Eden Creek

by Lisa Bingham

  Ginny ran to the table, swept aside a pile of dishes, and climbed on top. This time Ruby had gone too far!

  But as the sound of childish laughter melted through the walls from outside, Ginny’s pride began to burn. She wasn’t a shrinking violet. She’d never been the kind of woman who cried at the least little upset, and she wasn’t about to become one now. And she refused to let Orrin return and find her cowering on top of the kitchen table.

  Ginny eased to the floor, searching for the small furry creature. Tiptoeing across the room, she grabbed a broom and moved cautiously around the house. When she saw no sign of the mouse, she began to clean, holding the broom in one hand and working with the other.

  Soon day began to give way to evening. Through it all Ginny scrubbed and tidied. Occasionally she could hear the children playing, but for the most part they left her alone—which was just as well.

  By the time darkness fell she’d managed to create some semblance of order. Her back ached, her head throbbed. She was bone-weary and famished. But the house could finally be considered livable.

  Giving one last halfhearted swipe to the table with one of Ida Carrigan’s knitted dish towels, she threw the cloth into a pail of soapy water and collapsed into a chair.

  Barely fifteen minutes passed before Orrin threw open the door and stepped into the room. Aghast, Ginny watched as the children ran around him, tracking mud across her newly scrubbed floor.

  Orrin made a beeline for the stove, leaving a trail of dirty bootprints. He lifted the lid and frowned when he saw that it was empty.

  “What’s for supper?” he asked, turning to regard Ginny.

  A low growl bubbling in her throat, she stormed past him, snapping, “Nothing but dirt.” With that, Ginny loudly closed the bedroom door.

  A few minutes later she heard someone knock. Ginny sat in the rocking chair staring straight ahead, but she refused to respond.

  The knob turned, and the door opened. Orrin studied her and leaned against the jamb.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” she answered curtly.

  He watched her for a minute, obviously taking in her stiff posture, rigid fingers, and sharp rocking.

  “You look mad enough to spit nails at me. Want to tell me why?”

  “No.” Her feet pushed more firmly against the floor, and the rocking chair squeaked in protest.

  “Something’s wrong. What is it?”

  Evidently he hadn’t noticed that she’d cleaned the room.

  “Nothing.”

  Orrin finally walked inside, closed the door, and sat on the bed.

  “I’m sorry Ruby misled you.”

  Squeak. Squeak.

  “I wish you’d tell me what’s bothering you.”

  Ginny’s temper exploded. “Damn, you, Orrin Ghant! I came here thinking that I was going to live in a palace and marry a man who owned a mercantile! Instead I find that I’m stuck in a mud-infested hellhole with a man who has the manners of a pig and three children who deserve to be locked up in the territorial jail. How would you feel?” she demanded hotly.

  His lips fought a losing battle with a smile. “I guess I’d be a little angry.”

  “Angry!” She bellowed. “Anger doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel! Why, if I had half a mind, I’d pack my things and march right out that door and not come back.”

  Orrin stiffened and got up from the bed. Grasping either side of the rocking chair, he bent close and said in a low voice, “You’re staying, Ginny Ghant. You made vows to be my wife—and by heaven, you’ll keep those vows if I have to hog-tie you to this chair!”

  Without warning he bent and captured her lips in a bruising kiss. Then he left the room.

  Ginny pounded her fist on the arm of the rocker and growled in frustration. But as the minutes trickled past, she couldn’t deny the tingling that began at her toes and sifted through her whole body, leaving her touching her lips and staring at the door in wonder.

  He needed to woo her.

  Orrin ran a hand through his hair. It had been over an hour since he and Ginny had exchanged words, but she’d remained holed up in the bedroom, refusing to come out. Since then he’d been sitting in one of the chairs in the corner of the keeping room, pretending to mend a harness while the children wrestled and slapped at one another in halfhearted anger over a rag bear.

  In truth, his mind wasn’t on his task or his children. He kept thinking about the misery on Ginny’s face when he’d confronted her in the bedroom.

