by Tanya Hanson
Instantly, Minda took the baby from him and soothed the chubby face into a bright pink smile. Priscilla laughed outright as she grabbed a lock of Minda's loosened hair.
Minda couldn't resist kissing the tiny hand, then turned to Brixton as he bent to retrieve his hat.
“Watch your mouth, Mr. Haynes. Even little ones have ears.”
“Don't you tell me what to do,” he growled, but conceded, “I do beg pardon, ladies.”
She tried to return the glower he gave her on his way back to standing upright, tried to ignore her confusion, the unsuitable attraction for a husband she hadn't chosen. At least he returned her scowl. She needed a firm reason to forget that gentle touch upon her cheek. Sighing, Minda wanted Gracey to leave. Then she and Brixton could discuss the outrageous situation in which they found themselves.
In which she found herself, that is. He'd plotted it all along, all the while blaming her for his brother's death.
His accusations pounded again in her mind and she frowned at the unfairness. In front of them, Gracey's shoes shifted under her pink calico skirts, somewhat awkwardly, like she didn't really want to leave. “Um ... Minda? Brix?”
The reverend's wife looked down at her toes for another moment.
“Yes, Gracey? What is it?” Minda said.
“Well, Brix, you always said you're no family man. And you two being newlyweds, well, it'd be hard taking on a baby right away. Jake and I, well, we'd like to take little Silly home. Raise her as our own.” She glanced at Minda, and just as quickly, looked away. Sadness softened her words. “Our baby girl, Ruthie, why, she became an angel last fall from that scarlet fever. We miss her something awful.”
Minda felt a stab in her heart as Gracey's eyes filled with tears.
“Just Silly?” Brixton said. “Not the others?”
“With our own three boys, we got no room for more than a baby, Brix. You know that already.” Gracey looked away. “Much as I love ‘em all, other folks will take ‘em off your hands. There's already talk.”
“I heard some talk, but it don't seem right, Grace. You know my brother would never stand for it.” Brixton straightened, taller than ever.
“Well, he's dead and gone. But you and Minda might as well think about it. Less things to worry about.”
“Children aren't things, Gracey,” Brixton said, his voice a growl, “and it won't happen.”
Without saying another word, Gracey grabbed little Priscilla from Minda's arms, held her tight, and ran off.
Take Priscilla from her siblings? An old pain filled Minda's heart. She had spent her girlhood keeping her sisters together. Whatever Minda had expected, it hadn't been the break-up of a family. She peered at her husband who stood grim and stalwart, his jaw clenched, staring at Norman Dale's grave. Not a family man? He'd come all the way home for a wedding? Come from where? Who and what was he?
He must have borrowed that poor-fitting coat. Any decent man possessed his own Sunday best. And that vest of many pockets. Hmm. He probably had a Peacemaker or other weapon hidden inside, and a flask of whiskey, too. She'd read a dime novel on the long train ride.
A bounty hunter? Or ... her eyes narrowed. Or worse, an outlaw. How could any feeling person leave a man like that in charge of innocent children?
Once again she heard her mama's dying request that Minda keep her sisters all together, under one roof, no matter what the cost. At not quite fourteen, she'd taken the commitment to heart. Of course it had been difficult, sometimes downright backbreaking, but she had learned first-hand what family meant.
But this wasn't her family, was it? Not if she'd been tricked into it.
“Who are the others, Brixton?” It was the first time she said his name aloud.
“Katie and Neddie-boy. And you can call me Brix. Little Paul's over there.” His voice slowed as he pointed near Norman Dale's grave. “Asleep in his ma's arms. Six years old he was. They both died from the scarlet fever last fall.” His gravel voice softened. “I best see to some gravestones now. My brother didn't get to it.”
Minda held her hand against her throbbing throat. Both parents dead, and a small brother, too. The surviving youngsters had suffered terrible loss, and their hurts seeped into her. The wind moved eerily through the cottonwoods.
“Your brother never mentioned them,” she said, lips stiff with shock. She grabbed handfuls of her white silken skirts to keep them from brushing into Norman Dale's dirt.
“Letter must have gone astray.” Her husband shrugged.
