The Wyoming Heir. Naomi RawlingsЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Prologue

      Teton Valley, Wyoming

      October 1893

      “Hello, Ma.” Luke Hayes removed his Stetson and stepped over the threshold to his mother’s room. His boots echoed against the sturdy pine floorboards as he moved to where Ma sat at her vanity. A faint, sour scent wound around him, tickling his nose and turning his mouth bitter. The vase of purple coneflowers on the dresser nearly masked it, as did the rose water Ma dabbed at her throat. But the subtle smell of sickness clung to the shadows and haunted the corners, a constant reminder of the enemy that would steal her life.

      “You’ve come to say goodbye,” she whispered, her voice tired though she’d barely spoken.

      Luke hooked a thumb through a belt loop. “It’s time. Can’t linger if I want to be back before the snow comes.”

      She turned to him, and the dreary, lifeless blue of her eyes hit him like a punch to the throat.

      “You should be in bed.”

      “I thought I’d go riding...could ride down the trail with you a ways. To the end of the property at least.”

      Just like we used to, his throat ached to speak. How many times had they gone riding together? Felt the wind in their faces and the sun on their backs as they galloped through the shadows of the mountains?

      Before. Not anymore. Never again.

      But a person couldn’t convince Ma of that. Luke ran his gaze over her gaunt frame. She’d dragged herself from bed and pulled on some clothes, her shirtwaist and split skirt hanging on her emaciated figure as though more skeleton than flesh. “No more riding. Pa told you as much over a month ago.”

      She huffed, her skinny shoulders straightening. “Doc Binnings didn’t bar me from riding.”

      “The answer’s still no.” His words sliced through the room, and he winced. He’d come to say goodbye, not get into an argument, but there seemed to be little help for it with Ma convinced she could go riding.

      “There’s a letter for your sister on the dresser.” She nodded toward the white envelope.

      A smile slid up the corner of his mouth. “I’m carrying one from Pa, too, and another from Levi Sanders.”

      “Levi?” A flush tinged Ma’s pale cheeks. “Samantha will like that.”

      “She’ll like hearing from everyone, I’m sure. She’ll be even happier to finally come home.”

      Ma stopped, her hands frozen midway through fastening the gold locket about her neck. “You’re bringing her back?”

      “Of course. What did you expect?”

      “No. Deal with the estate as we discussed, but leave Samantha there.”

      Not get Sam? The thought stopped him cold. Even if he didn’t need to leave for New York to settle his late grandfather’s affairs, he still would have gone to fetch his sister home. With Ma nearing the end, Samantha belonged with her family. “It’s time she came home.”

      “I read her letters. She loves that school, makes good grades, will graduate come spring. She needs to stay.”

      “Ma...” Luke scrubbed a hand over his face.

      “I’ve got a letter for Cynthia, too, on the dresser over beside Samantha’s. You’ll take that one, won’t you?”

      Cynthia? His hand stilled over his eyes. He hadn’t heard the name of his brother’s widow for three years and didn’t care to hear it again for the rest of his life.

      But Ma was staring at him, hope radiating from her weary eyes.

      “You know how I feel about Cynthia.” And if Ma wasn’t half delusional from her illness, she never would have brought up the confounded woman. “Just mail the letter yourself.”

      “You’re not even going to see—?”

      It started then, one of the coughing fits that spasmed through Ma’s body. She grabbed the rag sitting beside the rose water and held it to her mouth, planting her other hand on the vanity for support.

      “You should have been in bed.” Luke strode forward, slipped one arm beneath her knees, and used the other to brace her back before he swooped her in his arms. The coughs racked her body, shaking her slight form down to her very bones. “Breathe now, Ma. Remember what the doc said? You need to breathe through this.”

      He laid her on the bed and sat beside her, holding the rag to her face. Blood seeped into the cloth, staining her teeth and lips and pooling in the corner of her mouth. The doc had also told him and Pa not to touch the foul cloths, or they could end up with consumption. But he wouldn’t watch his mother struggle to keep a simple rag in place.

      He braced her shoulders and gripped the cloth until she lay back against her pillows, eyes closed, stringy chestnut hair falling in waves around her shoulders, most of it knocked loose from her bun because of the jerking.

      And she’d wanted to ride with him to the edge of the ranch.

      He tossed the rag into the pail in the corner, already a quarter filled with sodden cloths, washed his hands in the basin, then moved back to her. The scents of rose water and blood and chronic sickness emanated from the bed.

      She opened those dull blue eyes and blinked up at him.

      “Are you...” All right? He clamped his teeth together. Of course she wasn’t all right. Every day she crept closer to death. And every day Sam stayed East was a day forever lost between mother and daughter.

      “Luke...promise me.” Short breaths wheezed from her mouth.

      “Promise you what?” He knelt on the floor, his eyes tracing every dip and curve and line of her features, branding them into his memory lest she not be alive when he returned.

      She wrapped her hand around his, her corpselike skin thin and translucent against the thick, healthy hue of his palm. “Th-that you won’t tell Samantha how sick I am.”

      “What do you mean? Haven’t you told her yet yourself? Doesn’t your letter explain?”

      She looked away.

      “Ma?” He stroked a strand of limp hair off her forehead. “You have to let Sam know you’re sick.”

      “No.” A tear streaked down the bony ridges of her cheek. “If I tell her, she’ll come home. She needs to stay and finish school.”

      “She deserves to make that choice on her own. Deserves the chance to see you before you...” Die. He couldn’t move the wretched word past the knot in his throat. Ma might not want Sam told about her condition, but Sam would never forgive herself if Ma passed without her saying goodbye. “Surely you want to see Sam again? Surely you miss her?”

      Ma squirmed. “Let her finish her schooling, and we’ll see each other next summer.”

      Except Ma wasn’t going to live that long. “Sam needs to know. Now.”

      “I won’t let her give up the life she loves to watch me die.” She shook her head, her sunken eyes seeking his. “You mustn’t tell her. Promise me.”

      He couldn’t do it. He could barely stand to leave Ma as it was, wouldn’t if he had any choice in the matter. How could he promise to keep her condition from Sam? Maybe Ma was right, and Sam wouldn’t want to come home, but she should know what was going on.

      “Luke? Promise?” Ma’s voice grew panicked, even desperate.

      Something twisted in his gut.

      His twin’s death three years