  Why, if I had half a mind, I’d pack my things and march right out that door and not come back.

  The words echoed through him and rasped on tender scars like a rusty blade. He couldn’t let her leave. He had to see to it that she wanted to stay. That she learned to need him. Love him.

  Otherwise she would run away. Just as Jesse had done.

  Orrin stared down at the leather straps he held, but he didn’t see them. He was envisioning what his life would be like if Ginny were to go. He’d only known her for a few days, a few lingering hours strung together through some happy accident of fate. But he couldn’t imagine being without her now.

  Ruby had been right in claiming that Orrin had grown too set in his ways. Perhaps his manners could use some refinement—and heaven only knew his children were out of control. But he was beginning to see that those were only minor reasons for wanting Ginny to stay.

  The most powerful reason of all was that he didn’t want to be alone again.

  Somehow he would have to woo her. He would have to win her over with charm and consideration until she would never consider leaving him again.

  The door opened, and Ginny stood in the threshold. Her eyes swept around the room, taking in the mess they’d made from supper and the dirty scatter of the children’s clothes. In an instant her expression changed from contrition to disbelief to anger as she absorbed the disorder. Yet what seemed to set her off was the crumbled remains of Ida Carrigan’s spice cake. Too late, Orrin realized they hadn’t even saved her a piece.

  Ginny glared at him from across the room. “I’m going to bed,” she announced stiffly, then she shut the door with deliberate efficiency.

  As she closed herself in the bedroom Ginny pressed her lips together in disapproval, remembering the way Orrin had glanced up at her, then down at his pocket-watch. No doubt he’d misinterpreted her reasons for an early night.

  Ginny pulled her carpetbag toward her and reached for her toiletries. Stripping off her clothing, she dragged a nightgown over her head. Then, whipping back the fresh sheets she’d changed only hours before, Ginny climbed into bed.

  She was so exhausted that she nearly managed to fall asleep, but she came wide awake when she heard the squeak of a footstep outside her door. Anger curled within her. Though she’d married Orrin Ghant and even let him make love to her, nothing on earth could make her share the sheets with the man now! Not after she’d seen what he’d done to that kitchen.

  Reaching over the side of the bed, Ginny dug to the bottom of her carpetbag and withdrew the tiny derringer she’d bought years ago in Italy after a run-in with a drunken sailor. She waited, hearing each creak of the house, each popping moan, as if it were a part of her resolve snapping free and falling away. When she thought of the way he would slip into bed beside her, so big and warm and male…

  If he touched her again, would she feel the same storm of feelings, the thundering sensations?

  After all that had occurred that day, that man was not getting into bed with her!

  Purple shadows bled into blackness. Minutes piled into hours. Then she heard his soft tread outside their room. Her heart pounded; her mouth grew dry. He stepped inside, and she saw his slow smile.

  Before she could reconsider her actions she jerked the derringer from beneath the sheets.

  “Go sleep with the pigs where you belong!” Her weapon wavered, but did not lower.

  Orrin took one look at her gun and left the room. Ginny stared at the spot where
he’d been, and her fury deflated ever so slightly. Somehow she’d expected more of a fight.

  Her arm was just beginning to lower when Orrin returned. Her eyes widened in horror when she saw the shotgun he held. Sweet heaven, the man meant to shoot her!

  A small squeak of fear came from her lips as he approached her. To her surprise, however, he merely twisted the derringer out of her hand and gave her the shotgun.

  “You’ll never do any damage with that little popgun.” He emptied the tiny weapon of its bullets and threw it back into her carpetbag, then pointed to the shotgun. “If you can shoot that little toy, you can shoot this. I’d recommend it, personally. It makes a bigger hole.”

  He left the room again and returned with a sleepy Baby Grace in one arm. He pulled a trundle bed from beneath their own bedstead, then placed the child in the middle. Ginny regarded him in confusion as he left the room again and returned with a grumpy Eunice and an openly hostile Imogene. Within moments he’d stripped them to their underwear and tucked them into bed.

