by Kit Morgan
But she was, and he was, ‘til death do they part. He’d taken his vows seriously, even if she hadn’t. His heart sank at that thought. What if she didn’t take them seriously? What if to her they were nothing but empty words? Actually … if that was what she thought, it might be for the best. She could walk away and find some rich guy who’d pamper her like she was used to, and he could take another crack at finding a wife who appreciated him …
He rolled his eyes at his own stupidity as he entered the barn. He’d have to think this through. She obviously didn’t want to be here, and if she was going to make his life miserable, he didn’t want her there either. But could she settle in? She might surprise him and turn out to be the sweet, loving wife he’d hoped and prayed for. Maybe he should’ve spent more time talking with the good Lord about the details when he’d asked for a wife. He had a suspicion he’d be speaking with Him a lot more now that he had this one.
Forrest filled a pail with feed, went to the pens behind the barn and greeted his livestock. “Miss me?”
His hogs snorted and grunted in response. He looked them over with pride. They were huge, the envy of several of his neighbors. John Capshaw, the nearest (he was only five miles away), was already champing at the bit for Forrest’s new batch of piglets once they came along.
He carefully entered the pen and inspected Aphrodite. She was due anytime, and he expected ten to twelve piglets. Half he’d keep for himself, the other half he’d sell, with Capshaw getting first crack – he’d promised him that. Normally he’d wait until they were older to part with them, but he needed the money for his next trip to town on July 4th.
He glanced back again at his house. His new wife might be ready to jump on the first stage out of town by then. The question was, should he let her?
Effie glanced between the potatoes and her husband’s pocket knife. She’d never peeled a vegetable in her life. Maybe if she busied herself long enough putting away the other supplies, her dear husband would return and handle the potatoes. If she were really lucky, he’d handle dinner too.
She went to the hutch and began to rifle through the drawers and cupboards. Dishes were stored in the top portion, various other items below, including the storage jars he’d told her about. She took them out and, after shoving some of the sacks of goods out of the way, set them on the table and opened each one to see what was inside.
Two of them contained some sort of white granular substance. She looked more closely. “Sugar. That has to be sugar.” She licked a fingertip and dabbed it in the jar, pulled it out and licked it again. “Right, that’s one down.” The other was probably salt, then, which a taste test confirmed.
She set those two aside and began opening the larger sacks. She used the knife and slit a hole at the top of one, then did the same with the others until she found the sugar and salt. Once she filled those jars, she tried sealing the sacks back up as best she could. “Hmmm, this isn’t going to be as easy as opening them.” She returned to the hutch, found some string and tied each sack closed, feeling proud of her accomplishment.
She took a moment to study her new home, and her heart sank. She’d left a spacious New York home for a one- … she noticed the door off to one side of the fireplace … make that a two-room cabin. She wondered if Della and her cousins had fared any better. What about her own siblings? She was the first to leave, with Della scheduled to go just a few days after. She’d been so upset, she couldn’t even remember where her sisters or cousins were going, and all Fanny had cared about was that they went.
“Fanny.” Effie spoke the name as if it were the vilest curse – in her life, it certainly had been. “I’ll get you for this.” But she’d expected no less from Fanny; that her father had let Fanny do it was what upset her. Granted, he could hardly afford to feed his daughters at this point, and had tried to convince them that this was their best chance for survival. But still, to let his wife just ship them off like so many parcels was so unlike him.
At least she knew Fanny was no better off than she was. Worse, if anything – she was having to share a flat smaller than this cabin. She just wished her father didn’t have to suffer along with her.
She sighed as her eyes wandered to the door near the fireplace. Curious, she crossed the room, opened it … and gasped at what she saw – and smelled – inside. “Ewww.” She waved a hand in front of her face.
“You can do the laundry tomorrow,” Forrest said behind her, making her jump.
She spun and tried to move past him, but he stopped her. “Let me go.”
