The Tenderfoot Bride
By
Cheryl St.John
Secrets and lies made poor references, Linnea McConaughy knew. But her survival depended upon keeping her past hidden, especially from her employer, rancher Will Tucker. True, he'd shown her kindness, even tenderness, but could he ever accept her shameful past — and another man's baby?
Will Tucker did not like surprises, and Linnea McConaughy was not the sturdy, past-her-prime widow he'd expected to manage his household. Instead, she was a tiny slip of womanhood desperately seeking a place to belong. Yet much to his growing surprise, that place seemed to be in his home—and his heart!
Chapter One
Colorado, Spring 1875
"This beef chews like shoe leather."
Will Tucker scowled at his aged stepmother as he crossed the kitchen toward the back door and grabbed his hat. Listening to the old woman's complaints had become as tormenting as being staked to an anthill in the blazing sun. She hunched over her dinner plate, the red shawl draped across her bony shoulders drawing attention to her curved spine. "The hell it does."
"You cooked it too long."
"Yeah, well, the new cook will be here any time, then you can quit yappin' about my cooking and every other crotchety thought that crosses your mind."
Aggie pushed the plate away, distaste twisting her wrinkled lips. "Can't be too soon."
He snorted. "You've rowed me up Salt River so many times, your arms must be as tired as your tongue." Will stuffed his hat on his head and slammed out the door.
Behind him the old woman cackled her gleeful response to driving him stark raving mad.
There were chores that had to be done before dark, and his time would be better spent tending to those.
A squealing pig shot across the dusty yard in his path, followed by two red-faced ranch hands covered with dust. Will placed both fists on his hips and glared. "What in Sam Hill are you doing?"
"Don't think the critter wants to be bacon, boss," Nash Winston called, out of breath.
"You're supposed to keep him tied up."
"He got away."
The men chased the pig toward the clothesline, where Will's drying shirts flapped in the breeze. Will followed at a half run. "Don't—!"
The pig dove under the clothing and Nash followed none too gracefully. The result was a clumsy tangle of squeals, arms and legs, and half a dozen shirts— an hour and a half's worth of work.
"You're no smarter than the slop-sucking pig!" Will cursed and grabbed his shirts before they were dragged all the way to the Colorado border.
From his sprawled position, Nash winced at the dressing-down and shrugged. "Sorry, boss!"
"You're the sorriest son of a bitch I ever hired on! Either catch that pig or get on your horse and ride out of here!"
Nash scrambled up from the dirt and ran full chisel after the escaping animal. After a shamefaced glance at Will, the other cowboy followed.
Will tried to brush dirt from his shirts, giving up in a fit of anger and heaving them toward the back porch with a groan of frustration and several creative curses. The garments landed in a heap near a dried-up bush. The hired woman couldn't get here soon enough.
Weeks ago he'd wired his sister, Corinne, asking her to place an ad in the Saint Louis paper and find him a cook and housekeeper. Five days ago he'd received Corinne's telegram, informing him she'd found the perfect worker. The widow McConaughy had simple needs and would do a good job. With barely enough notice, Will had sent his young hand, Cimarron Northcoat, to pick up the woman at the railroad station, a two-day ride each way. They should have been here by now.
From beneath the brim of his hat, Will squinted at the descending orange sphere of the sun. Abruptly he focused his attention. A distant swirl of dust heralded someone approaching from the east. About doggoned damned time.
The cattle he'd herded all the way from Texas, and the buildings and the fences on the Double T needed his undivided attention, and so far he hadn't been able to give them more than a promise.
A year ago when he'd started this spread and discovered his aging stepmother was unable to live on her own, he'd brought her along. Now she was alone except for the few hours he was at the house to sleep. Why he cared, he didn't know, but something had to be done.
He and his men were almighty weary of doing double duty, ranch work as well as cooking and laundry. He had jobs lined up for this widow woman that would last her till Christmas. A sturdy, sensible middle-aged woman was just what he needed.
