by Tanya Hanson
Her big pansy eyes twinkled and her cheeks bloomed bright red from the kiss. And hidden beneath that veil was hair the colors of every precious metal he'd ever seen. She was far younger and daintier than that little brown portrait his brother had loved to show off.
Jaw tight, he looked away from her, out the little window next to the organ. Shutting his eyes to hold off a tear, he regarded the fresh mound of dirt that made Norman Dale's last bed. He fingered a fresh blister on his right hand. He'd helped fill up that grave just an hour ago. His heart hardened against Minda Becker. Minda Haynes.
His back teeth ground together. Damn it. Norman Dale had pulled wheat from the ground for fifteen summers and never died. It was the whitewashing, the trimming, the gussying to impress this outsider after harvesting twelve hours a day that had done him in two days ago. Resentment built like a thunderhead and pounded behind Brixton's eyes.
Before turning back to his bride, he rubbed his hand over his eyebrow. Past the graveyard, the prairie rolled like a golden ocean, running into sandy hills on its way to the Shining Mountains. He'd been there, seen Pike's Peak. Right now Brixton Haynes wished he was sitting right on top of it. Instead, he was pa to a passel of kids and married to boot, something he'd sworn he'd never do.
Married to a woman he didn't want.
* * * *
The kiss had shaken Minda and made her more eager than ever for the night to come. When she pulled him close, for that single proper instant, his chest had felt rock-hard against the softness underneath her corset. And for a most improper moment, church or not, she'd imagined how they'd feel skin to skin, without all the layers of clothes.
“Let's get that register signed,” her husband said harsh and low during the song. He tightened his grip on her hand.
At his touch, every inch of her shivered. He led her to the big book where she signed the name Melinda Susanna Becker for the last time. Her shaky fingers could hardly manage the inkwell. Then he grabbed the pen from her, scribbled something, and led her from the sanctuary, all the way down the aisle. Once in a while he reached out to clasp the outstretched hands of wedding guests.
Minda found herself smiling at her new friends and neighbors, glad they couldn't see her trembles or read her fiery thoughts. While her husband's behavior seemed a bit gruff, she relaxed somewhat at his firm grip on her fingers. Surely it was a sign that he never wanted to let her go.
Outside, she started some polite conversation as he headed toward the wedding dinner. The tables set up under the trees, she realized, were old barn doors on sawhorses, scattered once in a while with bed sheets.
“I'd hoped Priscilla might stand up for me,” she said, holding back the disappointment at the absence of the stepdaughter she longed to love.
“Who?”
“Priscilla? Your daughter?” She had spoken clearly enough. “I'd suggested her as my bridal attendant in my last letter.”
“Ah. You mean little Silly.” Her husband grinned. “She doesn't have the faculty to do any such thing. All she cares about is a full belly and clean britches.”
“Silly? Little Silly?” Minda stumbled in shock, but he forced her onward toward the tables.
“Be still and hush now,” he said. “Don't make a scene.”
As she passed folks full of congratulations, Minda decided not to embarrass herself by pulling away from her husband, but she tossed him a quick mutter. “What's this about Silly?"
“I said not now.”
Fuming, Minda plastered a fake smile on her face. She would speak her mind later in private. How could her husband have failed to mention that his daughter was feeble-minded?
And how could anybody, much less a father, ridicule a backward young girl with such an offensive nickname? His own blood? By now, he'd hauled her over to a table under a trio of box elder trees. A young, yellow-headed woman was draping a garland of meadow flowers along two slatback chairs.
Minda wanted to appreciate the attempt to prettify the plain chairs, but she pondered more and more on a wedding that might be a mistake.
Norman Dale was simply not the charming father he'd presented in his letters. What other surprises did he have in store for her? Did he imagine her so besotted she wouldn't mind?
No matter. She'd signed that register pure and simple. He'd made her his wife, and she'd willingly taken him as her husband. For better or worse.
“Sit yourself down. I'll go get Silly and the rest of the kids,” he said through slitted lips. He raised his brows at the blonde woman and she nodded, leaving them in private.