“No. Ain’t gonna do that.” He turned her around to face the bedroom again. “This here is our room. I imagine you’ll wanna spend some time in it, fixing it up.”
“Fixing it up?”
“Make it how you like it. Women usually wanna do that sort of thing.”
“Maybe you should burn this place down and start over.”
Now he spun her around to face him. “Look, I know it ain’t much compared to where you come from, but out here, it’s a lot, see.”
“No, I don’t see.”
He sighed. “Missy, right now you’re standing on one hundred and sixty acres of prime grazing land. A quarter of a square mile – how much would that be worth in New York City? And I didn’t inherit it from my daddy – I worked for it, every inch.”
That stopped her cold. She tried to imagine what a quarter-mile plot might cost in Manhattan – why, that would be a tough purchase for a Morgan or a Rockefeller! Forrest Lang was rich – just not in the way she was used to. Yes, he wanted her to work and work hard, but he obviously wasn’t afraid to do so himself.
More gently, he turned her around to face the bedroom again, leaned her against his chest and pointed at the bed. “That quilt needs mending. My mother made it – it’s all I have left of her. You’ll patch it up right … once ya learn to sew, that is.” He pointed at the dresser. “I made that myself. The chair and the bedstead too.”
She tried to study his handiwork, but the sensation of being against a man’s body was doing odd things to her. She’d never been this close to one before. “You’re … very handy.”
“Made every stick of furniture in this house,” he said, his voice softer.
Effie could feel his heart beating against the back of her head. His large hands rested on her shoulders, and she found she enjoyed the feel of them, the warmth.
He let her go, stepped back and turned to the dining table. “You ain’t peeled one potato.”
She came alongside him. “No, I … put some of the supplies away first.”
He glanced sideways at her. “Thank you.”
“I filled the sugar and salt jars in the hutch and tied the sacks up with string.”
“Much obliged. I’d have done the same.”
Without thinking, she smiled. Why, she didn’t know.
“I still have more work to do. Think you can handle supper?”
“What?!” she asked in shock. “Me?”
“Simple enough to peel ‘taters, cut ‘em up, put ‘em in a frying pan …” he stopped as he saw her horrified expression. “I’ll start a fire in the cook stove, then you can get started. I’ll fetch some bacon too.”
Effie was finding it hard to breathe. For Heaven’s sake, they were potatoes, not cobras! But the realization of how little she knew was slowly sinking in. What if this man decided he didn’t want her, that she was useless to him? Then again, that might not be such a bad thing. But where would she go, without a penny to her name or a single skill that would land her a job?
She watched as he expertly got a fire going in the stove. “That’ll be hot enough in no time.” He smiled. “Be right back.” He left the cabin.
Effie went to the dining table and stared at the bowl of potatoes. Never in her wildest dreams did she think she’d fear a vegetable, yet here she was. “I might as well get on with it,” she grumbled. She sat down, picked up the knife, reached for a potato and hoped for the best.
Chapter 4
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By the time Forrest returned with the bacon, his new little bride had cut up half of the potatoes and one of her fingers. “Effie, are you all right?” He saw the blood dripping down her hand. Maybe she’d cut open several. This was bad – he’d have to try and patch her up himself.
She stood up, her face white as a sheet, blinked at him a few times, then dropped like a stone.
“Effie!” he yelled as he fell to his knees beside her. Probably couldn’t stand the sight of blood, poor thing. Maybe it was just as well she’d fainted. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and tied it around her hand, then ran outside to the pump for some water.
When he came back inside with a small bucket, she was still out. He knelt again, removed the bloodied cloth and tried to assess the damage. Thankfully she’d only cut one finger open, but it was a nasty wound all the same. He dipped the handkerchief into the water, wrung it out, then cleaned the digit as best he could. Problem was, he couldn’t get it to stop bleeding. “I was afraid of this,” he said to himself.
“Mr. Lang?” she spoke weakly.