“He sent six letters, and I received and answered every one. He kept the children from me on purpose, didn't he? Why might he do that, Brixton?” Minda knew why, in her heart and in her brain. She'd made it clear she was done with child-rearing.
Brixton's eyebrows rose. “I claim you misunderstood him.”
“Balderdash. I can read just fine.”
“The kids are right over there.” He pointed toward the tables where Gracey Satterburg tended to them.
Minda's mouth dropped open. Norman Dale hadn't left a teenaged daughter to care for the little ones. His oldest—what was her name, Katie?—looked no more than ten. Raising younger siblings was an impossible task for such a little girl.
She closed her eyes, but it didn't matter. Inside her head, the faces of Norman Dale's children hung like a wall of portraits. Six helpless eyes watched while grown-ups ransacked their lives.
“Let's go greet our guests.” Brixton took her arm, stiff and polite. Even still, her skin sizzled at his touch.
Minda didn't move. She'd married off all three sisters in the last two years, Mattie just in April, and she knew well what was expected. A bridal couple mingled. The bride giggled amid secret sniggers about the night ahead. The bridegroom swaggered at the delights to come. They danced, cheek to cheek.
Her heart thundered.
“They're not wedding guests,” she said, as nerves jumped across her skin like summer bugs. “They came here for a funeral.”
“Truth to tell, the funeral today saved them two trips. Folks have been planning to make merry today at a Haynes wedding for nigh onto three months.”
“Norman Dale's funeral and wedding. None of this is for me.”
“Oh, it's for you, all right, Miz Haynes. You signed that register fair and square.”
And she had. Glumly, she wondered if he figured that entitled him to a wedding night. He might consider himself her husband, and he might make her heart pitter, but if he had such a thought, he had half a minute to think something else. Despite the riots in her heart.
He must have read her mind. “Save your worry, Miz Haynes. You get Norman Dale's bed all to yourself. I sleep outside. Too crowded inside with that litter of whelps. Now get some food inside you. There's nothing much back at the homestead.”
“Homestead? There's no room and no food at Norman Dale's fine white farmhouse?”
Brixton squinted at her, forehead furrowing like a plowed field. But he said nothing.
“All right, Mr. Haynes.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Before we greet our guests, I want some straight talk.”
* * * *
Fine white farmhouse?
Brixton Haynes's fingers tied up into knots. Was that whitewash one of her mail-order demands? Or ... his squint narrowed even more than the years in the sun on the trail.
Or was she believing another of his brother's lies?
“My brother built Ida Louise a wood house a while back,” Brixton said in a flat voice, “a fine one for hereabouts. And I helped. Some folks live in soddies and dugouts.” Even still, he'd seen fine wooden homes in San Antone and Denver, and Norman Dale's sure wasn't one.
“But there's no room for you?”
“My choice. I like life under the stars. My brother was the homesteader, not me. I was going on eleven when he claimed his quarter section in ‘62. President Lincoln's Homestead Act, you may recall. I helped Norman Dale carve a farm from one-hundred sixty acres of bluestem and prairie grass. It's a right fine p
lace.”
But at seventeen, Brixton had accepted the call to ride the cattle trails and never looked back. Still, not even ten years of cow towns and trail dust had rubbed manners completely from his bones. As he clicked his heels together, he offered Minda his arm, intending to act like a true bridegroom. Damn, what he wouldn't do for the brother who'd raised him.
His skin twitched with downright pleasure beneath the cloth of Norman Dale's coat when she touched him. He hated the feeling, and hated himself more.
“Hurry up,” he said into her bright blue eyes.
The eyes turned hard. “Perhaps I need to let you know, Mr. Haynes, that you do not tell me what to do.”
“Well, Miz Haynes. As for this wedding of ours, would you be happier today wailing at Norman Dale's grave? Leastways now you got what you come here for, a husband and a home.”
“Not the husband I came for.” Her voice shook.