The wagon drew closer and Will made out Cimarron's form, hatless in the late-day sun. Fool kid, was he trying to give himself heatstroke? Beside him, a diminutive figure draped in drab brown bounced and swayed with the rocking of the springed seat. Cimarron's companion wore his hat.
A sinking feeling churned the stringy stew and cold biscuit in his belly. He didn't like the looks of this one bit. Not one damned bit.
Will stalked toward the front of the yard to meet the wagon. Cimarron halted the horses and jumped down. The girl he turned to assist from the seat couldn't have been more than five feet tall and looked as skinny as a scarecrow beneath a baggy, ill-fitting dusty dress and shawl.
Cimarron set her on the ground and she jumped away from his touch, then swayed, gathering her shawl about her shoulders and casting Will a wary glance.
She wasn't a girl, however; surprisingly, her face showed the maturity of a young woman. The frail little sparrow gave Will a hesitant, wide-eyed glance before removing Cimarron's hat and handing it to him. "Thank you."
"My pleasure, ma'am."
She turned her skittish attention back to Will as though facing a judge and jury. She was.
Will stared in disbelief. This was the sturdy middle-aged widow his sister had found to take up the slack? Taking a step to the right, he sized her up from another angle, like he would a horse he was considering buying.
She watched him from the corner of her eye, without turning her head, and her chin raised a notch.
Her generous auburn hair had been twisted and pinned up on the back of her head. Her slender white neck didn't look as if it could hold up the coiled mass.
Her shoulders were as small as Old Aggie's and her frame didn't appear strong enough to carry her own bags, let alone heft washtubs and pails of water and bags of potatoes. No, not a sparrow, a mouse, he decided, moving back to stand in front of her.
"You're the widow McConaughy?" he asked, not believing his eyes, his sister's misleading description or his luck. He clenched his hands into fists, anger simmering in his gut.
The young woman cast her frightened brown gaze from his hands to his face. She turned to Cimarron, as if hoping he could protect her. Her gaze wavered to her left, perhaps gauging an escape route. After swallowing hard, she raised her chin again and spoke in a squeak. "Yes. Um—Linnea McConaughy, sir. And you're Mr. Tucker?"
A year's worth of frustration rose up in Will's belly. He thought of his shirts lying in the bushes, the pile of musty laundry inside, the garden that needed planting and a dozen other chores that he'd expected a housekeeper to do, all the tasks that he'd planned to finally turn over. He had a springhouse to build and a root cellar to dig, now that fair weather was here.
The full force of his ire turned on Cimarron. "What the hell were you thinking, bringing her here?" he roared. "Huh? Couldn't you see she's a bony little stick that will blow over in a stiff wind? You should have taken one look at that—" he jabbed a thumb toward the young woman "—that insignificant wisp of a girl and sent her packing right back to wherever she came from. What am I going to do with a nuisance like her on a cattle ranch?''
He paused, and the ache in his jaw told him he was clenching his teeth again. "I ne
ed a cook! I need someone who can do the wash and hoe the garden and pacify a cranky old woman! I do not need another lame piece of baggage!"
The girl clasped her hands to her breast as though she'd been shot through the heart. Colorless as her face already was, he could have sworn her sallow cheeks grew even paler. She clutched her threadbare shawl to her scrawny chest and her mouth moved, but nothing came out. She blinked from Will to Cimarron and back, putting Will in mind of a sparrow again. Her chin quivered.
Cimarron's tanned complexion took on a deep tinge of red not caused by the sun. "You didn't tell me to approve of the cook," he said thinly, "you just said to go get her. I did what you said."
Will scrubbed a palm down his face in vexation. "You could see she wasn't right for the job," he accused. He stared off at the distant mountain range for a full minute before turning back and declaring, "She's going back."
The girl's expression clouded over, a tremble reaching her delicate fingers where they clutched her shawl.