“The rest of what kids?” Minda's skin prickled. Deciding to obey him for the first and only time, she sat down.
“Our kids. Yours and mine.”
“Our kids? What in the world do you mean, Norman Dale? You wrote that you've got one daughter. Fourteen years old.” Minda's voice rose and despite the heat, her shoulders tensed with a sudden chill as if a clump of snow had just fallen from the treetops. “What kids? What on earth are you saying, Norman Dale? Your letters didn't say one single word about kids.”
He glared down at her. “You must've misread my brother.” The last two words slid from his tongue in slow deliberation.
His brother? She sat helpless, hopeless, paralyzed against the back of the hard little chair. For a moment, she had no air to speak.
“Your brother? Your brother? What do you mean?”
He leaned close to her, like he had during their kiss, but at her ear he growled, low, “You promised to wed a Haynes today. Well, I'm the only one left. Your Norman Dale, my brother—” His fingers, calloused and hot, held her chin still so he could glare into her eyes, “—is dead.”
Minda gasped and grabbed the flower-covered chair so she didn't fall out of it. Her Norman Dale, dead? The handsome widower of thirty-nine who had promised her a new life?
“Yep, Miz Haynes.” His voice was dry as August dust. “I come all the way back home to stand up for my brother at his wedding, and instead I get to lower him into the ground. And it's all your fault.” Eyes as black as Pennsylvania coal bore into her. “You killed him, sure enough.”
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* * *
Chapter Two
“What?” The word came from her in a soundless puff.
“You heard me.” Of course she'd deny it, but it was her fault. Here he stood before her, hemmed in with a wife and kids. Freedom forever gone, his brother dead. Shaking his head at the turn of his life, he held back his feelings of chastisement against Norman Dale and turned his resentment to Minda. His brother had died trying to impress her, and her arrival made things worse.
Her face turned white as her veil, and he figured she was about to swoon. Cold water for her and a long hard swig for him sounded mighty good about now.
She shut her eyes tight and he looked away from them, away from those eyelashes lying on her cheeks like butterfly wings. He wanted to touch that cheek, reckoning it was even softer than it looked, and anger rose in his gut. He didn't need her, not one single bit. But even with the chitchat around them, he felt like they were the only two people in the world.
Just as he thought the words, she stood up angrily and pulled off the veil. She must've loosened her hair pins, too. Copper, silver, and gold tumbled past the sash around her waist. His fingers twitched, longing to touch the gleaming cascade.
Something more, something worse, tightened his manhood.
Her lips flapped same as a fish needing air, but still he longed to kiss them. He remembered their sweetness and warmth, like wild strawberries in spring sunshine. She took a deep breath, stared back at him and spoke.
“My fault? What can you possibly mean?”
As he straightened up beside her, the hot afternoon gusts whipped her hair across his cheeks. It smelled like roses. He grabbed the calm control that had gotten him out of many a stampede. Sure as hell he could wrangle one small woman.
“My brother's done nothing but work his fingers to the bone getting read
y for your arrival, Miz Haynes. In this ruthless heat. Two days ago, his heart plumb gave out.”
“But ... he claimed he was in the best of health.”
Brixton shrugged. “Doc Viessman said even a hale man can see his heart give up during overwork.” He looked away from Minda's wide eyes. “He lingered half a day.”
“Well, I am sorry for your loss. But I lost somebody, too.” Her voice rose. “Didn't you think to ask me? What on earth possessed you to imagine I'd want you?”
He shrugged again, not letting her words sting. It didn't matter at all, her not wanting him. Even if he figured she did, deep down. Her kiss had been timid, but real. But she did owe Norman Dale the honor of his last request. His brother had out and out planned for her future, a stranger in a strange town, in his dying moments.
“You ought to be grateful Norman Dale picked somebody to take care of you.”
“But ... it's...”
“It's the right thing to do.” He pushed her back down on the chair. “Calm down. Folks are watching. You traipsed hundreds of miles to wed up with a stranger. Don't matter which one of us now, does it?”
“This is unimaginable,” she muttered.