“Well, no worry. I won't be around.” Across his shoulders, his brother's second-best coat pinched his muscles, trapped the clammy air against his skin. His flask pressed hard against his heart. Damn, he'd been itching for a swig all day, more than ever since Minda arrived. If things had gone right, he'd be off carousing with his boyhood chums about now, planning a shivaree and certain amounts of mischief upon Norman Dale's person.
Norman Dale who hadn't lived long enough to love his beautiful bride. As if losing little Paul and his sweet sister-in-law hadn't been enough, Brixton's gut churned with another gush of grief for his brother. Minda's eyes widened and he saw himself in them.
“You won't be around? Why, you intend for me to rear those children by myself?”
“Come on, Miz Haynes.” Brixton frowned with a guilty peek at the grave. Norman Dale had explained how she'd tended three sisters from childhood to bride. Hell, that was the main reason he picked her. “You took to Silly like a cocklebur to a wool sock.”
And he'd seen it for himself. Her reaching for Silly like that, stopping the tears. Getting her to smile, kissing the tiny hand. Not minding that pulled hair a bit. “You know how to tend a little one. You even chided me for cussing.”
“This isn't fair, Mr. Haynes.”
“My brother was right, holding me to such a pledge. The kids belong together.” And now Minda was responsible for all of them. He had no time to spare nurse-maiding a clutch of hatchlings.
He'd ride half a day in muck and rain to rescue a calf stuck in a creek bed, he'd give up his last drop of water to a sick filly, but kids were another whole species. Long ago, his own pa had run off, leaving him and his brother abandoned and alone. Fatherhood wasn't part of his nature. But motherhood sure was in Minda's. A blind man could see that.
Her mouth hung open like she either had no words or no air. It was that mouth he'd tasted after she promised to be his wife. He wanted it. He wanted her. He couldn't help it. So it was good he was leaving.
“And you'll have help,” he said. “I got enough cash money saved to hire hands. They'll harvest the last of the wheat and tend the corn.”
“Why, where will you be?” Her face had turned white again, lips moving like she was recalling other things he'd said to her. He figured he knew the trail of her thoughts.
“Ah, I get it, Miz Haynes. You think I'm something of an outlaw or stage robber, don't you, because I can't hang around. Not so. I just happen to like dirt under my horse's hooves better than dirt under my fingernails. I ride point along the Goodnight.”
“But that's ... that's Texas.”
Brixton nodded, lips firm and silent. In three days time, he'd set out for Kansas, meet up with the trail boss and other drovers at the railhead town of Ellsworth. Then they'd all head back to Butter Creek to start the next drive. “Yep. That's my job. It's what I do and who I am. But I'll send you my salary. Much as I can, that is.”
He owed his brother that. But it wouldn't be much, not at first, not until he took care of Norman Dale's debts.
“Come on,” he said in a bit nicer voice. “Let's go greet the kids.”
They walked over to the tables.
At least she acted polite and friendly. He held his breath for a while, waiting to see if she'd make a ruckus. But she crouched gently next to Katie and Neddie-boy. And watched Gracey's face grow red and mad. Hmm. Now he knew why she'd threatened to complain when her husband asked the congregation.
She must want Silly bad.
Five years old, Ned looked up at Minda with big eyes like blueberries growing ripe in the sun. Katie fingered the wedding veil, and Minda took it from her head and handed it to his little niece.
“I think I see a piece of chocolate cake over there that's waiting for a nice big boy like you,” she told Neddie.
Neddie's eyes turned soft with tears. “Miss Gracey says I don't get more.”
At that, Minda give Gracey a long measuring glare, and a stir of pride niggled in Brixton.
“Well, Neddie, of course you can have another piece,” Minda said. “I say so.”
“Are you my new mama?” the little boy asked.
Brixton Haynes watched his wife's throat muscles catch beneath the lace at her neck.
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* * *
Chapter Three
“How far to the farm?” Minda asked warily. Her wedding day was over, and all her dreams had died along with Norman Dale. Staring her in the face was a wedding night unlike the one she'd longed for with a loving bridegroom. And she had no choice but to go to the homestead with a husband who found her so unattractive he'd sleep elsewhere.
And not just any elsewhere. Outdoors with the chickens.
