returned to the stove to pour two mugs of coffee. With both her hands curled about the warm cup, she sat quietly and watched him eat. The light from the window shafted across his right cheek, showing up an ugly white scar that curved from the middle of his ear up and over his cheekbone and down to the corner of his mouth. Thick black lashes hid deep blue eyes, when he looked up to see her looking at him. There was an awful, strained silence as they stared at each other.
    “S. McLean?” Summer said carefully, as if the words were strange and she were terribly afraid of them.
    “Slater McLean.” His voice held a tinge of regret.
    “You wrote the letter?” Summer’s eyes held his.
    “Yes.” He looked down at his plate. “It’s what Pa would’ve done if he was alive.”
    “Sam McLean is dead?”
    “Five years now. But even then, he wanted you to come home.”
    “Why didn’t you tell me? Or meet me in Hamilton?”
    “Would you have come with me?”
    She studied his face; one side so smooth and handsome, the other puckered, distorted. Most men, she thought, would have grown a beard to hide at least part of the disfigurement.
    “I don’t know what you mean,” she said at last. “My mother told me to find Sam McLean and I . . .”
    “Say no more,” be interrupted curtly. “I understand.”
    “What ever happened to your face?” The words were out before she could stop them.
    There was an awful moment of silence while the enormity of her rude question shamed her. His thick dark lashes came together over the hard gleam in his eyes, and the left comer of his mouth slanted upward as he smiled.
    “You’re not supposed to mention it. You’re supposed to look away and pretend it isn’t there. It’s ugly and offensive, but I’m grateful it’s where it is and not two inches to the left where it would have cut across my eye, nose and mouth. I can see, smell, eat, and I’m alive. And that is important to me.”
    His mockery affected her more than she was prepared for.
    “I’m sorry. It was rude of me to ask, but I had no idea you