Larkspur by Dorothy Garlock Page A

to the porch the morning she left River Falls? Of course, she’d not been so tired and she had not felt ready to sit down and cry as she did now. She stumbled over a chunk of dead wood hidden by a growth of grass. The rope slipped from her hand and the box fell on her foot.
    “Darn! Darn—” The pain was not severe but her body was so tired and her mind so unsettled that tears sprang to her eyes. Certain that she could not be seen from the house, she lifted the hem of her skirt and wiped her face. She was not even curious about the other house. She just wanted to get there and sit down. How would she get that heavy trunk through the woods? She was sure of one thing—she’d not ask him to help her.
    Leaving the box on the ground, Kristin walked on, parting the bushes as she went. If at one time there had been a path, it had long ago disappeared into the heavy growth of brush. She passed through a belt of high grass and stunted scrub pines, and suddenly there in front of her was the old homestead.
    She understood immediately why Buck Lenning had looked so smug when he said, “Your house is yonder in the grove.”
    Before her was the most desolate, run-down place she had ever seen. It looked as if it had been deserted for years and years. The door hung on one leather hinge. The windows were glassless and without shutters. The roof sagged, and brush grew up to the door.
    Kristin went toward it in a near stupor. When she looked inside, she could see that sticks and leaves had blown in the openings and formed a layer of litter that covered everything. Inside were built-in bunks, a table and a split-log bench. All were deep in dirt and flecked with animal droppings. A piece of an old blanket lay in the corner and looked as if it had been used as a nest by an animal. The only thing that appeared to be intact was a stone chimney.
    Kristin was unaware of it, but her hand was clasped tightly over her mouth as she surveyed the dilapidated homestead. Her shaky legs carried her to the bench, and heedless of the filth on it, she sat down. With her arms wrapped about the bag she held close to her chest, she rocked back and forth.
    Her dream of starting an exciting new life had turned into a nightmare.
    The dam crumbled. Misery came gushing out. She could no longer contain the hurt and the disappointment within her. Her face convulsed and huge racking sobs came from deep within her, disrupting the silence in the gloomy, pitiful shack.
    The troubles had begun with Ferd’s rejection and anger over her inheritance. Then had come the anxiety and discomfort of the long train trip. The encounter with Mr. Forsythe, the sleepless night, the strain of having to steal away from Big Timber in the middle of the night, and the long hard ride on the freight wagon would have been bearable. But this, the house she had so looked forward to, and the insufferable Mr. Lenning, were too much.
    She cried openly. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She made no attempt to wipe them away. Had she thought about it, she would have realized that she had not cried like this since her mother died ten years ago.
    When the figure filled the doorway and blocked out the light, she was so deep in her grief that she wasn’t even frightened of the lean-faced, shaggy-haired man in jeans and worn boots.
    Buck had heard her sobbing as he approached and was shaken at the sight of her tears. He could not remember when last he had seen a woman cry. It didn’t matter to him that she was a woman who had come here to lay claim to what he and Yarby had worked for. She was alone and scared. Her wet lashes and tear-streaked cheeks made her look as helpless as a child. Buck had always been softhearted when it came to a helpless creature’s suffering.
    “Miss Anderson.” He waited for her to answer, and when she didn’t, he said, “Come on back to the house and . . . we’ll talk.” She was a pretty woman, he realized when he looked at her through eyes unbiased by anger. Even with