A Gown of Spanish Lace by Janette Oke

growls.
    “The slop pail is almost full,” she explained. “It is all I have for—”
    She stopped and looked down in embarrassment. Her cheeks flushed. “For…everything,” she finished softly.
    He nodded and lifted the pail.
    His anger flamed again as he carried the pail down the path to the edge of the bush and dumped it. “What a way for sech a little bit of a thing to live,” he exploded. “It’s jest plumb crazy.”

    He had to renew her wood supply. He was glad for the chore—it gave him reason to swing the axe in his frustration. He cut far more than he needed. By the time he was done he was sweating in spite of the cold winter day. He put down the axe and pulled his sleeve across his brow, knocking his Stetson into the snow. He had forgotten it was up there. With soft curses he reached down and retrieved his hat, whipping it against his knee to shake off the snow.
    He still hadn’t figured anything out. He had gotten no answers from his father. Nor was he likely to. He didn’t know why she was there or how long she was expected to stay. He only knew that they had a girl in camp and that he was expected to guard her. She was living in deplorable conditions. Even a man would hate the bareness, the crudeness of the cabin, the isolation.
    Then an unfamiliar idea crossed his mind and caused him to flush slightly. Was that why he was riled? If it had been a man in there, he wouldn’t have given him a thought—except to watch him carefully and guard his own back. But a girl. It wasn’t a case of just guarding her; he had to somehow—care for her. And he had no idea how to go about it.

    Ariana paced back and forth across the squeaky boards of the cabin, trying to sort through her troubled thoughts.
    On the one hand she felt terror. On the other hand she dared hope. For what? She wasn’t sure. But the young man, though hardly to be considered friendly, had not really been menacing.
    But he was the boss’s son. He was her prison guard.
    He was strangely quiet. Hardly seeming to acknowledge her presence. She had the impression he did not care much for his assignment. Did not want her in the camp any more than she wanted to be there.
    Ariana trembled slightly. No, it was not realistic. Sam might have been persuaded to be an ally, to help her—but not this cool, distracted young man with the steely blue eyes.
    She shivered again at the very thought of the silent, cold look that he had turned upon her, and a tear trickled down her cheek.
    She was helpless and at his mercy. At the mercy of the entire camp of loud, offensive men. She still had no idea why they had taken her, but she prayed as she paced that the awful ordeal might soon end.

Chapter Eight
    Guardian
    Laramie stacked enough wood against the wall of the cabin to keep the fire stoked for many days—even if the temperature continued to drop. Cautiously he surveyed the room with each trip he made. He noticed that the girl had very little in material comforts.
    She had rinsed out the scrap of towel in the basin and hung it to dry by the iron stove. She must have brought a comb with her in that little bit of a cloth bag, for one lay on the shelf by the pitcher. There was no soap, no mirror, no garments, except for the heavy coat hanging on the peg, hat and gloves tucked up beside it. On the floor was a pair of fur moccasins. He was sure they were much too big for the small feet tucked under the table.
    Apart from that, the room was bare. Bare and miserably dirty. His own stark quarters were in better shape. At least he could sweep them out and chase down the cobwebs with the broom.
    For the rest of the day Laramie watched for an opportunity to speak with Sam alone. He would get no answers from his father—he knew that now—but Sam might be another matter.
    He thought of Sam as a reasonable man, and had always been on good terms with him. It was Sam who had taught Laramie his basic letters and sums. Laramie figured that Sam was likely the only one in