Hazelanne (Widows of Wildcat Ridge Book 15)

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  She got the impression he wanted to drive in silence so she contented herself with gazing at the landscape they rode through. Low grasses covered the ground with a carpet of green. An occasion white-flowered yarrow plant mixed with the grass. The ground was damp and the horse’s hooves left imprints. Thankfully, no mud was slung backward with each step. Questions burned the tip of her tongue, but she kept them to herself. If she needed to tamper her curiosity, she would in order to avoid another dreadful encounter like she experienced at the stage depot.

  As they rolled along, she snuck glances at the man she’d pledged her life to. The skin of his hands and his face were weathered from spending time in the sun. A bump sat at the top of his nose, indicating a prior injury. If he smiled more, he might appear pleasant. The full beard and moustache were a surprise. Although Papa wore full muttonchops down to his jaw line, the rest of his face was hair free. Axel’s beard was just coming in, and she wouldn’t be there to watch if he chose to grow it out or shave.

  Over the next rise, a fenced pasture came into view. A couple dozen sheep, white bodies with black faces and legs, dotted the field.

  “Oh, are those your animals? They’re so fat, fluffy, and cute.”

  “Some are due to lamb soon. They’re not pets.”

  Did everything she said need such a gruff response? Determined to keep quiet, she looked for clues about his ranch. The fence of spindly branches with barbed wire strung between them stretched farther than she could see. Surrounded by a stand of trees was a one-story house with a taller barn behind. She squinted and realized the structure was actually more of a cabin built of logs. The closer the wagon got, the more the building’s ramshackle state became evident. Shutters hung askew, and the coat of green paint had peeled away in spots.

  He steered the horse in front of the house and set the brake. Then he glanced her way. “I bought a couple sandwiches and slices of pie from the café before your train arrived. But don’t expect this kind of spoiling to become a regular occurrence. I eat supper at half past five every night. I leave for the mine at half past six Monday through Friday mornings and will want my lunch pail packed and a hot meal before I go. On work days before coming home to do chores, I eat dinner at the café.” He hoisted a leg over the board to climb down.

  Knowing what was expected helped ease her nerves. Nothing he said posed a problem for the skills she possessed. “I have one question.”

  A dark eyebrow arched.

  “What do I call you—Clayton or Clay?”

  “Clay’s fine. Your name is kinda long.” He jumped to the ground and moved to gather the bags and a paper sack she hadn’t noticed before. “I’ll call you wife.” Then he trudged toward the front door.

  Feeling like he’d punched her in the gut, she gasped. A few minutes passed and he didn’t reappear in the doorway. Hazelanne gathered her skirts and climbed down backwards from the wagon seat. The walkway was a rocky path that made her go slowly to avoid turning an ankle. At the threshold, she stopped to let her vision adjust to the dim interior. The big room served two functions—sitting room and kitchen—with the rooms divided by the kitchen table and chairs.

  Clay leaned a hip against one of the kitchen counters and ate his sandwich.

  He didn’t wait? When she crossed the unswept plank flooring covered with gritty dirt, she saw why. Her stomach clenched, and her appetite fled. Food-encrusted plates and bowls covered every square inch of the counter. She bet if she opened the cupboard doors she’d discover he’d used every place setting. Not willing to face that grueling chore, she glanced around.

  A two-cushion settee faced a stone fireplace that held no welcoming flame. A cracked leather upholstered chair sat next to a crooked table holding a metal lantern. In one corner, a small desk held a mound of disheveled papers on the surface. Against one wall stood a steamer trunk. “Might I see the other rooms?”

  “Be my guest.” A hand swung outward. “I have to get out to the barn. I’ve wasted enough time.”

  Turning away so he couldn’t see how his words hurt, she loosened the strings on her bonnet and let it drop against her shoulders. She opened the first door to a room that smelled stale and musty. One glance at the bed showed her the reason. What had been white sheets were gray with dirt and probably sweat. Backing out, she moved to the second door, pausing a moment to brace herself. When opening the door a few inches didn’t produce an awful smell, she shoved it wide then sucked in a breath. A large loom occupied much of the floor space. Fluffs of sheep’s wool covered a long table. Paddles with short upright pins and wisps of white curls rested nearby. In the corner nestled a spinning wheel.

