The Inconvenient Bride Series 1-3

by Sharon Ihle

  An hour and several aborted recipes later, she settled on a blend of flour, milk, and salt, then, remembering how much she liked the sweet flavor of the pancakes at the hospital, added a cup of sugar and a good measure of molasses. Lacey whipped and whipped the batter, smoothing it until the muscles in her arms cried out with pain before she decided it was silky enough to be the right consistency.

  After thoroughly coating her hands with flour to keep the dough from sticking to her fingers, she arranged six little globs of the thick, gooey batter in the skillet, then set to mashing them into nice little cake-like shapes. They weren't the perfect small rounds turned out by the staff at St. Josephine's, she decided when she'd finally finished shaping them, but she thought they would most certainly do. Hefting the heavy iron skillet and its even heavier burden, Lacey set the pan on the stove near the hottest burner. Then she began cleaning up the dreadful mess she'd made of the kitchen.

  Sometime later, she noticed that smoke had begun to rise from beneath the little cakes. Lacey raced to the stove, grabbed the handle of the skillet, then released it in the next second. The iron handle was as hot as the stove, and she'd burned the palm of her good hand! Smarting, she raced to the table, cut off a small block of butter, then spread it across the burn and wrapped her hand with the only clean cloth left in the kitchen. By now, the smoke curling up from the stove was black, and the smell of charred flour hung over the room like the cloak of the devil himself.

  "Damn the bit and the luck, too!" she cursed as she flew back to the stove. This time putting a soiled cloth between herself and the iron handle, she dragged the skillet away from the heat. After pushing her hair out of her eyes—a good deal of her bun had come loose during her frantic exertions—Lacey used a fork to try and lift the pancakes so she could turn them over. The dough was fused to the bottom of the pan.

  Her frustrations mounting, she looked around the kitchen for something else to use as a wedge, anything, and spotted a large curved knife like the one Hawke wore at his waist. It was hanging from a wooden rack above the sink along with several other instruments. Taking the knife and the small wooden mallet dangling next to it, she jabbed the tip of the blade beneath one of the pancakes, then used the mallet like a hammer against the grip of the knife.

  Chiseling away at her creations in this manner, after a time, Lacey managed to get all six of the little flapjacks turned. Her weary muscles nearly spent, she dragged the skillet back to the heat; then collapsed in a chair at the table. A moment later, Hawke burst into the kitchen.

  The acrid aroma hit him first. "What in hell are you burning in here?" he said as he walked into the room. "And why haven't you come after me for breakfast yet? I'm—" He'd been about to say, starving, until he glanced at the stove and saw the crusty black lumps sizzling in the skillet.

  Stalking over to the burner, he stared down into the pan. Breakfast, if that's what this was supposed to be, looked an awful lot like the buffalo chips he'd once collected for the evening campfire—after they'd been burned: "What is this supposed to be?"

  He turned to Lacey, who was still sitting at the table. Her head was in her hands, but what he could see of her face was covered with flour. Her hair was disheveled and her clothes were splotchy with flour and sticky dough. She looked like hell, but then the kitchen hadn't fared any better what with dough, flour, and molasses smeared on every counter and not a clean rag to be found anywhere. Taking care of the most immediate problem, Hawke folded his glove around the handle of the skillet, then shook his head in wonder as he lifted the pan from the heat and moved it to the counter. He was all set to join Lacey at the table to commiserate with her over the meal gone wrong, when he noticed his favorite bowie knife lying in the sink. This too wore a coat of gluey dough—and worse, the tip of the blade had been snapped clean off.

  "You broke my knife!" he blurted out. "You've gone and ruined my best skinning knife."

  Lacey didn't even lift her head as his accusations rang in her ears. She was sinking, falling deeper and deeper into one of her spells. Soon, if she couldn't find a way to get hold of herself and stop the slide, she wouldn't be aware of anything except a great dark emptiness inside. If that happened, she'd be exposing parts of herself to Hawke she'd thought gone and buried.

