Wildflower

by Lynda Bailey

  His expression stayed hard. “You heard me. I need for you to marry Cartwright.”

  The fever had to be making her father delirious. It was the only answer. Never in her wildest dreams could she have anticipated this. He wanted her to marry Logan? Prickly raindrops coated her stomach. “But I’m going to Kansas City after the drive in June. You said I could, remember?”

  His gaze flicked away, his shoulders slumping slightly. He looked very old and very tired. “I remember.”

  “Then I can’t marry Logan.”

  The normal severity blanketed his features in a flash. It was like she’d imagine the brief show of weakness. “You’ll do as you’re told, girl.”

  “No.” The word burst off her tongue before she could stop it.

  His eyebrows shot up before bowing together in a vicious glare. “What’d you say?”

  Her face flushed. Never before had she disobeyed her father. Determination notched up her chin. Now seemed as a good time as any to start. “I won’t marry Logan Cartwright and you can’t force me. I’m nineteen and can decide for myself what I want to do. And I want to go to Kansas City.”

  “How you reckon to get there?”

  Her posture wilted a bit. “I’ll manage.” She wished she sounded more confident.

  “Why are you being so cussed stubborn, girl?” He wheezed harder with each word. “Why can you just do as you’re told? Logan’ll take care of you.”

  She scoffed. “Since when do I need to be taken care of?”

  “Since I’m gonna die,” he rifled back.

  The statement slammed into her. All the air left her lungs in a strangled gasp. “Truly?”

  He pulled in a rattling breath, his shoulders sagging again. “Truly.”

  She ducked her head and stared at the floorboards, fighting the unexpected rush of tears in her eyes.

  Her father, dying? How was that possible? Her father was invincible, able to do anything. He couldn’t die.

  “How—” She coughed the sob from her throat. “How long?”

  “Doc says my lungs are fillin’ up fast. Could be any time.”

  She didn’t look up. A tear dribbled down her nose and splattered to the floor between her boot tips. “Doc’s sure?”

  “Yeah, he’s sure.”

  “But everyone else has gotten better.”

  “Everyone else ain’t as old as me.”

  “Doc might be wrong.”

  “He ain’t wrong, girl.”

  No, she supposed he wasn’t. More tears gathered at the end of her nose and she hastily swiped them away with the back of her hand. “Logan agreed to marry me?”

  “He did.”

  Inhaling a breath, she lifted her head to look at her father. With luck, the dim lighting would mask her tears. “Why?”

  Wizened eyebrows snapped together. “Why what?”

  “Why’d Logan agree to marry me?”

  Her father shifted his gaze from hers. “Because the ranch is your dowry.”

  Matt nodded. She’d expected as much. Maybe she should feel wounded Pa was bartering away her home. As it was, she only felt relief that the ranch would be cared for. Logan had talked about heading to the Dakotas after the cattle drive. Now he wouldn’t have to go anywhere. She was glad for that. She stuffed her hands into her pockets. “This changes nothing. I can still leave.”

  Her father’s mouth pulled tight. “Stop being mule-headed. Can’t you see I’m looking out for what’s best for you? Cartwright’s a damn fine man.”

  Matt switched her gaze back to the floor, her mind churning. She knew just how fine a man Logan was ever since that summer he arrived at the Standing T and she’d accidently caught him skinny dipping in the pasture pond. She’d hidden behind a clump of berry bushes, watching his body, honed from years of hard work and sitting in a saddle, rip through the water with easy grace and power.

  And then he’d gotten out of the water. Her skin still burned hot at the memory. She should’ve looked away, but couldn’t. Not even when she saw his manhood nestled in a thatch of darker blond hair…

  Matt wanted to slap herself. None of that matter now. Not the odd twinges low in her belly or the nights she’d laid awake yearning for something she couldn’t name. Though Logan had always been kind to her—unlike the other ranch hands, never mind her pa was their boss—that didn’t mean anything past him being kind. Her fancying him was just an infatuation born from a fantasy.

  Early in her life, she understood she wasn’t the kind of woman a cowboy would want as a wife. Cowboys preferred soft-spoken, pretty women. She was neither soft-spoken nor pretty.