“Effie, you cut your finger pretty bad, sweetheart. I’m afraid I’m gonna hafta stitch it up.”
Her eyes rounded to platters. “Stitch it up?”
“I’ve done it before and I know what I’m doing. But I won’t lie – it’s gonna hurt.”
She tried to pull her hand from his. “Don’t touch me! Let me go!”
He held fast. “Afraid I cain’t do that. Now hold still.”
She tried to sit up, still pulling away. “Take me to a doctor then!”
“Nearest doctor’s in Baker City. Out here we’re on our own. How do you think I learned to stitch up wounds?”
Her face went white again, and he almost hoped she’d faint – at least then she wouldn’t resist. But she was made of sterner stuff than that. “You mean you’ve stitched yourself up?” she asked in wonder.
“You do what you hafta do,” he said calmly. “And I hafta make sure you don’t bleed out all over the floor.” Taking a chance, he removed the kerchief and let her see the damage. Sure enough, she took one look, her eyes rolled back in her head, and down she went.
Forrest caught her head before it hit the ground and settled her, then went to a small cupboard he’d built into the wall on the other side of the cookstove, pulled out what he needed and returned. She was passed out – good. He poured some whiskey over her wound to cleanse it, threaded the needle, struck a match and waved the needle through the flame a few times, just as Doc McBride in town had shown him over a year ago. A good thing, too – he’d had to stitch himself up several times since. He set to work, figuring three, maybe four stitches ought to do the trick.
Unfortunately, his wife decided to come to and noticed the needle and thread. “What are you doing?!” she squealed.
“Taking care of you.” He reached for the whiskey bottle. “Drink some of this.”
“I will not!”
“Suit yourself. But it’ll help once I start.” He set it on the floor next to her.
“Start?” she yelped, then glanced at her bleeding finger. “Ohhhh …” she moaned.
“I ain’t no drinking man, but I keep a bottle around for emergencies, and this is one. So unless you want to feel everything …”
She swallowed hard, as if realizing the true situation. “Fine.” She grabbed the bottle and took a swig, grimacing as she did. She coughed and sputtered a few times and kept making faces.
“Take another – that should be enough.”
She looked at her finger again, noticed the blood still oozing through the handkerchief and took another swallow.
“Good,” he said. “Now close your eyes.”
She did as she was told, and surprisingly didn’t make a sound as Forrest put in the first stitch in shock. She just lay there, though her face twisted in agony, her mouth clamped shut. She did cry out on the second one, though. “Stop, stop! Can we take a break?”
“Not if you want this done.” He glanced around, spied the potatoes on the table and grabbed a peeled one. “Here, bite on this.”
She stared at the vegetable like it was an instrument of torture. “I will not!”
“Would you rather risk biting your own tongue?”
She gave that some thought, then took the potato and stuck one end of it in her mouth.
Forrest went back to stitching, his eyes flicking to her face now and then to check her expressions. She screamed a few times, the sound muffled by the potato. “Be still, woman – it’s just a finger. I ain’t amputating your hand.”
She glared at him but nodded and went quiet, watching him work with tears in her eyes.
After five stitches, he bit off the thread and poured more whiskey over the wound, ignoring her muffled screams. He tossed the needle onto the table and pulled his whimpering wife up into his arms. “You can spit out the potato now, sweetheart.”
“Mmm-phhhff!”
“What was that?”
“Mmph! Phmmmf!”
Forrest pulled back to look at her. “Don’t tell me it’s stuck?” Then again, if she bit into it hard enough, it might be.
She nodded, tears running down her cheeks. “Mm-hmm.”
Forrest couldn’t help but chuckle. “You poor thing …” He looked her over and brushed stray wisps of hair off her face. He liked the feel of her in his arms – she was soft and curved in all the right places. If it weren’t for the potato, he’d be tempted to steal a kiss … or was it really stealing a kiss when you were married to the woman? “You ain’t gonna give me reason to stick that back in once I get it out, are you?”