  No, no, not now! Not after all I've been through to bring me this far! Although Lacey fought against the inviting sensations, the pull of the slippery, effortless path into the mindless abyss was great, the promise of oblivion so strong, that it was almost like a warm caress. How she longed to hide there in that comforting lap of nothingness where she could escape responsibility for the mess she'd made of things, but from somewhere deep inside, she found the strength to barely hang on.

  "Why won't you answer me," Hawke demanded. "What the hell has been going on in here?"

  Lacey forced herself to stand, but when she tried to answer the charges, she still couldn't quite make herself form words. Glancing down into her hand, she noticed that she'd rolled a ball of dough up from the table as she'd sat there in her near stupor. Speak to the man, tell him what he wants to know, she begged of herself, bin before she could begin, again Hawke prodded her.

  "Lacey? What's wrong with you?"

  Had he guessed? "I—'tis... because of your breakfast," shot out of her mouth followed by an equally impulsive statement. "Tis the fault of your bloody pancakes... sir!"

  Then, because she couldn't think what else to do, Lacey threw the sticky glob of dough at Hawke and bolted out the back door. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she ran and the urge to slip under the protection of one of her spells grew strong again, so strong, she knew she had to find a place to hide herself way until she could calm down. If Hawke confronted her now, Lacey knew she'd never have the strength to face him again. She'd be lost within herself for hours or maybe even days. What she needed was a good cry and a short nap. Solitude, above all. Thinking of the barn and the harness room with its thick pile of blankets, she dashed through the big double doors.

  Once her eyes adjusted to the dimmer lighting, Lacey hurried down the center aisle without even stopping for a quick peek at Taffy and the newly christened "Irish." When she reached the harness room, she flung the door open and jumped inside.

  There, a full measure of sunlight streaming in through the window to highlight its features, stood a thing more horrifying than even the banshees of her nightmares.

  Lacey and the creature opened their mouths at the precise same moment. Then each cut loose with a bloodcurdling scream.

  When your hand is in the dog's mouth, draw it out carefully.

  —A common Irish saying

  Chapter 6

  Surely her poor confused mind was playing some kind of new trick on her! Wishing with all her might for that to be true, Lacey squeezed her eyes shut, then quickly blinked them open. The banshee was still there, still staring at her in the same mute horror. It glanced behind her to the door, but Lacey had blocked the only escape route from the room. And she was far too frightened to move out of its way.

  "W-would you—" She paused to clear her throat. "Would you be a banshee or leprechaun?" she asked the thing.

  The creature had a wild look about it, its dusty black hair matted and sticking out in every direction, its skin dark, smeared with streaks of dirt. At the sound of her voice, its huge onyx eyes flared, making it look even wilder. Then it flattened itself against the back wall of the room.

  "I-I mean you no harm," she said, recognizing a certain insanity in speaking to what had to have been a figment of her imagination. Imaginary or not, the thing was the approximate size described in Irish fairy tales, its wiry body a little shorter than her own five feet five inches. The oddest thing was the fact that it was dressed in a most peculiar way, certainly not in a manner reminiscent of a leprechaun or an elf.

  From what Lacey knew of those creatures, they went around pestering folks in caps, coats, and buckled shoes. Even far darrig, the mischievous elf, cut .a dapper little figure as he ran amuck i
n his red costume playing jokes on children who did not obey their parents. But this wee person wore buckskin trousers similar to Hawke's and a fringed shirt to match. And he didn't giggle or dance about the way she would have expected of a fairy, but stood there frozen and mute instead. Like a child from the madhouse might do. If not a fairy, then what could it be?

  She smiled and the creature seemed to relax a little. Then, surprising her, it leaned forward, tentatively reached out to her, and touched her cheek with the pad of its finger. It was all Lacey could do not to step back or cry out. Sensing something special about what appeared to be a young boy, she forced herself to stand still, and allowed him to examine her. He wiped a drop of moisture from her skin—a teardrop she'd shed as she ran to the barn—and made a careful study of it. As he marveled over the dew from her eyes, Lacey slowly came to recognize a certain manner about him. He wore a haunted look, one she'd seen often on the faces of children newly admitted to the hospital—and sometimes, in her own mirror. Her heart told her this was no banshee or fairy come to bring her bad luck; this was but another lost soul.