  At the sound of footsteps across the floor, she spun. “Wait. Where will I find clean bedding?”

  Shaking his head, he huffed out a breath. Then he turned and crooked a finger in her direction before heading toward the kitchen. In the back corner was a door, and he disappeared through it into a three-foot narrow space. The long room looked like a recent addition.

  Hazelanne followed and spotted a big metal tub, a washboard, and a potbellied stove with a wood box on the floor nearby. Tin buckets sat on top of the stove.

  “When you wash those, you’ll find the bedding.” He pointed toward a dark corner. “The well’s at the side of the barn, and the privy is about fifty feet from the corner of the house due west.”

  Wherever west was. But she was more concerned by the days of work ahead. A mound almost three feet high of towels, sheets, and clothes overflowed some type of container underneath. The degree of filth that surrounded her clenched her stomach. How could a person live like this? “If you didn’t plan to clean your own clothes, why didn’t you at least take them to the laundry I spotted next to the Ridge Hotel?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest then stared. “Because I don’t have to pay cash money to a wife to wash my clothes, cook my meals, and clean my house.”

  What the man wanted was a housekeeper, not a wife. Her stomach flipped, and she just stared at the huge mound. For a second, she considered handing back the ring and asking to be driven back to town. But the words “in happiness and in travail” rang in her head, and she refused to make the request. A place no longer waited in her parents’ house. She’d made this ill-thought-out decision, and she’ll abide by it. She vowed to use her skills to improve the ranch.

  Clay shook his head and walked to the back door, stopping with a hand on the knob. “Why do you look so shocked? Taking care of these chores is why I wanted a wife in the first place. Then I realized the other benefits wouldn’t be so bad, either.”

  Only with sheer willpower did she maintain a straight face until he walked out. Then she slumped forward, covered her face with her hands, and let the tears flow. A pain lodged deep in her chest. Whatever had she agreed to?

  Chapter Four

  N

  ot enough time remained the day of her arrival for her to do more than wash all the dishes, pots, and pans then prepare a meal. A discovery in Clay’s favor was that he kept a well-stocked pantry and smokehouse. Refusing to take up residence in the bedroom until it was scrubbed clean, she slept in her clothes and wrapped in her coat on the settee for several nights. Work didn’t stop for the Sabbath for either of them. She scrubbed, washed, and hung clothes and scoured the floors and walls with lye soap. Her hands reddened and cracked, but she was determined to raise the cabin to her standard of cleanliness.

  Clay alternated between working in the barn or in the loom room. He possessed a contract with the Army at Fort Bridger to weave blankets, many with specialized designs that included a specific division or platoon.

  A trip to town on Monday afternoon happened in perfect spring weather with only a few clouds dotting the sky. As they rode in the buckboard, she coaxed Clay to tell her more about raising sheep. Everything in the rearing process sounded like fun. In town, they stopped at Crane Bank and spoke with the teller, Miss Templeton, who added Hazelanne’s name and signature to the account card. A visit to Tweedie M
ercantile accomplished buying needed items, in addition to adding her name to the store account. Both tasks made her feel more married, even if the situation inside the cabin walls resembled nothing like what she knew a marriage should be.

  When her hands needed a break from cleaning and washing, she tagged along behind him while he tended the animals. Although her questions irritated him, she learned the basics about how to care for the sheep, horses, chickens, and pigs.

  Looking from under his hat brim, he paused with a horse’s hoof resting on his thigh. “Do you always pester a man with this many questions?”

  Watching where she stepped, she moved to the horse’s head and stroked its soft nose. “You wrote for a wife who could keep house, but the ad listed nothing about tending animals. Remember, I grew up in a city.” Over the past four days, she’d learned he responded better to logic than to sentiment. “Besides, if I help you with those chores, you have more time for weaving.”

  He scratched his beard and stared with dark eyes. “You’re right about that fact.” Then he focused on scraping the dirt from around the metal shoe.