Brixton Haynes disliked her big uppity word, disliked her more and more. She was the reason for all his problems. He couldn't very well resent his own brother, but he damn sure could resent Minda. “Don't like it any better than you, but you owe it to my brother. It was his dying wish. You and I hitching together fixes everything.”
And it did. He liked Norman Dale's brood just fine, but had no idea what the hell to do with them. He knew all about calves, fillies, and johnny mules but not one damn thing about kids. His life in Texas gratified every inch of him. The open sky and endless miles. Hearth, home, and young'uns were the farthest things from his mind.
The rich rancher's daughter who'd betrayed him had taught him that lesson and taught him well. He shot Minda a hot, angry glance. She was worse. This one hadn't just broken a man's heart. She'd managed to stop it.
Yes, indeed. She owed Norman Dale. She owed Brix, too, as well as the kids. From the moment she stepped off that stage, she'd planned to take on a husband and family. And the kids sure as hell expected a new ma. This marriage was the answer. If she was smart as Norman Dale had claimed, she'd have sense enough to see it.
With nothing to worry about now, Brix would be back in Texas outside of a week's time. His trail boss was an impatient man.
“This fixes nothing, Mr. Haynes,” she stormed. “You've tricked me.”
“Reverend Satterburg himself and all these fine folks heard you promise to be my wife today,” he said.
“I did no such thing. Not exactly, I mean. Not you. I thought you were Norman Dale.” Then she nodded slowly. “Oh, I see. Even the preacher was in on it. That's why he didn't say our Christian names. Because if he'd said—what is your name anyway? I'd have refused on the spot. And what about—?” She waved her arms about the tables of people watching them from the corners of their eyes. “—all of these folks? They're all tricksters too? This whole town?"
“Most thought it a fine change of plan. Better than you come all this way and not find a husband.” He wouldn't mention the few that hadn't agreed. Truth was, he had expected them to protest during the ceremony. The schoolmaster, and Norman Dale's nearest neighbor, even the reverend's wife had been against it. But clearly, they'd changed their way of thinking.
“What a ridiculous notion. Well, Mr. Haynes, this is not at all why I came to Paradise. I had nothing to do with Norman Dale's death, and I don't owe him a thing. Dying wish, my foot. You and your preacher have committed serious sins of omission. I won't stand for this. I ... I...” She looked around, helpless-like, and turned from him.
“Where you going?”
“That's his grave over there?” She pointed to the fresh mound.
He nodded.
“I'm going to, how shall I put it? Pay my respects.” She stood up with her wedding bouquet and tossed him one last scowl.
Damn roses. That bouquet had cost his brother a small fortune.
“Hold up a minute,” he said to his wife, who halted and stared. “You forgot your bridal veil.”
As he rose, he leaned toward her, almost wishing he could kiss her again. He placed the veil back on her head, fluffed the edges around that lovely face. He couldn't help touching her cheek while he did so. His bride.
His fingers met her soft warm flesh, and she let them remain for a moment that was almost magical. Then both of them flinched at the same precise second.
* * * *
Minda could hardly breathe. The corset had suddenly gotten too rigid, and in the heat, her inexpressibles clung to her skin like wet paint. For an unseemly second, she imagined that warm calloused hand running across her body.
What on earth was happening? Her life in Gleesburg was over by choice, but this was not what she'd chosen in its stead. Not this man. And what had he, her husband, said about kids? Norman Dale had seen fit to mention only one, and a simple-minded one at that. Silly. At least she'd do what she could to prevent that horrid nickname.
Her husband? Shutting her eyes, she tried to hold the nightmare back. Mercy, she'd come to Paradise to have her dreams come true for a change.
Resolute, she nodded firm. Sadly, Norman Dale had passed on before his prime, but neither Haynes brother, living or dead, would get by with tricking her into raising more children. That was a thing of the past. She'd done her share.
As proud as she was of how well her younger sisters had turned out, now was her time. Of course, she'd agreed to tend Priscilla who, at fourteen, would be married off herself in just a few years’ time. And if she and Norman Dale had been blessed with children of their own, she would have raised them willingly, but out of love, not duty.
