by Merry Farmer
“Eat up,” Julia told him, sitting across from him and loading her own plate with food.
Sam shook his head, absentmindedly picking up his fork. He speared a potato wedge and brought it to his mouth. He was going to have to do something about this. He couldn't let his life descend into chaos. He would have to lay down the law and—
He’d never tasted anything so delicious in his whole life. He blinked, the flavors of the spices on the potatoes hitting him like a boot to the head. One bite wasn’t enough. He picked up his knife and cut a piece of roast. It melted like butter in his mouth. The spinach was equally wonderful, and he’d turned up his nose at vegetables since he was a boy. But now he couldn’t get enough of them.
“Do you like it?” Julia asked, brimming with innocent uncertainty.
“It’s delicious,” he answered honestly.
She let out a long breath and started eating. “Good. I wanted to do my very best for you. I learned how to cook roast from my Great Aunt Angeline. She worked as a cook in the kitchen for one of the most prominent businessmen in Baltimore. At least, she did until that grease fire.”
Not even the gruesome story of Great Aunt Angeline, that Julia insisted on recounting in detail as they ate, could take away Sam’s appetite for the food in front of him. It was so far above anything he’d had or that he could make for himself. And as he finished off his first helping and treated himself to a second, a growing sense of dread that had nothing to do with Great Aunt Angeline’s disfigurement filled him.
He could get used to this. He could get used to this in a hurry.
Chapter 5
“What in the name of Pete is that woman doing?” Trey asked Sam from across the bar the next afternoon. Trey twisted on his bar stool to watch Julia as she swished across the room carrying an armful of curtain fabric.
“Don’t ask,” Sam grumbled. A big part of him wanted to scowl and glare at his wife, but another part of him, his belly, was too full and content. Julia had cooked him a magnificent breakfast that included a contraption made from eggs, cheese, peppers, and onions that she called an omelet. He’d never heard of anything like it. The name sounded suspiciously French. But he scarfed down two of them before he could think twice.
And then he’d had to wash the dishes, scrub the pots, and put away the ingredients, seeing as Julia had already flitted on to her next “brilliant idea” for making his life more homey and comfortable.
“Are those curtains?” Trey asked, yanking him out of his thoughts.
Sam sighed and shifted his weight. Julia had pulled a chair from one of the saloon tables to the front windows, and now stood on the chair, holding the fabric against the window frame.
“Yeah,” Sam said, rubbing a hand over his face.
“In a saloon?” Gus joined the conversation from the other end of the bar.
Sam grunted. “You should see what she did to my living quarters.”
He hadn’t thought it was possible for one little woman to whip his world into a frenzy so quickly. He’d barely finished drying the frying pan and hanging it on its hook above the stove when he’d turned to find Julia tying what looked like frilly aprons to the seats of his chairs. She’d called them seat cushions and insisted that sitting at the table would be more comfortable going forward. Cushions he didn’t mind, but when he’d asked her why the heck they had to have ruffles around the edges, she’d smiled and told him they were stylish.
“If what she’s doing back there is anything like what she’s doing in here,” Trey said with a chuckle, “then I’m afraid to ever go back to your place again.”
Sam frowned at him, but only for as long as it took to notice what Julia was up to. She’d finished measuring the fabric against the windows and had moved on to draping an ungodly piece of lacy material across one of his tables. The group of travelers who had stopped in to play cards at one of the other tables had suspended their game entirely as they watched Julia work. They chuckled and leered and whispered to each other behind their hands of cards.
Sam wasn’t sure which he liked less, the men ogling his wife or Julia’s dainty destruction of his saloon. He blew out a breath, shaking his head, and marched out from behind the bar. On the way over to the table where Julia was working, he glared at the travelers. They lost their grins, cleared their throats, shuffled their chairs, and went back to their game. Almost. As Sam continued over to Julia, their shifty glances followed him.
“Sweetheart, what in the hell are you doing?” Sam asked when he reached Julia.
Julia instantly straightened and smiled at him, her eyes shining with sunshine. “You just called me sweetheart.”
Sam blinked. “Yeah?”
Her smile widened. “I think I like that.” She slid closer to him, raised herself to her toes, and kissed his cheek.
Sam was smiling before he could stop himself. Judging by the heat that flooded his face, he was blushing too. Which only made it worse when he caught sight of Trey’s shoulders shaking with laughter. Sam wiped the pleased grin off his face and crossed his arms.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he told Julia. “What are you doing?”