  Then, to Ginny’s amazement, Orrin proceeded to undress himself. She watched as the layers were peeled away to reveal his lean, masculine frame. Yet with each item of clothing that fell to an untidy heap onto the floor she became more and more aware of their young audience.

  Once he’d reached his union suit, he climbed into the bed beside her.

  “Orrin!” she hissed in outrage.

  “What?”

  “Just what do you think you’re doing bringing those girls in here?” she demanded, all the while conscious of the listening children.

  “Where else would I take them?”

  “They must have a place to sleep!”

  His eyes narrowed as if she’d taken a sharp turn in logic. “They do have a place to sleep.” He pointed to the bed on the floor. “Down there.”

  Stunned, Ginny stared at him. “You mean they’ve been sleeping there … since birth?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “It’s indecent.”

  He shrugged. “What’s indecent about it? They’ve got a bed.”

  “But … but they’ve seen you undress.” He still watched her in confusion. “Yeah.”

  “Every night?”

  “Yeah,” he responded more slowly, obviously still unable to sense her meaning.

  “Orrin, you’re a man!”

  “Ginny, what the hell are you getting at?”

  “It’s bad enough for you to be hopping into bed without so much as a nightshirt, but to be undressing in front of your own children—female children!” She stared at him openmouthed, then held out her hand in warning. “Don’t you touch me, do you hear?”

  His eyes flashed with a hint of disappointment, but he stated, “You’re tired. Get some sleep. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

  “We most certainly will,” she muttered, but Orrin appeared not to hear her because he’d turned on his side and pulled the covers to his ears.

  Ginny hugged the shotgun to her chest and wondered what kind of a man she’d married. But she didn’t sleep. She couldn’t. Not with the heat of his hips pressed so tantalizingly into her side.

  Plymouth, Missouri

  Billy Wicks strode through the stained-glass doors of the Two Bit Saloon and automatically scanned the smoke-filled room. Even before his gaze had finished its circuit, he knew that Herbert Parker wouldn’t be there. His employer wasn’t the kind of person who did his drinking in the open. He did it behind closed doors, away from prying eyes.

  As far as Billy was concerned, that attitude was a bit shortsighted. In his opinion, Herbert Parker was too staid and moral for his own good. A man was likely to explode in all that black wool. He needed an outlet. Hobbies.

  Billy had hobbies: drinking, gambling.

  Women.

  And he saw no reason to give them up because he wanted to assume Herbert Parker’s position as bank president. But until the job was safely his, he also saw no reason to flaunt his activities in front of the man.

  Billy fought his way through the crush of sweaty, underwashed bodies until he managed to reach the back of the room. There a few scarred tables were all but hidden behind the brocade draperies that hung from the posts supporting the upper level.

  Motioning for the sallow-faced woman distributing drinks to bring him a bottle, Billy chose one of the few empty chairs scattered about the room. Grabbing the scruffy gray head of the man passed out beside him, he recognized Doc Lamb, Plymouth’s one and only physician. Judging by the empty bottle in front of him and the rumpled condition of his clothing, he’d been there for some time.

  Billy dropped the man’s head back onto the table, and Lamb groaned. For a moment the doctor’s tongue audibly smacked against the top of his mouth as if a bad taste lingered there, then he stirred and lifted his head, his eyes fighting a losing battle to focus.

  “Doc.”

  The man stared at Billy until recognition dawned. “W-Wicks,” he stuttered, rubbing his palms over his face. The gold studs on his cuffs and the fine fabric of his shirt proclaimed that business in Plymouth was good for him despite his alcoholic binges. He trembled as he reached for his glass. A few precious drops of liquor lingered in the bottom.

  “Hiya, Billy.”

  The woman who bent low in front of him offered a healthy dose of her cleavage. Billy had sampled Sally Crofts long ago and had found her creative talents in bed quite entertaining.

  “Sally.” His hand curled around her breast, then moved to her back. Pulling her toward him roughly, he whispered a lewd suggestion in her ear.

  Sally drew back, grinning. By the barely perceptible inclination of her head she agreed to meet him at midnight for a ribald assignation.