But Norman Dale wasn't here any more.
Likely she should feel some grief at his passing, but Norman Dale had been dishonest with her and deserved no tears. He and his scoundrel of a brother had made plans for the only life she would ever have without considering her thoughts and wishes. And now she had no money and nowhere else to go.
As she stomped over to Norman Dale's grave, she grumbled out an angry prayer and heard someone come up behind her. An idiotic disappointment simmered when it wasn't her husband.
Holding a baby in her arms, the yellow-haired young woman who'd decorated their chairs smiled shyly.
“I'm Gracey, the preacher's wife,” she said, eyes and voice soft. “What a tragedy, meeting Norman Dale the first time from beyond the grave.”
“Well, it appears he made other arrangements.” Minda tried to keep a sweet tone. This healthy, sun-kissed young woman seemed pleasant enough. Maybe they could be friends. Minda sent her a bright smile.
For a flash, Gracey's smile and golden hair reminded Minda of her youngest sister. She recalled the lovely Easter bonnet she'd made for Libby. The low-crowned straw “flat” topped with silk cornflowers and tied with blue satin would sit just as fine atop Gracey's braids, the wide brim an umbrella against the bright Nebraska sun. The poor dear needed a new hat badly.
“This is little Silly,” Gracey said, with shy but troubled eyes. “Jake—the reverend—is yonder, dishing up for the rest.”
Silly? Priscilla? Minda's smile vanished. “Little Silly” was an infant? So that's why she was content with a full belly and clean britches. And the rest? Her husband had mentioned other kids, too. Just how many more were there? Her eyes narrowed.
What other lies had Norman Dale told her?
“Now, sugarplum,” Gracey crooned, “it seems this nice lady's your new ma, and your uncle Brixton's your new pa.”
Brixton. So that was her scoundrel-husband's name. As furious as she was, she liked the silent ripple his name made against her tongue. But new ma? New pa? Things would need to change and quick.
The baby was beyond precious, but Minda didn't dare humiliate herself by inquiring about the rest. She'd seem a simpleton, expecting one nearly-
grown girl when there was a slew of little ones underfoot. No one would insult a dead man by believing he'd lied to her.
“There's been a lot to think about on this day, Gracey,” Minda said instead.
“Truth to tell, Brix's a fine man to take you on.”
Minda harrumphed to herself and tossed the wedding bouquet on the grave. She caught the scent of her husband—Brixton—before she heard his footsteps. In spite of the heat, he smelled wonderful, clean and outdoorsy both.
He nodded at them. “Afternoon, Gracey. Miz Haynes, you sure look like you could use a long tall drink...”
“Why, how dare you, Mr. Haynes?” Minda said with an aggrieved sputter. “I need no such thing!”
“Of lemonade,” he finished.
She hoped the big trees hid her blush. “Of course.”
For a moment, Brixton Haynes stood tall as a tree and still as a pond like he had something more to say. Then Gracey thrust Priscilla in Brixton's stiff arms. He acted like the baby burned him, and Minda hid a smile.
The child wore a beautiful white linsey dress trimmed with tatted lace, pin tucks, and delicate satin ribbons. Her tiny black leather boots gleamed. Minda knew quality. It was indeed the proper outfit for the daughter of a successful farmer. About thirteen, fourteen months of age, she guessed, stifling new ire against the dead man.
This girl was supposed to be fourteen years old.
“Silly,” Gracey cooed, “Uncle Brix's your new pa.”
In the hot wind, tree branches rasped against each other like ripping silk. A meadowlark sang, but to Minda, it sounded like squawking. New pa? Minda snuck a peek at Brixton.
Her husband moved his face awkwardly from the searching fingers of the baby's left hand. Priscilla's dark eyes matched her uncle's, and curls as black as his tufted her little skull. It was a charming sight, until Minda reminded herself just how this man had tricked her.
Just then, Priscilla squirmed and stretched restlessly, knocking Brixton's big-brimmed black hat to the mercy of the wind.
“Damn!”
Gracey's eyes widened in horror, and little Silly's face crinkled with oncoming tears.
