A Bride For Dalton

by Caroline Clemmons

  George shook his head. “You ever think of anything besides eating?”

  Clyde glared at him. “Sure, I think of sleeping. Why shouldn’t a fella think of pleasant things when he has to do all this hard work?”

  Before another argument got underway between the cowhands, Rebecca set the slices of pie in front of them. “Let me get the whipped cream for the topping.”

  After the cowhands had gone to the bunkhouse, Bert helped clear the table. “One of the hens has stopped laying. Thought you might like to have fried chicken for supper tomorrow.”

  “As much as the men eat we’d need two hens for frying to have enough for all six of us. I could make chicken and dumplings with just one.”

  “Naw, I’ll get two of them. We got the chicks getting almost large enough to lay eggs. I’ve been real hungry for fried chicken.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll have.”

  He grinned. “With creamed potatoes and gravy?”

  “If that’s what you want. You’ll have to kill the chickens, though.”

  “You know how to scald off the feathers?”

  No, but she would have to learn. “I’ve heard how it’s done. You can check my progress to make sure I’m doing it correctly.”

  Dalton patted his stomach. “I’m sure not hungry after that good meal. Still, fried chicken always sounds good.”

  She met his gaze, trying to hide that she was still miffed about his reaction to her flower bed. “What’s your favorite meal?”

  “Apparently anything you prepare. You’re an amazing cook and I’ve enjoyed every meal so far.”

  When he said things like that, she couldn’t be quite as annoyed as she had been. “Thank you, Dalton. Cooking for someone who appreciates the effort is nice.”

  “My body aches and I have to turn in now, honey. Remember, first thing after breakfast, we’re going target practicing.”

  The next morning, Rebecca wore one of the calico dresses she’d purchased at the Mercantile. She was pleased to find the dress had pockets. The plain style was more efficient for housework and the lavender shade was one of her favorite colors.

  She recalled the fussy style of dress among her friends back in Missouri. Those days seemed a lifetime ago. Being here in her own home was a dream come true.

  After breakfast, Bert told her he’d clean up the kitchen as soon as he’d milked the cow and gathered the eggs. She thought she should protest but Dalton was ready for her to accompany him. He surprised her when she saw he’d filled his arms with split logs from the woodpile.

  Since he had all he could carry, she took charge of the revolver and rifle. When they were a few hundred yards from the house, Dalton stopped. He set up the pieces of wood in a line, standing each piece on its end.

  “I should have dug some tin cans from the rubbish heap but this works and isn’t as messy. We’ll shoot at these.”

  She scanned the surrounding area. “Are there any cattle around? I don’t want to hit living things.”

  He chuckled. “They’re on another pasture. Besides, I hope you’ll hit the wood.”

  He took the rifle from her. “I don’t think you’ll need to use this, but you should know how to in an emergency. For instance, you might have been alone when that rabid skunk came to call.”

  She grimaced. “I don’t ever want to be helpless in a crisis. Yesterday I had the rifle and ammunition but had no idea how to load or fire the rifle.”

  He demonstrated loading the firearm then removed the bullets and had her load it. Next, he showed her how to line up the barrel with the target. “If you don’t hold this right, you can get a nasty bruise.”

  Stepping behind her, he helped her position the gun. “Sight on that end piece of wood, the one on your left. When you’re ready, squeeze the trigger.”

  She did exactly as he’d said. She missed the target by at least five feet. Having him so close rattled her. Plus, she wanted to impress him.

  “I was certain I sighted just as you told me.”

  His hands were warm on her shoulders. “You’re probably letting the barrel drop as you pull the trigger. Try again.”

  She did but still missed. “I was closer this time.”

  “Close doesn’t count, honey. If that was a charging animal, you’d be a goner. Try again and this time, keep your arms steady.”

  She hoped she never came in contact with a charging animal but she remembered Bert’s comment about a bear. “I didn’t know shooting would be so confusing. There are so many things to think of at one time.”