  "I'm sorry if I frightened you," she said, keeping her voice soft and lilting. "I did not know you were here."

  The boy's uneasy gaze remained on his fingertip and her dried-up teardrop. Fairly sure she knew how to reach him, Lacey pointed to his other hand where he held a gleaming band of metal tied up with what looked like a couple of thin leather straps. "Are you working for Mr. Hawke, then? What do you have there?"

  This produced the first hint of communication from the boy. Without meeting her gaze, he shrugged and nodded, at the same time leaving Lacey to make what she could of his answer."I can see that you do not care to talk much," she went on, "and that is quite all right with me seeing that I never spoke a word for years on end during my early life. But would you mind seeing your way to answer me the one thing? Are you capable of speech, lad?"

  Lifting his wary gaze, he slowly nodded.

  "Well, then, I expect we'll be the best of friends! If there be one thing Kathleen Lacey O'Carroll can understand, 'tis the urge to stay silent!" The boy cocked his head and took a step toward her. Smiling at him again, she let him know exactly why she was there. "I'm working for Mr. Hawke, too, but I'm having a time of it!" She held up her sticky hands. "I was trying to make pancakes for his breakfast earlier, but I could not do it right. His kitchen looks every bit the mess my hands do, and all he's got to eat for the trouble, is a few lumps of charcoal."

  The boy laughed, then held up the item he'd been polishing. "My work—spurs."

  "Spurs, you say?" Determined to keep hint talking, Lacey thought back to a story she once read about the American West. "A while ago I heard the tale of a small man from Texas who did not have the respect of his fellow cowboys. He went 'round with his face dragging the clover until he bought himself a pair of grand silver, spurs. After that, when he went about wearing them on his boots, 'twas like the finest of charms for the lad. The cowboy felt so tall, so brave, and so fearless, that whenever he wore those spurs, the other men cleared a path for him. Are these the items you'd be workin' on, then?"

  The boy's dirty sienna face broke into a wide grin, and he slowly nodded. "Hawke's spurs."

  "Aye, then perhaps those are the charms I need to keep our dear Mr. Hawke from making his fill of complaints about my work." Lacey reached out and touched the edge of the silver for luck. "I can not seem to keep him in a fine temper when I'm around. Perhaps if I were to tie a pair of these to my apron."

  As if speaking his name had conjured him up, Hawke came into the barn and called to her. "Lacey? Are you in here?"

  She turned her head as if to answer him, but the boy whispered, "No, lady, no!" Then he put a finger against her mouth.

  "Lacey?" Hawke called again. "If you're in here, say so. I'm done hollering at you, if that's what has you worried, and sorry that I hollered before to boot." After a few moments of silence, his retreating footsteps met their ears, and then all was quiet again.

  She turned back to the boy. "Why could we no answer him?"

  "Spurs." He pointed up at the variety of leather goods and halters hanging from the wall. "You wear."

  Lacey glanced up to find another pair of spurs, noting that they were of a far fancier design than the pair the boy held in his hands. The ones he'd been polishing had a horseshoe-shaped band of silver which fit around the heel of a boot. The actual spur—in this case, a protruding tube of metal one-inch long and blunted at the end—was attached to the center of the band at the back. The set on the wall appeared to have a silver wheel fashioned of what looked like shamrocks in place of this single spur.

  "May I take them down?" she asked. The boy nodded rapidly, so Lacey stood on tiptoes and lifted them over their peg. The spurs indeed were shaped like small, pointy clovers, and when tapped by her finger, spun 'round and 'round, leaving a metallic little jingle in their wake. "They're like a good luck sign by the nine orders of angels!" she said with awe. "You think 'twould be all right if I were to try them on?"

  Grinning to himself, the boy dropped to his knees, reached beneath the hem of her skirt, and captured one of Lacey's feet. When he saw her thin leather slipper, he frowned. Cautioning her to remain still, he jumped up, opened a small cupboard behind him, and pulled out a pair of boots.

  'Turning back to Lacey, he said, "These Crowfoot's. You try."

  "Crowfoot? What is that?"

  He beat his own small chest. "I Crowfoot."