He noted the position of the sun, observed the dark circles beneath her eyes and her apparent lack of stamina. She would obviously have to eat and rest before heading back. He only wanted to be rid of her, not kill her. And to get the job done right, he'd have to do it himself this time. "I'll take her back myself.
Tomorrow. For now, show her to the room across from Aggie's."
He turned his back and strode toward the barns.
Humiliation burned through Linnea's skin all the way to her bones. The trembling that had begun in her knees as Cimarron had lowered her to the ground now shook her entire body. She bit her lower lip and watched the huge surly ranch owner stride away, relieved to be out from under his condemning glare, but appalled that he'd assessed her as so much rubbish and dismissed her. She should have been used to it, but her heart hammered so hard she was sure the young ranch hand could hear it.
Cimarron took her single bag from the back of the wagon and strode to stand beside her. "He's not as bad as he seems," he assured her. "He's really not that mean, and I've never seen him hit no one who didn't deserve it."
Alarmed, Linnea swung a startled gaze to Cimarron's lean face. Will Tucker was an intimidating bear of a man, with hands the size of dinner plates, a loud voice and a thunderous expression. How many people had deserved to be beaten by him? She swallowed hard. How many had lived?
Cimarron led her toward the house, a solid two-story wood structure with an inviting front porch and two chimneys. The rich mountain timberland provided building material and water was plentiful. Quite obviously, Colorado was a fine place for a ranch.
"You'll see," the hand said. "He's not so bad."
"I don't suppose I'll have time to see," she replied in a weak voice. "He's taking me back tomorrow." She straightened her sore back and shoulders and hid the discomfort shooting through her aching body.
"Do you think he might change his mind by then and let you take me?"
Cimarron cocked his head with a regretful expression. "Never have known him to change his mind about much of anything."
He opened the back door and ushered her into an enormous kitchen. Linnea blinked as her eyes adjusted. A long table ran down the center, and one end of the room held a stove and storage places, as well as a worktable. The savory aroma of beef and vegetables permeated the room, and Linnea's empty stomach clenched painfully.
A cackling sound made her jump. She peered into the dimness and spotted an old woman in a rocker beside a cold fireplace, a basket of sewing at her feet. "So you're the cook, eh?" she asked in a gritty voice.
"I had hoped to be."
The woman laughed again, the source of her mirth a mystery to Linnea. "Wish I coulda seen his face."
"That's Aggie," Cimarron explained. "Come on, I'll show you to your room."
After a nervous peek at the uneaten plate of food on the table, Linnea followed him down a hallway and into a long narrow corner room with windows on two walls. The space was furnished adequately with a bed, a chest, a trunk, a chair and a wash stand. She stood silently, feeling awkward and unwelcome and completely lost for anywhere else to turn.
"I'll bring you some water," Cimarron offered. "You look plumb tuckered out."
She nodded her appreciation.
A few minutes later, he returned with a kettle and poured water into a pitcher. "Appears they've already had supper, but there's some stew in a pan on the stove. If you'd like some, I guess you can help yourself."
"Thank you. For being…kind."
He blushed and backed out of the room, closing the door.
A small block of wood nailed to the doorframe sufficed as a lock. Linnea hurried forward and turned it, staring at the inadequate protection. Anyone who wanted in could shove the door and dislodge that nail. Especially someone as big and angry as Will Tucker.
This was his house. She was at his mercy—for food, for a place to sleep, for her very future.
That was the risk she'd taken in traveling all these miles to work for a man she'd never met or seen. He was nothing like his sister, Corinne Dumont, whom she'd met in Saint Louis. The beautiful dark-haired mother of two young children had been kind and helpful. Linnea didn't want to rethink her opinion. The person she'd trusted had let her come here, knowing what an awful man her brother was.
Since Corinne was a young widow herself, Linnea had believed she'd sympathized and truly wanted to help. Surely Corinne hadn't sent her here knowing how unwelcome she would be.