  His standing close destroyed her concentration. She couldn’t be a ninny and had to pull herself together and focus. They repeated until she’d hit three targets.

  She almost danced with joy that she’d mastered another new thing. “I hope you have enough ammunition left for an emergency.”

  “Don’t worry, I keep a lot on hand. Now we’ll work on the revolver. This one is large and heavy. Next time we go into town, I’ll get you a smaller revolver you can carry in your pocket.”

  “A derringer?”

  “You could have one if you prefer. I was thinking of the Colt Cloverleaf. Where the derringer has only two shots, the Cloverleaf has four. For now, let’s work with this one I was given when I was a boy. I still keep it oiled and ready even though I don’t take it with me daily. I keep a rifle in my saddle scabbard.”

  “All right, I’m ready to learn.”

  He kissed her forehead. “I appreciate your willingness to tackle new things.”

  She leaned against his broad chest. “Thank you, I’m grateful you’re a patient teacher.”

  She straightened and grinned at him. “Now show me how this revolver works.”

  They continued practicing until she could hit a target consistently. At noon they trekked into the house.

  She gathered the things she’d planned for this meal. “I’ll make our lunch quickly. I’m sure you and Bert are both hungry. I certainly am.”

  More important than being hungry, she was satisfied. So far, life here was good.

  Chapter Ten

  Guilt attacked Dalton when he recalled how he’d complained about Rebecca’s flowers. When he rode in yesterday, he’d noticed how cheerful her darned flowers looked. He recognized she’d put in extra work to beautify their home and then he’d been a jerk.

  He recalled his mother saying she sure missed her roses. Why hadn’t he or his father ever sent away for rose bushes? Would they even grow here? He thought he’d seen some in town.

  His hand remained too painful to be much use on the ranch. He was glad it was about time to go home. As he and Two Bits rode by some brush, he stopped.

  “That serviceberry would look nice in Rebecca’s flower bed.” He dismounted and dug the folding shovel from his saddlebags.

  Two Bits held out his hand for the shovel. “I’ll dig it up for you seeing as how your hand’s hurt ’cause of me.”

  Dalton was shocked by the man’s offer. He’d never known Two Bits to do one lick of work that wasn’t forced on him. Rebecca had made more of an impression than she could know.

  He cheerfully gave the shovel to the cowboy. “Thank you.”

  Two Bits dug around the healthiest of those in the patch. “Your wife sure is nice to us and she’s a good cook. Ain’t many around like her, that’s for sure.”

  “She’ll appreciate you helping her with her flowers. I was kind of mean about them when I first saw them.”

  His cowhand didn’t glance up. “I couldn’t help overhearing. Don’t know why you’d mind her setting out flowers. Guess most women have a liking for such things. Don’t hurt nothing.”

  Two Bits set the first bush aside and dug at a second. “I figure she’d like this one, too. It’s shaped real pretty.”

  “You’re right. Aw, I don’t know why I acted the way I did. Reckon it was the surprise of seeing the change when I was already in a bad mood. Being married keeps a man off balance all the time. I put my foot in my mouth often enough. To te
ll the truth, I never know what she’ll think of next.”

  Two Bits looked up and grinned. “Guess that’s interesting ’cause you don’t never get bored.”

  Dalton couldn’t keep from laughing. “That’s the truth.”

  He unfastened the slicker he kept rolled behind his saddle and spread it on the ground. He set the plants on the yellow rain gear. Using his rope as binding, he managed to tie the slicker around the base of the plants. Two Bits helped him fasten the bundle onto the back of his saddle. Blaze wasn’t fond of the idea of swaying plants but tolerated the pack.

  Dalton mounted his horse. “Guess we’d better go in now. Will you plant these when we get to the house?”

  “Sure will. Maybe I should lengthen that flower bed for Miz Sterling.”

  Dalton couldn’t believe his ears. Would wonders never cease? If the man had planned to hang around longer, he might have learned to be a halfway decent worker. He’d be leaving soon, though. The sooner, the better.