  And Logan wanted to stay on the prairie. Not her. She’d dreamed of going to Kansas City long before Logan Cartwright showed up. She wanted to discover if all the adventures she’d read about in her magazines and penny novels were true. Discover if she could finally find a place where she’d belong. Because she sure didn’t belong on the prairie. Here she was too much a woman to be a cowboy and too much a cowboy to be a woman.

  No. While she might favor Logan, even hanker for him, marriage to him wasn’t worth her freedom. Or her pride. And he’d only be marrying her to get the ranch.

  “Matilda.”

  Her heart pinched and more tears stung her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time her father had use of her given name. She crawled her gaze to his.

  “Do this for me, girl. I’ve never asked anything of you before, but I’m asking now. Promise me you’ll marry Cartwright.”

  She averted her gaze again, her willpower waning. It was true her father had never asked anything of her. Demanded and ordered, yes. But never had he asked.

  But he wasn’t asking for something simple like plucking a star from the sky. He was asking her to marry Logan Cartwright. To give up her freedom. Her chance to leave Indian Territory.

  She glanced at the shadow of a man lying in bed. Her father didn’t look like the fierce ranch owner able to strike fear and loyalty in all who worked for him. He looked frail, brittle. Like a strong wind would snap him in two.

  He was dying.

  So what would be the harm in agreeing? Didn’t mean she had to stay. Wasn’t like Logan actually wanted her for his wife. He only wanted the Standing T. She could give her father peace in his final days without compromising her dream of freedom. Once he passed, she’d go to Kansas City, just like she planned. She notched up her chin. “All right.”

  Distrust narrowed his eyes. “All right?”

  “Yes. I’ll marry Logan Cartwright.”

  “I have your word?”

  “You do.”

  Her father drooped against the pillows. “Good. That’s real good, girl.” His eyes slid closed. “Doc should still be in the cookhouse. Git him to write it up all lawyer-like and I’ll put my name to it.” He rolled to his side, his knees drawn to his chest like a baby. “Things’ll work out, girl.” His voice became thready. “You’ll see. Things’ll work out just fine.”

  Chapter Two

  Tears scalded Matt’s eyes and her heart wrenched.

  Flanked by Logan and Roscoe, she stood in the small family graveyard listening to Reverend Wilson speak about ashes to ashes and dust to dust. She welcomed the numbing wind as it worked to shred the skin from her face. It gave her something to focus on rather than the gaping hole in her chest.

  She couldn’t believe her father was dead. But he was. He’d lapsed into a coma shortly after signing the paper which gave Logan the Standing T ranch once they were married. Pa never saw daylight again. His coffin lay on the frozen ground, next to her mother’s grave, with the worn quilt from his bed nailed on top. He wouldn’t be buried until the spring thaw.

  More tears pooled and she fought to keep them from falling. She couldn’t remember the last time she cried and here she’d done it twice in almost as many days. But then she’d never felt this lost before. This adrift. In much the same way she imagined Captain Ahab had felt in Moby Dick. Her mooring was gone. Her father, the only constant for he
r entire life—albeit a stern and demanding constant—was gone.

  She bowed her head. The force with which she missed her father shocked her. She’d never been more than a passing nuisance to him because she was a girl. Boys were valued, girls were not. Yet there was no mistaking the anguish she felt.

  Glancing at the shivering group of mourners gathered around the coffin, she pitied them all. A smattering of neighbors had braved the blustery weather to show their respects while the drovers had been ordered to stay with the herd. Roscoe wasn’t the kind of foreman to let something small, like the ranch owner’s funeral, stand in the way of work. She shivered. Even the afternoon sun quaked behind the dark curtain of clouds, afraid to come out on such a woeful day.

  She clenched her gloved hands on the brim of her worn cowboy hat in a useless attempt to warm them. Through hooded lashes, she observed the one man she’d pointedly avoided. Logan.

  Her soon-to-be-husband stood to her right, clasping his hat in front of him. He appeared unaffected by the temperature as he stared at the casket, tufts of his blond hair lifting with each blast of wind. How he could stand the cold gusting past his reddening ears?