“Making tablecloths,” she answered, grinning but not looking up at him as she smoothed the horrible fabric over the table, making sure it was even. “Well, technically I’m making a template for a tablecloth. It’s far easier than draping fabric over every single table in the place.”
She finished straightening the fabric, spared him a quick smile, then lifted a basket Sam hadn’t noticed onto the center of the table. For one, terrifying moment, Sam thought she would produce another porcelain woodland creature to grace the table from the basket’s depths, but when she reached in, all she took out was a heavy pair of scissors.
“Whoa there,” Trey called, getting up from the bar and strolling over. “Are you sure it’s safe for Mrs. Standish here to go wielding an instrument like that?”
“A what like what?” Julia spun to face Trey, scissors held out. She would have sliced him across the chest if he hadn’t jumped back. “Oh. These.” She laughed as if she suddenly understood the joke. “Don’t worry, I’m never clumsy with scissors.”
No sooner were the words out of her mouth then she lowered the scissors and pivoted back to the table, catching and skewing the fabric she’d so carefully draped with the scissors’ point.
“Oh, dear.” She sighed and set the scissors on the edge of the table, then tugged the fabric to reposition it. As she did, the scissors fell from the table, landing point down, less than an inch from Sam’s toes.
Trey snorted. Sam glared at him, then bent to pick up the scissors.
“Saloon tables generally don’t have tablecloths,” he told Julia.
“Maybe not other saloons, but this one will,” she replied, sending him one of those smiles that melted his insides to uselessness.
“Saloon patrons tend to spill things,” Sam argued on. “You’re gonna have a lot of washing to do if you go through with this.”
“Oh.” Julia stopped brushing her hands over the fabric and straightened. “I didn’t think of that.” She tilted her head to the side and pursed her lips. Sam was halfway to breathing a sigh of relief for talking her out of the ridiculous idea when she went on with, “We’re going to need a bigger washtub, then.”
She plucked the scissors from Sam’s hand with a smile and squatted to begin trimming the ends of the fabric so that it made an even circle around the table.
Sam threw up his hands. He glanced to Trey for help, but his friend just stood there and laughed.
“Let her go ahead and make table cloths,” one of the men at the table with the card game spoke up. “It’ll be easier to hide cards that way.”
The rest of the men at the table burst into raucous laughter.
Sam rolled his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face for what felt like the thousandth time that day. “I didn’t even think of that. Cloths will make it that much easier for fellas to cheat at cards. Julia, you’
re gonna have to rethink this.”
“I’m sorry?” She blinked up at him with innocent eyes. Sam doubted she’d even heard the comment.
“Nothing,” Sam sighed. “You go ahead and make your template, or whatever it is.”
He turned, shaking his head, and marched back to the bar.
“You’re really going to let her go through with this mad scheme?” Trey murmured, falling into step with him.
“What else am I supposed to do? She already bought all the fabric for those things. And at least sewing the edges will keep her busy for a while.” Sam walked behind the bar and Trey made his way back to his seat. “Besides,” Sam continued once he’d moved up to Trey’s spot. “I’ll just take them off when she’s not up here in the saloon part of the premises.”
Trey chuckled, picking up the beer he’d been sipping before. “You might want to think about getting Rupert to build one of those new houses across the tracks for you. That way, your sweet wife never has to set foot in here.”
“Yeah, I should probably—” Sam stopped with a frown. A house. Probably with a yard and a garden. That was the sort of thing that a thoroughly domesticated man bought for himself. Which meant that was the last thing he wanted. “No,” he said aloud.
He swiped a clean cloth from the pile at the back of the bar and set to work wiping down the bar’s already shiny counter. No house, no way. Even if it meant Julia would wreak her havoc far away from the place where he spent most of his time. He glanced up at her as he rubbed a spot on the bar where Chan had let a glass sit too long the night before. Julia had finished cutting her way around the bottom of the tablecloth and stood. She hummed as she gathered the cut cloth into her arms.
Yep, knowing her, she’d probably furnish a house with puffy, flowery furniture. They’d have a parlor stuffed with couches and armchairs. There’d probably be carpets and a grandfather clock too. He paused, his hand resting on the cloth where he’d stopped cleaning his bar. He’d always wanted a grandfather clock. There was something fascinating and majestic about them. And maybe one of those nature paintings of a view looking out over the Grand Canyon too. He’d seen one at a hotel in Cheyenne once.