  They rode into the yard and stopped near the house to unload the plants. Two Bits fetched a better shovel from the barn.

  Dalton opened the door. “Rebecca, would you come show us where you want these?”

  Drying her hands on her apron, she wore a puzzled expression. “Where I want what?”

  She stepped onto the porch where the serviceberry bushes were visible. “Oh, how pretty. Did you find them on the ranch?”

  Bert followed her and so did Buddy. Bert sent him a look of approval.

  “Two Bits helped me by digging them up. He’ll plant them if you’ll tell him where you want them.”

  She looked so happy he felt lower than a snake for fussing at her the other day. “How big will they get?”

  “Tall as you. In early spring they have white flowers and in summer they have dark berries that make good jelly. Birds like the berries, too.”

  Bert leaned against a support post. “In fall, all the leaves turn red and orange. Always makes me think of a sunset.”

  “If they get tall, maybe they should go at the corners of the house. No, they sound as if they’re pretty all year. Let’s put them where we can see them from the parlor or kitchen.”

  She turned one way then the other. One hand at her throat, she looked at him. “What do you think, Dalton? Did you have a place in mind when you chose them?”

  “Naw, I just figured you’d like them. Now I think of it, at the corner of the porch would be a good place. We could watch the birds enjoy the berries when we sat out here on summer evenings.”

  “Then that’s where you should plant them. Oh, thank you for bringing them. This is exciting.” She clasped her hands together.

  Two Bits planted the serviceberry bushes where Rebecca indicated. Dalton retrieved his slicker and gave it a good shake to get rid of the dirt clinging to the oiled canvas. He rolled the raincoat to be retied behind his saddle.

  When the bushes were planted, Bert took the reins of both horses. “I’ll take care of your horses. Doubt you could, Dalton, since you’re still an invalid.”

  “Thanks. I’ll water the serviceberries.” He picked up the bucket kept near the pump and filled it with water.

  After he’d poured four buckets of water around them, the new additions appeared to be settling in.

  Rebecca’s excitement was almost palpable. She asked Two Bits, “What’s your favorite meal?”

  He leaned on the shovel. “Um, beef pot roast with gravy and slices of bread… and peach cobbler for dessert.”

  “All right, that’s what we’ll have for supper tomorrow. Thank you for planting the bushes, Clyde. I appreciate your hard work.”

  “Whooee, I can hardly wait. You’re sure a good cook.” He carried the shovel toward the barn.

  Dalton put a hand at his wife’s back. “You didn’t thank me.”

  She smiled at him. “Thank you, Dalton. I’ll show my gratitude tonight when we’re alone in our room.”

  He grinned and decided to echo Two Bits, “Whooee, I can hardly wait.”

  She smiled and wrapped her hand around his arm. “For now, let’s go in and let me change the bandage on your hand. Did you keep it clean?”

  “I tried. To tell the truth, today I haven’t been worth the bullet it’d take to shoot me. Even Two Bits worked harder than I did.”

  “I admit I was surprised he was planting those bushes. He didn’t even complain about having to dig the holes.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The next day she was still almost giddy because of the plants Dalton had brought her. He was so sweet last night in their room. He apologized for his harsh words.

  After the kitchen was tidy, she told Bert she was going to look in the attic. She didn’t need his permission, of course, but she still felt odd about poking around in things except those she’d brought.

  “You feel better if I went with you?”

  She would but she knew steps hurt his hip and back. “I’ll poke around. Don’t worry unless you hear a loud clunk or a scream. Do you want me to look for anything for you while I’m up there?”

  He rubbed his jaw. “If you see a holster and belt, would you fetch it down here?”

  “I sure will. Dalton told me to check his mother’s clothes for things I could wear. I wouldn’t bother them otherwise.”

  “Don’t see why not. No point duplicating what she ain’t using. She had a lot of stuff. We had the devil getting it up there since I’m not the best of help.”

  “You are the very, very best of help in spite of the fact that stairs are not your friend. Do I need a lantern?”

  “Naw, not at mid-morning like this. There’s a window on each end that lets in light.”