  Her grief clashed with sudden uncertainty.

  Though going to Kansas City had been her dream for as long as she could remember, she’d always thought her father would be here, at the ranch, in case she ever wanted to come home. But Pa wasn’t here any longer.

  Logan was. And once they married, he’d be the new owner of the Standing T. Would he allow her return? Wasn’t like he was marrying her because he wanted her. He was going only doing it to get the ranch. He’d probably be glad to be rid of her once she left. Her heart did another slow twist in her chest.

  She flinched when the preacher closed the Bible with a muffled thump. “You have my sincere condolences, Miss Townsend,” Wilson said, a light hand on her arm.

  She nodded, forcing down the sob in her throat. “Thank you, Reverend. Please stay and share an early supper with us. Chuck has outdone himself.”

  A half-smile lifted the preacher’s mouth. “Thank you for the invite. I believe I will.”

  The other consolation wishers passed her in a painful procession. She hoped she made the proper responses. It took all her strength right then to hang onto her sanity. Finally it was just her, Logan and Roscoe.

  Logan placed a hand on her shoulder. “You all right?”

  Staring at the coffin, she nodded even though she doubted she’d ever be all right again. Her father was dead. A profound sense of forlornness gripped her soul. She fingered the edge of the quilt. “I remember my mother knitting this when I was a little girl,” she whispered.

  Logan’s hand squeezed. “It’s okay to cry, you know.”

  She scoffed. “No, it isn’t.” With a determined toss of her head, she gazed at the wind-swept prairie and stepped from his comforting hand. She jammed her hat low onto her head. She wouldn’t be pitied. Not by Logan, and not by herself.

  Roscoe sidled in next to her. “Cartwright, ride to the herd.” He clamped his hand on her shoulder. His touch lacked any of the warmth and solace of Logan’s.

  She moved away from the foreman as well and faced Logan. “As long as Reverend Wilson is here, we might as well get married.”

  Shame speared her dignity at his shocked expression. Her father had claimed Logan would marry her, if for no reason than to get the ranch. Had Pa been wrong?

  “What the hell are you talking about, Matt?” Roscoe demanded.

  She ignored the foreman and held Logan’s gaze. “You did agree to marry me, didn’t you?” She forced her voice not to shake.

  “Now hold on one goddamn minute,” Roscoe sputtered. “You need to tell me what in the tarnation you’re talking about here.”

  Logan shot him a hard glare. “This is none of your business, Turner.”

  “I’m the goddamn foreman so anything to do with this ranch is my business.”

  Matt glanced at Roscoe. “Pa’s dying request was that Logan and I marry.” She looked back at Logan. “So I’ll ask again, did you agree?”

  For a long heartbeat, he chewed on the inside of his cheek, the sure sign he was thinking on something serious. His eyes, darker than snow-laden clouds, never wavered from hers. Would he say no? And why did that thought roil in her stomach like sour meat? The need to turn tail and run from this humiliation burned through her. As it was, she hardened her resolve and continued to stare him down.

  At last, Logan’s head made a slow move up and down. “I did.”

  She fought the relief which flooded her veins. “Why didn’t you just say so then?”

  He tucked his chin back at her surly tone. “Thought maybe you’d want to wait a bit. Out of respect for your father.”

  She shook her head. “Pa wanted us to marry. Besides, it doesn’t make sense to have the reverend come all the way out here twice. Might as well get it done.” She walked toward the cookhouse.

  Logan fell into step beside her. “If you’re sure.”

  “Goddamn it!”

  The outburst turned them both back around to face the forgotten foreman. Roscoe stood, hands on his hips, his face redder than a cockscomb. “What the fuck is going on, Matt?”

  Logan stiffened, but she shrugged off the crude remark. “I explained it. Pa wanted me to marry Logan.”

  “And you agreed to this?”

  “I did.”

  Roscoe swung his gaze to Logan. “And you agreed?”

  Logan nodded once. “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  Roscoe’s question was aimed at Logan, but Matt answered, “Because the ranch is my dowry.”