  At times like this conversation, she had an inkling of hope that they could forge a relationship. What she wanted was that a friendship could develop first, and with time, the feelings would deepen. Although he showed no inclination to court her, she’d noticed he did smile with appreciation at the end of almost every meal. Once, he thanked her for mending a torn cuff on a shirt. For several hours, she held tight to a bubble of happiness that he might become kinder and less gruff.

  The next day, Clay worked the first of three full shifts at the mine. He’d accepted the extra hours to cover for a buddy who needed time off because of the birth of his first child. Since late afternoon, she’d expected to see him ride down the path toward the cabin. When he didn’t, she was glad she’d asked all those questions so she could handle the nightly animal feeding.

  Long after the sun set, she heard the clop of horse’s hooves and grabbed a shawl to meet him in the barn. She’d already eaten, and his supper was in the warming oven. Entering the barn, she spotted him slumped over the horse near its stall. “Clay, what’s wrong?” Heart hammering in her chest, she rested a hand on his pant leg. “Are you ill?”

  He mumbled something then crashed against the stall gate as he dismounted and tumbled off the other side.

  “Oh, goodness. Are you hurt?” She circled the horse and leaned over where he sprawled full-length in the dirt and straw. The stink of alcohol filled the air, and she recoiled. “You’ve been drinking.”

  “Yeah, and what about it?” His gaze narrowed, and the line of his jaw hardened. “I earned the money with my sweat and effort, so I had a few drinks when shift ended.”

  She backed away, moved to the other side of Blackie, and tugged on the straps securing the saddle. They were tighter than she anticipated, and she struggled but finally loosened the girth. She slid the saddle off the horse’s back and onto a nearby wooden stand. As she brushed down the horse’s coat, she felt prickles along the back of her neck.

  Clay sat on a trunk at the end of the next stall, watching every move.

  This task was one she’d performed as a child when the family still kept a horse. So, at least, she figured he wouldn’t find fault with her actions. After tossing flakes of hay into the feeding trough, she returned the brush and curry comb to the tack room. At the sound of stumbling footsteps, she stilled, ready for the coming lecture. When no derogatory words filled the air, she plastered on a smile and turned. “I’ll bet you’re ready for your supper.”

  Clay lounged in the doorway, looking at her with hooded eyes. “How long you gonna evade sharing our bed?”

  For a moment, her heart stuttered then sped. Lifting her chin, she met his gaze. “Until we’ve become better acquainted. I’ve only been your wife for five days.” He’d asked once before. At that time, she’d reminded him what the judge said in his office. But Clay hadn’t been happy with her response and had found fault with every task or chore she completed for the rest of that day.

  Shaking his head, he straightened and lunged across the small space. “I know a real good way to do just that.” He curved a hand around her neck, pinched, and yanked her close.

  At the smell of dirt, sweat, and whiskey, she crinkled her nose. Her pulse quickened, but she knew better than to show any fear.

  “Time to act like a wife, Wife.” He crushed his mouth against hers and pressed her back over the edge of the high bench. A knee nudged apart her thighs, and his body pressed against hers, holding her captive.

  The kiss held nothing loving or caring. He demanded, his lips biting and licking. Her struggle to get away made him push even harder, drawing blood from her lower lip. She inched her hands between their bodies and shoved at his chest. But he was so much stronger, and she gained no leverage.

  He grabbed her forearms and held them down at her side.

  Trapped. Panic beat her heart like a rabbit’s after being chased by a wolf. In her throat, she screamed “no,” but the sound never emerged.

  Seconds merged into minutes as he plundered her mouth and devoured the tender skin along the column of her neck. His kisses hurt, and his grip dug into her flesh. She let her mind drift, so she didn’t dwell on how his actions were nothing like the vows he’d spoken only days earlier. Feeling the pressure on her arms release, she thought he was done.

  But he used both hands to grab at her hair, tugging and pulling the length from its braided twist at the back of her head. “Let me see it. A man’s got a right to see his wife’s hair.”