  She climbed up and opened the attic door. Bert was correct and there was light filtering in through the windows even though they needed shining. She wended among the trunks and crates.

  Using a wooden crate as a stool, she opened a trunk. Men’s clothing was inside so she supposed this had belonged to Dalton’s dad. She found the holster and gun belt on top and laid it aside to take downstairs. She saw a pair of spectacles in the trunk and wondered when Dalton would require a pair.

  The next trunk was filled with women’s clothing. She found dresses—now out of style but nevertheless of good quality—that could be altered to fit her. Digging through revealed quilted flannel petticoats and quilted shifts. A pair of britches must be those Dalton had outgrown that his mother wore.

  She held them up to her and decided they would work much better than Bert’s. A warm jacket would be useful for riding or working in the garden. Bert said he planted potatoes in late winter and she imagined she’d need a jacket to help.

  The most precious thing she found was a book his mother had kept about Dalton. His birthday would be in only two months. She leafed through and imagined his mother proudly writing his progress. She pressed the book to her chest and wondered if she’d be able to do the same for her child someday. Had his parents expected more children after Dalton?

  He hadn’t said how many he hoped for other than that he hoped to pass the ranch to his child one day. That he hadn’t insisted his heir be a boy pleased her. She pictured blue-eyed children, some with blond hair and some with dark hair. The ranch was a wonderful place to raise a family.

  The top tray of his mother’s trunk held pieces of jewelry, hair combs, a fan, reticules, an autograph book, a few photo cards, and handkerchiefs. She found a small box and loaded the pieces into the container to take downstairs. A lovely shawl also caught her eye. How would her husband feel if she wore these things?

  He hadn’t mentioned anything but the quilted petticoats and britches. Surely he wouldn’t mind if she utilized everything. She wouldn’t know until she talked to him about them.

  After giving the other containers a cursory glance, she decided she had enough to work with for now. She wondered if Dalton had a family Bible but she hadn’t seen one in the house. She’d brought her mother’s and her father’s family Bibles. She’d ask him tonight.
In the meantime, she had better get busy preparing lunch and starting in on supper.

  Winter weather and the need for quilted undergarments was months away. Except Bert had said summers were shorter in Montana than in Missouri. She carried down the box of treasures, the britches, baby book, and the holster on a gun belt. After she set the things she wanted to ask about on the bed, she carried the leather items Bert had requested to him.

  When they finished lunch he strapped on the gun belt. “I’m going to go kill a couple of chickens. I’ll lay them on that ledge at the back door. We put that there so I could put food where Buddy couldn’t reach.

  Panic consumed her. “Bert, I’ve never done this before. Would you watch me to be sure I don’t make a mess of the job?”

  He gave a wheezy chuckle. “Ain’t no way to pluck chickens without making a mess. I’ll take care of the job for you if you want.”

  She wished she could let him but her conscience wouldn’t allow her to do so. “I want to learn how to do everything I’m supposed to be doing. In St. Louis, we got our hens from the butcher already dressed and ready to cut up. I know how to do that and how to fry them. After today, I’ll know how to pluck them.”

  She shuddered. “I never, never ever want to learn to kill one.”

  Dalton’s mother likely had killed the chickens she cooked. Rebecca thought she might be out of her depth in Montana but she wanted to fit into this life. She simply had to toughen up and learn to do what other ranch wives did.

  Bert reached for his hat. “You heat the water to scald the feathers while I chop off their heads. Best to do this chore outside.”

  The process sounded disgusting. Thank goodness Bert was taking care of the head chopping part. She pumped water into a large pan and set it on the range.

  She got the bucket they used for the rubbish that the swine couldn’t eat and set it on the back steps. Next she took the dishpan out to use for the dressed birds. When she took the pan to the back porch, the two dead fowl were on the ledge. Swallowing down the bile that rose in her throat, she looked away from the gruesome sight.

  Bert came toward her. “I shut Buddy in the barn and tossed the heads to the pigs.”