  As she sauntered back toward the bar Doc Lamb misinterpreted her retreat, concluding that Billy had refused her charms.

  “Guess she’s … a bit on the used side, isn’t she?”

  Billy shot him an impatient glance. He didn’t have time for drunks. He had to find out where Ginny was. Without her he had no clear claim to the Parker Bank holdings. And he planned on becoming president of that bank some day. Without Ginny, Herbert Parker would never give him the opportunity. The man was too conservative to will his fortune to anyone but family.

  Doc Lamb continued, “’Course, most gals appear … a bit used nex’ … next t’ that … Parker gal you been sparkin’.”

  Billy’s jaw clenched, and he shot the doctor a fulminating look. But the old gentleman was obviously too drunk or too dense to care.

  “Then again, I s’pose she’s been used a time or two herself.” He chuckled and crooked a finger for Billy to lean close.

  Billy eyed him in disgust, but when the man grasped his string tie and sagged drunkenly he had no alternative but to listen.

  “Jus’ a word of warnin’, Billy. ’Cause I like you. An’ a fella’s got a right to know what he’s gettin’ into when he goes a-courtin’.” Lamb shook his head in dismay, then peered about the room as if imparting a monumental secret. “You mind my words an’ find another girl. That one’s got money, sure. And beauty … pph!” He gestured in a drunken show of emphasis, then tugged on Billy’s tie. “But money an’ … beauty … can’t get rid of the fact that come autumn she’ll give birth to a bastard. Mark my words.”

  He released Billy’s tie and made a slovenly attempt to smooth the crumpled cloth.

  “Mark my words,” he stated again, his finger shaking unsteadily in the air in front of his mouth. “Don’t tell anyone I tol’ you. Not a soul.” Then his face paled, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell facedown onto the table again. Within moments his drunken snores rose from the felt cover.

  Billy Wicks sat for a moment in stunned silence.

  A bastard.

  Great bloody hell.

  Chapter 9

  Ginny awoke to a rooster’s furious crowing and childish shouts and screams from the yard outside. The events of the past day rushed into her head, and she pulled the feather pillow over h
er ears. But try as she might, she couldn’t wish away her circumstances. Somehow she would have to summon the energy to face the children and clean the house. Again.

  Groaning, she rose and dressed in her oldest skirt and blouse. Taking a sheet from one of the trunks, she pinned one corner to her bodice and wrapped the rest of the fabric around her waist It was a little bulkier than she would have cared for, but at least the muslin cloth would protect her from some of the grime.

  When she opened the bedroom door, she stared in weary resignation at the muddy floor and food-scattered table. All morning she’d tried to tell herself that the messy room had been a bad dream. Or that elves had come in during the night and repaired the damage. Or—miracle of miracles—Orrin and the children had cleaned the house. Instead she discovered the house was just as disheveled as she’d remembered.

  How dare they? How dare they? She’d spent hours cleaning their home, and they’d shown no more respect than a herd of swine.

  The front door opened, and she looked up to find Orrin entering from the yard. His eyes were dark and watchful, his manner especially casual, as if he wondered whether she would fly into another rage.

  “Good morning,” he said, his voice low and cautious.

  “Good morning,” she answered, her tone curt and cool.

  Orrin studied her for a moment, then stepped inside, pushing the door shut behind him. He held a fresh pail of milk and another pail filled with brown eggs.

  “I let you sleep in a bit. Thought you could use the rest.”

  Ginny’s brow lifted in amazement. It was barely dawn! What time had he expected her to awaken?

  “Glad you’re up, though.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’re just about starved. How long were you planning to take to fix breakfast?”

  Now she was beginning to understand. Orrin hadn’t married her because he’d needed a helpmate, he’d married her because he needed a servant. Lincoln had already freed the slaves, so Orrin Ghant had decided to find himself a woman.

  Ginny marched toward the kitchen hutch and flung open one of its doors. Once more the old overgrown potato leered at her. She slammed the cabinet door shut and confronted Orrin.