“Not far,” he said, as he guided the buckboard over a rickety bridge. In the twilight, fireflies danced along the banks of the Loup River below.
She managed a quick peek at him underneath the brim of the bonnet she'd made herself in the high-crowned French style. Before leaving town, she'd shed her wedding finery and now wore an everyday calico dress.
Gazing at his strong profile, she saw a man to be reckoned with, a man who kept his word, a man who was accustomed to getting his way, even through trickery. Wouldn't a man like that demand his husbandly rights no matter what? And would the bride of such a powerful man really want to sleep alone? After all, at first sight of him, she'd accepted that he'd be a mail-order husband easy to love.
Except, she reminded herself, he wasn't her mail-order husband at all. Anger flared again at his tricking her. Truth to tell, Brixton had made it clear he didn't want any kind of life with her. She had to find a way out.
“We'll get there soon enough. And by the way, Miz Haynes—” Brix's eyes narrowed. “I resent the insult of my bride choosing to sleep her wedding night alone in that boardinghouse. I already told you I sleep outside. Did you really think I'd pay for your lodging?”
“It was a good idea, and you know it,” Minda said, not revealing that she'd intended to bribe a room with a pretty black velvet cap she'd not yet worn. Ladies back home had quickly taken to her modernized version of the old Huntley style.
“Well, I won't lose face in front of this town. At least the boardinghouse is booked solid with wedding guests tonight.”
A little smile of victory twitched around her husband's mouth.
Without meaning to, she remembered kissing that mouth and hoped the dusk hid her blush. He'd promised her a room at the homestead to herself, but would he comply? Her heart fluttered at the thought of lying beside him in bed. After all, they were legally wed. But it wasn't a true wedding at all.
“Besides, it's no wedding night,” she said, her voice terse but soft, so as not to wake the children napping in the wagon bed. “All I am is a nursemaid. Because you tricked me.”
“You owe my brother.”
“Don't start that. I had nothing to do with his death. Why, he might have keeled over last Tuesday whether he planned to remarry or not. You can't know.”
He bent his face toward her and glared at her beneath his black Stetson. “It's a fac
t he died getting ready for you. His heart didn't give out getting dressed for a barn dance. And like I say, you owe him. You owe me. And the kids.”
“Yes, Mr. Haynes,” she said wearily, “and I have agreed. Of course, I'll hire my care of the children to pay back the travel expenses Norman Dale sent me. But you'll have to make other arrangements after that. I think a quiet annulment might be possible.” The last sentence caught in her throat as she blinked away unexpected tears. She'd come for a home and husband.
Just not this one. But in the meantime, she had nowhere else to go and no money to get there anyway. He'd have to do for now.
For better or for worse.
“Not so fast, Miz Haynes. That isn't all Norman Dale spent on you. The whitewash, the rose bushes. Those fancy new duds for the kids. He had that bouquet of yours sent all the way from Monroe. And that was a brand new wedding suit he was buried in.” Brixton Haynes stopped at a crossroads and raised his eyebrows at her in the last ray of setting sun. A wagon more decrepit than their own passed by, and surprisingly, the couple inside didn't wave or call a hello.
“Mr. Haynes, none of those decisions were mine. By the way, who are those snoots?” Minda pointed at the unfriendly people. Since most folks today had greeted her with honest welcome, she was rightfully confused, even a little hurt.
“That's Tom Holden and his woman, but don't change the subject on me.” Brixton threw her a warning look, and his voice turned low and harsh. “You weren't here for my brother's laying out, now, were you? You weren't there when he breathed his last. Were you?”
“No.” Minda swallowed hard. Grief rimmed his dark deep-set eyes. For an instant, she wished he were her true husband and she could have a night of his love and give him the comfort he craved.
Then she fought the unruly thought, and blame assailed her. She ought to be mourning Norman Dale. Not for a second did she believe she'd caused his death, but some guilt couldn't help rankle. No matter his frauds, he had died getting ready for her.
And she and Brixton Haynes certainly didn't belong together. He might have thrilled her heart at first sight of him in the dusty street, but their marriage was a complete sham. Her marriage to Norman Dale had been carefully planned, but not this masquerade.
