Texas Bride

by Leigh Greenwood

  "I guess we have to starting thinking about fixing supper," she said.

  "You're not coming into town to eat?" William asked.

  "It's too far to ride there and back every time I get hungry."

  "But you don't have a kitchen."

  "We didn't have kitchens during the war," Owen said, "but we managed to muddle through."

  "Hetta doesn't have to muddle through," William said angrily. "I was planning to take her to dinner."

  "That's sweet of you," Hetta said, "but you can't do it every night."

  "I hope not," Owen said. "I'm a terrible cook. I'm counting on her keeping me from starving."

  "I don't imagine you've ever starved," William said with something close to a sneer.

  "We fought the war over the same territory for so long, there wasn't anything left, even for civilians. Some people were reduced to eating vermin. Thousands of soldiers went for weeks with nothing but rotten meat and wormy bread sold to the army by merchants who got rich off the misery of their fellow countrymen. It made some of us sick, but we ate it because we had nothing else."

  Owen had rarely spoken of the privations and hardships of war. It horrified her to think that fellow Southerners would make fortunes out of the misery of others.

  "I'm sorry," William said, stiff and angry, "but that has nothing to do with Hetta. She's coming with me."

  "William, I've just told you I can't."

  "I won't have my fiancee eating her supper sitting on the ground with a cowboy nobody knows."

  Hetta was so surprised, she almost waited too long to respond. "I'm not your fiancee. You've never asked me to marry you."

  "You know I want to."

  "If you wanted to marry her so much, why haven't you asked her before now?" Owen asked.

  "That's none of your business," William said.

  "Hetta is my friend, and friends look out for each other."

  "Owen, you don't have to--"

  "It's not right for a man to call a woman his fiancee when he hasn't gotten his parents' permission to marry her."

  "I don't have to have my parents' permission."

  "Then why haven't you asked her?"

  "Owen, for God's sake--"

  "You've taken her for granted like you would an employee."

  "Owen, will you stop it!"

  "I've never taken her for granted."

  "Then prove it. Grab your clothes and move out here with her."

  "We're going to live in town," William said. "Hetta's going to sell the ranch."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hetta had never made a secret of the fact that she intended to rebuild her ranch as soon as she was able or that she intended to work it herself. But she and William had never talked about it. Now that she thought about it, she realized they'd hardly talked about anything. Until Owen came along and upset everything, she'd been too insecure, too afraid something might cause William to change his mind, to talk about the future.

  Looking back on it now, she was ashamed of herself. She'd always thought she was independent, so strong-willed that she could go it alone if she must. All the while she was just as terrified as her mother of being deserted by a man.

  "I told you I wasn't going to sell my ranch," she said to William.

  "I thought you said it just so you could feel independent. I was sure you'd stay with Ida. You had a perfectly good home."

  "I had a job, William. Ida's house was never my home. This is."

  "But you can't ride back and forth every day."

  "Of course she can't," Owen said. "She'll soon have babies to take care of."

  "Why don't you stay out of this?" William said to Owen.

  "I'm hungry. You two aren't close to settling this, so let me see if I can help. You expect Hetta to move into town, live in your mother's house, work with you in the store. Is that right?"

  Having Owen draw the picture with such stark clarity was a shock to Hetta. She had no more intention of living in the same house with Mrs. Tidwell than, she was certain, Mrs. Tidwell had of allowing her to move in.

  "It doesn't make sense to buy a second house," William said. "There's plenty of room for us and children."

  "But Hetta wants to live on the ranch and rebuild her herd. She expects you to ride into town each day while she stays here."

  "I can't live this far from the store," William said, apparently surprised anyone would make the suggestion.

  "I'll see about rounding up some firewood," Owen said to Hetta. "Shouldn't take me more than a few minutes."

  Hetta knew Owen was leaving to give her an opportunity to send William away.

  "You can't really mean to live out here," William said.

  "Your mother would never allow me to set foot in her house."

  "Of course she would."

  "Well, it's not something we have to settle now. We both have a lot to do before we start making plans for the future."

  "But I thought--"

  "Apparently we were both wrong. Now you'd better get back to the store. I know you don't like to leave it for long."

  "You refuse to go back with me?"

  "It has nothing to do with refusing to go back with you. I want to live in my own house."

  "It sounds like a refusal to me." He looked sullen, stubborn. "What am I going to tell Ida?"

  "Why should you tell her anything?"

  "I promised I'd bring you back with me."

  Hetta felt anger fly all over her. What made him think he could make such a promise? "You forget Ida thought I was trying to seduce Owen behind your back."

  "She thought it was the other way around."

  "Either way, I couldn't stay in her house after that."

  "She didn't--"

  "If Ida has something to say to me, let her say it herself. As for Owen, I'm as safe now as I was then."

  "We all know you're only a momentary diversion he'll forget when the first pretty female comes along."

  Hetta had told herself the same thing, but it sounded brutal coming from the man she'd hoped to marry. "William, get back in your buggy and leave before you say something I'll find truly unforgivable."