She growled and glared at him as best she could, then shook her head.
“Good.” He studied her mouth and jaw. “You’re gonna have to relax for this to work. Either that or bite clean through.”
She shook her head again, and no wonder – it was a pretty large potato.
Forrest thought a moment, then reached up and began to gently massage her jaw just below the ear. He gazed into her eyes as he continued his ministrations. “Just relax for me, sweetheart, and we can get supper out of your mouth.”
Her eyes widened, her eyebrows shot up, and an odd, strangled sound escaped. It took him a moment to realize she was laughing. Good.
He held her closer and continued to massage her jaw, thinking he’d better get that tuber out of her mouth and quick – it was having more fun than he was. “Try to open your mouth and pull your teeth out,” he said as he started to work the potato free.
After a few seconds it popped loose. “Blech!” was her first clear word.
He smiled. “I bet you’ll never look at potatoes the same again.” Neither would he, for that matter.
She wiped her hand across her mouth. “That was horrible!”
“Usually I use a stick of wood, but if you bite through one of those it’s even worse. Splinters, you know.”
She grimaced at that thought, then began moving her jaw around. “I cramped up.”
“I figured.” He reached up and brushed some foam from the corner of her mouth. “Would you like some water?”
“Please!”
Forrest found it hard to release her and battled over whether to fetch her a drink or kiss her. Instead he settled for asking, “Are you all right?”
“You just stitched up my finger with a needle and thread and I almost choked on a potato.” She managed a smile. “But yes, thanks to you, I am all right.”
Effie wondered if the whiskey he’d made her drink was having an adverse effect on her. Her skin tingled where he’d touched her jaw and face, as if his fingers were still caressing her. But no, he was back to giving her that blank, all-business look of his. “Can you stand?”
Her eyes met his. “Yes, I think so. I didn’t cut my legs, you know.”
“Thank Heaven for that. You might’ve bled out before I could save you.”
“Bled out?” Her eyes went wide. “You mean … died?”
“It can ea
sily happen if you’re not careful – I’ve had a couple close calls. That’s why I asked the doc in town to teach me a thing or two about doctoring in case it ever happened again.”
“And has it?”
“A few times. This time, though, it happened to you.”
Effie fidgeted in his arms. They were so close, she suddenly felt shy.
He released her, stood and offered her a hand. She gave him her uninjured one, and he pulled her to her feet. “Thank you.”
He nodded as he looked her over. “You’re a mighty fine-looking woman, Effie.”
She met his gaze, and for the first time realized he’d been using her first name. “Thank you … um, Forrest.” She studied him in turn. He was a wild-looking man – tall, broad and obviously no stranger to hard work. His brown hair was streaked with gold, his eyes flecked with it. She’d never seen a man whose hair and eyes matched so perfectly before. His stubbly jaw also held hints of gold here and there. She wondered what he’d look like once he shaved.
In fact, she began to wonder what he’d look like in a cutaway tuxedo, with his collar-length hair combed back … no, that was never meant to be. You’d never find Forrest Lang at Delmonico’s or the Ritz-Carlton. Not that he didn’t have gentlemanly qualities, but she instinctively knew he’d have little interest in the Manhattan social scene. This man was like a wild horse – he belonged in the great wide open …
“Effie?”
“Oh!” she said, startled out of her musing. “I’m sorry, I was …”
“You’re tired and hungry. I’ll see to our meal.” He put his hands on her upper arms and looked at her in concern. “You just watch what I do, so you’ll know for later. And let me know if you ain’t feeling well over the next few days. We can’t risk that finger getting infected and you coming down with a fever.”
She gazed up at him, absorbing how handsome he was, and nodded, unable to speak.
“Good. I wouldn’t want to have to cut it off.”
Effie paled and almost fainted again, but managed to fall into the nearest chair instead.