  Pleased by her progress with the boy, she accepted the offered boots. "Thank you, Mr. Crowfoot."

  Lacey sat on a nearby stool to make the switch, and as she pulled off her own shoes, noticed that one of the boots Crowfoot had given her was stiff and new, the other, crumpled, worn, and a little misshapen. Automatically glancing down at the boy's feet, she saw that on his foot he wore a fairly new boot, but that the left was wrapped in a large ball of hemp.

  Sensing that it would be wiser to go slow with her new little friend, she decided not to comment or ask about his injury just yet, but quietly went about switching her footgear instead: Surprisingly enough, the boots did fit her rattler well, and were far more suitable for working on the ranch than her delicate slippers. Lacey offered her newly outfitted feet to Crowfoot, and he made a grand display of attaching the lovely "shamrock" spurs to her new boots.

  "Try now," the boy said, encouraging her to stand up.

  Lacey took a few hesitant steps, then got bolder. The more aggressive her stride, the louder the spurs jingled, and after a moment, she did feel as if she were ten feet tall, invincible, and all powerful. She even danced a noisy little jig for Crowfoot's benefit, then finally dropped back down on the stool.

  "Now I'm knowing how that cowboy felt," she said, out of breath. "If only I had it in my power to wear these spurs in the house around Mr. Hawke! They have me feeling like there's nothing I can not do! Even to make pancakes!"

  Crowfoot waved her away. "Go now."

  Giving him what she thought he wanted—his privacy—she leaned over to remove the spurs and boots, but a grime-streaked hand reached out and stopped her.

  "Go now. Keep spurs."

  "You can not mean it," she said with surprise. "'Twill anger Mr. Hawke something awful if he finds me wearing his spurs, 'twill it no?"

  The boy nodded, but placed a finger across his lips and grinned. Then he put the same finger across her mouth and grinned even wider.

  "Forgettin' to tell the man seems like a very good idea, but he's sure to notice they've been taken from their peg."

  Crowfoot shook his head and pointed to the spurs he'd been polishing. "Not hurt horse." Then he pointed to Lacey's feet. "Hurt horse, only for show."

  "He does not wear them?" The boy nodded enthusiastically. "Then you're sayin' that if I were to tiptoe carefully to keep the spurs from jingling when Hawke's around, he might not ever know that I've borrowed them... would that be right?"

  His grin wider than ever, Crowfoot stuck out his hand, took
hold of hers, and shook it. "Right," he repeated. "No talk about Crowfoot, too. Right?"

  Seeing a kindred spirit in this boy who couldn't have been more than ten or twelve years old, Lacey grinned back at him. "Right—and may I melt off the earth like snow if I should slip and make any mention of you."

  Moments later, it was with a confidence that she'd never known before that Lacey made her way back to the ranch house and boldly stepped into the kitchen. Hawke was nowhere to be seen, so she went to work cleaning up the mess she'd made earlier, then tidied up the one he'd made cooking a pile of sausage patties while she'd been outside in the barn.

  He checked on her only once after that, and then surprised her by starting the journey back to Three Elk Ranch at least an hour earlier than he had before—in fact, he hadn't even given her enough time to duck back into the barn and remove the spurs. On top of that, Hawke seemed to be in a "mood" throughout the long drive, speaking to her but not really saying much. Oh, he said he forgave her for breaking his knife, and seemed to understand that she was new to cooking pancakes, but that little "connection" she'd felt between them after the foal was born had vanished. Tomorrow, she thought with renewed confidence, she'd return to Winterhawke armed with some of Kate's recipes and the luck o' the spurs to help her put them together right. Hawke would warm up to her and the idea of keeping her on once she fed his belly right. Lacey just knew it.

  When the wagon finally pulled up in front of Caleb's wood-frame home, Hawke planted his foot on the brake, but didn't set it. "By the way—I won't be back to pick you up for a couple of days. I have to ride the fences and check on the horses out in the far pastures. Often, I wind up spending a night or two away from the ranch." That was a lie of course, especially during foaling season, but one he told to give him the break he needed from this confusing, confounded woman. He took his foot off the brake. "Be sure to say hello to Caleb for me. I've got to get back now."