  William looked taken aback, but Hetta didn't feel she could explain. "Tell Ida not to worry about me. I hope your father is feeling better." She turned and left before he had a chance to say another word.

  "Don't ever go near that man if he has a gun," Owen said, coming from around the side of the log room. "If he handles it as badly as he handles words, somebody will get killed."

  "It's all your fault," Hetta burst out. "Everything was fine before you got here."

  "Nothing was fine. I just helped you realize it. Now stop trying to get mad at me and decide what you're going to cook. I really am hungry."

  * * *

  "I never cooked over an open fire before," Hetta said to Owen.

  "You did remarkably well for a beginner."

  She'd been trying to get angry at him all evening, but she'd finally given up. She did cook, but he'd gathered the wood, built the fire, carried the water, and washed up afterwards.

  Hetta tried to account for her feeling of peace and well-being but couldn't. Here she was virtually camping out on a broken-down ranch ten miles from town, with no house to stay in, no riding stock, no chickens or cow. She'd given up the best job she was ever likely to have, moved out of the most luxurious house she'd ever lived in, maybe lost her best friend, and had effectively broken off with the only man who'd ever wanted to marry her. She didn't want Mr. diViere to keep using her ranch, but she didn't have enough money to rebuild her ranch house or enough cows to survive on her own. And she was facing the prospect of having to work with the most irritating, troublesome man she'd ever met.

  Yet she liked him. She wasn't exactly sure she was safe from him, but she was certain she was safe from anyone else. She laughed silently. He'd protected her right out of a job, a home, and a potential husband. Yet a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She'd been freed from restrictions that
had been threatening to choke the life out of her. She'd forgotten what it was like to have no employer to please, no would-be husband to fret over. She was free.

  Free to be a disastrous failure. Yet even that prospect didn't dispel the feeling that things just might be right in her world.

  There was much more to like about Owen than looks and manners. Except for his preoccupation with hanging Mr. diViere, he had a strong sense of right and the courage to back it up with his guns, his fists, or his brains. He also had an odd habit of gravitating toward people whom society would consider of marginal value--Myrl, Ben Logan, and herself--of lifting them up by the mere fact of his friendship.

  "We need more horses if we're going to brand calves," Owen said, dropping to the ground next to her.

  "Manly was using our horses," she said. "They're probably running loose around here somewhere."

  "What do you say to hiring Ben and Myrl?"

  "How are we going to get any work done using a cripple and a drunk?"

  Owen leaned back until he lay flat on the ground. He looked up at the moon rather than at her. "You have too little faith in people."

  "I didn't say they wouldn't want to help. I just don't understand how they can."

  "Myrl can take care of the fire and the branding irons. Ben is still capable of working from a saddle."

  "I don't have any money to pay them."

  "I do."

  "I can't take money from you."

  "You'll pay me back."

  "How?"

  "When you sell your first steers."

  "There aren't enough for a drive to Mexico."

  "We'll drive them north to my cousin so he can take them to St. Louis. How many steers do you think we saw today--ones big enough to go to market, I mean?"

  "About seventy-five."

  "They'll bring more than two thousand dollars. Not a fortune, but enough to keep you going for another year."

  Hetta had trouble getting her breath. Two thousand dollars seemed like a fortune to her.

  "We'll probably find a few more when we start branding."

  Hetta pulled in her burgeoning dreams of a thriving and expanding ranch. "I still can't take your money."

  "You don't have any other choice." He chewed on a piece of grass. "Look at that sky. Isn't it beautiful?"

  She didn't understand this man at all. He ought to be in some big city spending his money on beautiful women. Yet he was planning to spend at least six months working his butt off and paying to support her ranch. Instead of discussing financial terms like a sensible businessman, he wanted her to look at the sky with him.

  "It's like a limitless canopy, dotted with twinkling stars, a sliver of a moon, and just enough wispy clouds to keep it from being the same all over. Have you ever studied the stars?"

  "No."

  "I never had until the war. We used to ride across country at night. It was fun to see if I could guide by the stars."

  "Could you?"

  "I never got the chance. Cade always had maps. He's got no sense of adventure."

  "Wasn't it better to have maps when you had enemy soldiers all around you?"

  Owen sat up, turned to face her. "Haven't you ever wanted to go someplace you've never been, not make any plans, just see what would happen?"

  She couldn't categorize his expression. He looked a little like a man who thinks there's something better just over the next hill. But stronger than that was the feeling he knew that things probably weren't any better over that next hill, but he wanted to go anyway because not taking a chance would make him feel cheated.

  Yet the Owen Wheeler she was coming to know was a rational man who could size up a situation, see what needed to be done, and do it, a man who didn't like to fail.

  "I've had more than enough uncertainty in my life," she said. "I'd be happy if things could stay the same forever."

  "Is that why you were going to marry William?"

  The question shocked her because she had a terrible feeling he'd put his finger on a truth she'd never suspected.

  "No."

  She thought he would argue, but he lay back down, resumed chewing on the blade of grass, and stared at the sky. Everything about his actions said he knew she was lying.