  With deadly calm, Roscoe pointed his scowl at her. “What did you say?”

  She slanted up her chin. Taller and beefier than Logan, with black, unkempt hair, Roscoe had always reminded her of wild mountain man. He used his size to intimidate those around him, but she’d never given him that kind of power over her, no matter how threatening he acted. Yet an ominous ripple traversed her skin at the loathing in the foreman’s beady, black eyes. “Logan gets the ranch when he marries me.”

  Roscoe narrowed his gaze and took a step. Logan moved in front of her, his arms board straight and his hands fisted.

  “I’ve been at this goddamn ranch for six fucking years,” Roscoe ground out through clenched jaws. “I’m the foreman and I deserve to be the owner. I woulda fuckin’ married you if it meant gettin’ it.”

  Matt stepped from behind Logan, her own ire rising. “Well, Pa didn’t ask you, did he? He must not have thought you’d be a good ranch owner. Or husband.” She threw the last comment out just to dig at the foreman’s hide.

  Roscoe snaked a hand out and grasped her arm in a crushing grip. “You fucking bit—”

  Logan’s fist connected to Roscoe’s jaw. The big man thrust her away and staggered back three steps. He regained his balance, a hand to his chin. Because of the funeral, all the guns had been left in the bunkhouse. Good thing, because the glare Roscoe sent Logan had murder written all over it.

  Logan again positioned himself in front of Matt. “That’s my future wife you’re addressing.”

  Tingles spouted in her stomach at Logan’s protective stance even as she peeked around his body.

  “You best apologize, Turner, for disrespecting her and me.”

  Roscoe straightened. Hatred blazed in his eyes. “Fuck you.”

  Logan’s chuckle held no humor. “No thanks. Pack your gear, Turner. You’re done here.” He wrapped an arm around Matt’s shoulders. Even through her thick coat, the shielding heat of his body seeped into her skin. Something quivered low in her belly as he escorted her away.

  Halfway toward the cookhouse, his arm slid from her shoulders. Matt missed the warmth almost immediately and despised herself for the weakness. She glanced at the former foreman stomping toward the bunkhouse then at Logan. “You think it was smart to fire Roscoe? He’s good with cattle and we’re shorthanded right now.”

  Logan grunted. �
��We’ll be just fine without him.” He stopped at the bottom of the cookhouse. “You sure you don’t want to wait a few days to get married?”

  Anxiety pinched her stomach. “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “No. I just thought a woman would want her wedding day to be special and not a rushed affair.”

  Her heavy heart lifted for a moment, until she realized she wasn’t a normal woman. She shook her head. “It’s stupid to go to that kind of trouble.” She walked up the steps. “Besides, once the ceremony’s done, I’ll be leaving.”

  Logan’s hand gripped her arm and pulled her back. “What do you mean, you’re leaving?”

  Matt jerked from his grasp. “I said I’d marry you. Never said anything about staying.”

  “It isn’t safe for you to be wandering the prairie alone.”

  Her eyes tapered. “Safe or not, it’s not your concern.”

  “As your husband, it will be my concern.”

  Her heart caught at the sincerity of his voice. She ignored the sensation. “Like I said, you needn’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  “Like I said, as your husband, I damn sure will worry.”

  The steely edge to his voice had her almost believing he was concerned for her. Almost. But how could he be when the only thing he wanted was the ranch? She turned toward the door.

  Without warning, Logan scooped her into his arms and pivoted from the steps. She wiggled and fought, slapping at any part of him she could hit. The rigidness of his chest and back did her more damage than she did to him. “Put me down!”

  Around the side of the cookhouse, he set her on the ground, her arms pinned to her sides by his large hands. She glared at him. “What the hell are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking this conversation should be private and not shared with everyone inside.”

  She kicked his legs, but he easily sidestepped the attempt. He gave her a small shake, frustration mingling with compassion in his eyes. “Before you get more riled than a town drunk without a whiskey, listen to what I have to say.”

  The last thing she wanted to do was listen, but she couldn’t break free of his hold. She sucked in a breath and lowered her gaze. “I’m listening.”