Removing her dusty shawl, Linnea rolled back her sleeves and unbuttoned her shirtwaist. She scooped a handful of water to drink first, not caring that the water was warm and not very refreshing for her dry throat. The liquid felt so good, she dared remove her shoes, stockings and shirtwaist to wash more thoroughly. She'd lain on the ground for the past two nights, and before that she'd dozed sitting up on a railcar. Colorado was beautiful country, but strange and vast and frightening.
Will Tucker's disapproving words rang in her mind, and a rush of fear numbed her senses and brought tears to her eyes. She had nowhere else to go. This job had been her last hope for survival.
Taking her only clean dress from her bag, she ineffectively brushed the wrinkles and donned it. After untangling her hair and rolling her dirty clothing into her bag, she stared at the bed with its plump mattress and comfortable-looking worn quilt. The last time she'd lain on a soft bed had been at Mrs. Dumont's in Saint Louis, and before that she couldn't remember when she'd had the luxury.
With her sore feet still blessedly bare, she padded to the bed, tested its thickness, and tentatively stroked the soft cover. Giving in to temptation, she stretched her aching body across the quilt and stifled a groan. Her stomach rumbled, but the thought of abandoning this indulgence just to eat while the old woman watched prevented her from giving in to the hunger.
Instead she closed her eyes and let her body relax.
It was dark when she woke to the call of a screech owl. Linnea sat up, her back and hips shooting pain. First, she oriented herself, remembering the ride and the churlish reception she'd received from the man in whose home she'd just slept. Her stomach clenched painfully.
Grimacing, she stood and peered out the window near the bed, guessing the time. Surely everyone was in bed now and she'd be alone to find something to eat.
After pulling on her stockings and pushing her swollen feet into her boots, she grabbed her shawl and made her way through the narrow hallway to the kitchen.
Light flickered from the coals in the stove, barely enough to guide her to the lantern on the table. She found matches beside the stove and lit the wick.
The stew still sat in the pan on the stove, now thick and congealed and unappealing. Just seeing it nauseated her, but she found a bowl and a spoon. Driven by painful hunger, she devoured the tasteless vegetables and stringy meat, spotted a wrapped loaf of bread and sliced a dry chunk. The food made her stomach hurt. She hadn't eaten properly or much at all for weeks, and her belly was probably trying to adjust.
She had eaten his food. Slept on his bed. She had nothing to pay with, but she could earn her meal. She could show him she wasn't as useless as he'd accused. Linnea located a broom, a bucket, lye soap and rags, and set to work. As the sun peeked over the horizon, she peered bleary-eyed through the window glass she'd just cleaned with vinegar and water. Overhead a floorboard creaked.
At the thought of the surly rancher awake and angry, her heart lurched.
The old woman shuffled from the back hallway, relying heavily on a cane. Her silver-gray hair hung in an untidy knot over one bowed shoulder. She blinked at Linnea with surprise. "You up already, girl?"
Then, with faded blue eyes, she surveyed the clean stove and scrubbed floor, the straightened shelves and the row of shiny pots hung on the wall. Even the stone hearth had been swept and scrubbed.
"Land sakes, you've been busy!" With an audible creak of her bones, she lowered herself into the rocker and took a hairbrush from the pocket of her apron. She sighed as if the trip to the kitchen had worn her out and raised the brush with a grimace. "Damned old shoulders won't let me raise m' arm anymore."
Linnea moved forward. "Here, let me help you."
She took the brush and slowly worked the knots from Aggie's hair. The old woman hadn't come out for water that morning. "Do you want me to take warm water to your room?"
"I washed with the water from yesterday. What I'd really like before I die is a bath."
Linnea hurried back to the room she'd used, gathered a few hairpins from her bag and brought them back. Pinning up Aggie's hair, she said, "If I'm here long enough this morning, I'll warm you water for a bath. Now I'm going to make coffee and breakfast. How many men eat in here?"
"I'm thinkin' there's ten."
The Tenderfoot Bride Page 1