  "I never knew when Papa would come home or what he would do," she said. "It never seemed to matter to him that the stock had to be doctored, the animals fed, wood gathered, things fixed. Sometimes he didn't even bother getting out of bed. He never talked to Mama and me about anything that mattered."

  The words flowed from her without the anger she'd harbored for years.

  "It never seemed to matter to him that there might not be enough food, that we had no money. He assumed we'd get by somehow. I tried to get my mother to talk to him. She wouldn't, so I tried. At first he ignored me, but once, when I was bigger, he grabbed me. I think he was drunk that day. He said I wasn't ever to question him again or he wouldn't come home anymore."

  She remembered the shocked, fearful, and accusing looks from her mother.

  "Mama blamed me when he didn't come home for a long time after that. She said she'd make me go live with her sister in Alabama if I ever questioned him again. She said she couldn't live without Papa. I guess she was right. She died within a year after we heard he got killed. I don't think he hated us. He just didn't care one way or the other."

  She guessed that was the hardest part, knowing that no matter what she did, she didn't matter.

  "He used to say it was a real disappointment I wasn't pretty. Then he could have taken me to the saloons. Men would have bought him drinks just to talk to me. But men didn't like plain, strong, hardworking women. They wanted pretty women who knew how to have fun. He said I was too plain and dull for any man to marry, that I'd better latch on to the first man who showed any interest in me. I associated looks and charm with all the things my father did that hurt us. You've got so much of both, I was sure you had to be awful. Getting into a gunfight that first day didn't help, either."

  "Would it have been better if I'd let them humiliate Ben?"

  "I grew up so sure no man would ever marry me, I decided I didn't want to get married. I couldn't believe it when William started to pay attention to me. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world."

  "It's a shame one of your father's bulls didn't gore him to death before you were two."

  "Everybody liked him."

  "He should have had Cade for a cousin."

  "I thought you liked him."

  "Only half the time. But whenever I start to get angry with him, I remind myself he saved my life." Owen sat up and got to his feet. "It's about time we got ready for bed. I told Ben and Myrl to be here by daybreak."

  "You hired them without talking to me first?"

  "A good foreman always hires the crew. It leaves the boss free to think of the important stuff."

  "And just what important stuff am I supposed to be thinking about?"

  He held his hands out to her. She reached up and he pulled her to her feet. She ended up uncomfortably close to him.

  "You could stop thinking I'm as terrible as your father."

  "I don't. I--"

  "You can stop thinking William only wanted to marry you because you were as plain, dull, and boring as he is." He pulled her even closer. "And you can forget every word your father said. You have beautiful eyes. You should always look straight at people. You'd mesmerize them. And you have beautiful hair," he said as he twisted some of it around his finger. "It's long and thick, a rich coffee brown. You should wear it down more often."

  "It gets in the way."

  "You also have a spectacular figure. I don't blame those cowboys for looking at you with lust in their eyes. I get a little warm myself."

  Hetta felt a tremor shoot through her body, but she warned herself not to be foolish. William had never lusted after her body.

  "And your skin is flawless. I don't know how you managed to grow up in the brutal Texas sun and not be as brown as a walnut."

/>   "I am as brown as a walnut."

  "You're a luscious almond color. Ida has moles."

  "She calls them beauty spots."

  "She'll have hairs growing out of them before she's forty, but your skin will still be perfect."

  "I'd better take myself to bed. Much more of your talk and I'll never set foot outside again."

  "That would be a shame. You should always be seen in sunlight."

  She didn't fully understand it yet, but she hadn't felt so good, so optimistic, in months. Considering how bad things looked, she was either a great fool, or coming back to the ranch was the absolute right thing to do. She hoped she wasn't a fool.

  "I'll see about the horses," Owen said. Then he shocked her by kissing her on the top of her head. "Your father was a fool."

  He turned and walked away. Didn't grin at her, chuck her under the chin, or do anything cute and charming. He was downright brotherly. Despite all the compliments, he hadn't flirted with her all night.

  It came as something of a surprise when Hetta realized she wanted him to flirt with her. She'd gotten used to his compliments. Not the part about her skin or figure. The feeling that he liked her, that she was important to him. He might boss her around and do things without asking her first--just like every other man she'd ever known--but he did it because she was important to him, because he was taking care of her. Maybe that was what she wanted, to feel that someone was taking care of her.

  Now Owen was, but she couldn't figure out why.

  There was no monetary gain she could see, certainly not if he meant to pay her bills until she could sell her cows. She meant to have a written agreement before she put herself under that kind of obligation. No telling what he might demand in payment. Hetta didn't understand why that thought should cause such a strange sensation--half chill, half pleasurable ache. It was as though she feared and wanted something at the same time.

  Owen had turned her life upside down, but she guessed she couldn't blame him. She'd let herself get off course when she decided to marry William. No, she'd gotten off course when she let her father make her believe she was of so little value no one would ever want her. She owed Owen a lot for helping her see she was more than that. Ida and William had helped, too. But for some reason it had taken Owen to make her believe in herself.