  Hearing the ping of hairpins as they landed on the table, she lifted her hands to her head. “I’ll undo it.” Doing her best to work fast and save pins, she loosened the bun and unbraided the plaits that gathered the hair along the sides of her head. Her hair hung in rippled curtains halfway down her back. His attitude made her feel like she was a prize animal put on display on the auction block. Heat flamed her cheeks, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’d hurt her by looking away.

  Clay’s eyes widened then he reached forward and grabbed handfuls, fisting his hands and tugging back her head. “It’s bootiful, and I wan’ ta feel it on my chest.”

  Dread grabbed her belly at what he intimated, but she nodded, making sure not to show her disgust for his foul breath. Anything to get out of this small room where she had no advantage. Somehow, animal instincts had kicked in and she knew she had to avoid outright refusing him. But a little subterfuge was only her protecting herself. “We should go inside where the cabin is warmer.” Maybe she could dissuade him with his evening meal. Then with a full stomach, he might drop into a stupor and pass out.

  “Good idea.” He clamped an arm over her shoulders and leaned.

  Although right now she detested his actions, she circled an arm around his waist and helped him walk the fifty feet to the cabin’s back door. Her scalp smarted from where he pulled her hair, and her forearms throbbed from his too-tight hold.

  Clay stumbled against the kitchen table, scooting it aside several inches, and dropped into a chair, his legs wide to brace his weight. After a couple of deep breaths, he held up a foot. “My boot.”

  Hating to turn her back his way, she tugged while facing him, crossing her fingers she’d have enough leverage to accomplish the task. The boot thudded to the floor, dropping off chips of mud with shiny flecks. Then she repeated the action with the other foot and scooted them under the table. “Supper was ham steaks and potatoes with gravy.”

  “Not hungry, Wife…for food.”

  Hazelanne tucked the hairpins into her skirt pocket and waited for him to make the next move. She would not cede to what she thought he wanted, not while he was in this condition. And definitely not without putting up a fight. But as she watched, his eyelids took longer to rise with each blink. “Do you require help getting to the bedroom?” She flinched. Clay didn’t like when she spoke in a formal, schooled fashion. He thought she was being uppity
, because he’d only finished fifth grade before his father sent him out to get a job to help support the family.

  His head jerked up, and he shoved himself to a stand, slapping a hand on the table when he swayed. “I’ll get myself there.” He staggered forward with lurching steps and smashed a shoulder against the doorjamb, cursing as he landed on the bed.

  “I need to bank the fire and blow out the lanterns.” She took her time with the tasks, putting a damp cloth over his meal then setting the bar in the brace to lock the front door. Loud snoring filtered through the open doorway. At the sound, she almost sagged to the floor in relief. Tiptoeing to the opposite side of the bedroom, she unlaced her boots and rolled down her stockings. Rather than incur his wrath if he woke, she turned away, donned her night rail, and slipped onto the empty side of the mattress. Listening for any sound of him rousing, she lay with her arms stiff at her sides as far from his body as she could be.

  Now, she knew why the stagecoach guard warned her about Clay. Could she live with this ugliness he brought into their lives?

  g

  The next morning, a raucous rooster crow woke her. Hazelanne wasn’t even aware of when Clay rose and left the room. He must have eaten last night’s supper for breakfast and packed his own lunch. Maybe he felt guilty about his abhorrent actions and decided to let her sleep late.

  By the time she dragged herself from a fitful sleep, the sun was well above the horizon. Aching in several places—the most intense hurt lodged within her disillusioned heart—she dressed, grabbed a red apple and a leftover biscuit, and hurried out to the barn. An hour later, she crossed the yard to retrieve the slop bucket for the pigs, and the ground trembled beneath her feet. Must be dynamiting at the mine. Having heard Clay talk about this aspect of the mining process, she went on with her chores.

  At one point, she walked outside to draw water from the well and spotted a dark cloud in the distance…in the direction of Wildcat Ridge. Only this cloud wasn’t high in the sky but rose into the air from the ground. What could cause such an odd thing? As she performed the final chores, she turned over in her mind what event could be happening in the direction of town. A fire! She tightened her grip on the pitchfork handle. That explanation was the most logical.