Come to think of it, if they were going to build a house, it would need a formal dining room, like the one Howard Haskell had out at his place. But none of those frilly, ruffle chair cushions that Julia was trying to force on him. Simple, upholstered dining chairs would do. And maybe a long, mahogany table where he and Julia could entertain. Her food was certainly good enough to host a feast for all their friends and—
The saloon door opened, and half a second later, Julia’s excited squeal snapped Sam out of this thoughts.
“Bebe!” Julia dropped everything she was doing—literally, in the case of the scissors—and practically danced across the room to meet Bebe Bonneville at the door. “You came to visit me.”
“I did,” Bebe declared. She and Julia met and clasped hands, jumping up and down as though someone had lit a fire on the floor. Sam could only blink and gape at them. “I had to sneak out when Vivian and Melinda were taking their afternoon nap, though. Papa and Cousin Rance are out doing whatever they do with the cattle, and the nursemaid Vivian hired to take care of baby Royce took him out for a walk. Gracious sakes, am I glad that Vivian hired a nursemaid. Royce is precious, but he’s a handful. I couldn’t take care of him forever.”
“I should say not,” Julia picked up the furious pace of the conversation. “Although isn’t it a mother’s responsibility to care for her own child? Of course, from what I’ve seen of your sister, I’m not certain that’s what I would want for any child.”
“It’s not. I’ve never seen a baby cry so much when his own mother picks him up. Not that she does it very often. Which probably explains why Royce cries.”
“I swear, when I have a child, and I truly hope it’s as soon as possible, I will carry it around with me wherever I go and shower it with affection and squeeze it to pieces.”
“Which is how children should be treated.”
“Oh, you and Hubert are going to have the most darling children someday!”
“If Papa ever lets me see him for a social call. Being forced to steal time with him when no one is looking is hardly a way to have a courtship, if I do say so myself.”
“Oh, you poor thing!”
“Good lord, there are two of them,” Trey burst out, leaning closer to Sam across the bar.
“Yep.” It was the only thing Sam could say. His ears were already ringing from the women’s chatter. He could do nothing but stand there and gape at his wife and—hellfire and brimstone. Had she somehow managed to make Bebe Bonneville her best friend? In the scant two days that she had been in town? “How do you two know each other?” he asked, interrupting their continued stream of chatter.
Julia stopped—in mid-sentence, by the look of it—and turned to him. She and Bebe were still clasping each other’s hands like sisters. “We met at the mercantile yesterday.” She blinked as though the fact had been advertised everywhere.
“Julia and I share a love of fine literature,” Bebe announced with a smile.
“Well, dime novels,” Julia laughed. “It’s just a shame you weren’t able to stay longer and help me pick out fabric for tablecloths.”
“Tablecloths?” Bebe’s brow flew up.
“Yes, I have plans to make tablecloths and curtains and all sorts of fine decorations for the saloon,” Julia told her, ignoring Sam and the others completely once more. “Here, I’ll show you.”
Sam supposed he should take it as a blessing that Bebe was interested in everything that Julia was doing. The two of them pored over every scrap of fabric and bit of ribbon that Julia had lugged out to the saloon’s main room from his desecrated living quarters. Bebe kept Julia busy, but she also kept her talking. And there was something unnatural about two women chattering like magpies in the main room of a saloon…while a gang of travelers played cards, smoked cigars, and laughed at the two of them.
“Why don’t the two of you pick up this conversation back in our living space,” Sam suggested once the leers and jeers of the card players became too much for him.
“Better still,” Julia began with a gasp of inspiration. “Let me take you upstairs to the guest rooms. I have such plans to spruce them up. Why, they’re barely habitable now, but once I’m done with them, they’ll rival the finest rooms at The Cattleman Hotel.” She grabbed Bebe’s hands, and the two of them headed for the stairs at the far end of the room, like two schoolgirls on their way to lunch.
“Have you seen the rooms at the hotel?” Bebe asked as they started upstairs.
“No,” Julia admitted, “but I’m sure we can outdo anything they have there.”
As their footsteps disappeared to the second floor, Sam slouched against the bar, shaking his head. It only made things worse that Trey—who had finished his beer ages ago—continued to sit there laughing at him.
“And you thought your life would be dull,” Trey said, shaking his hand. He stood.
“Where are you going?” Sam asked, suddenly not liking the thought of being left on his own with so much femininity just upstairs.
“Trust me, I’d love to stay,” Trey said, “but Talia and I are finally taking that honeymoon I’ve been promising her. We’re leaving for Denver tomorrow, which means I have a load of packing to do.”
“Who’s in charge of law and order in town while you’re away?” Gus asked, evidently still listening in to private conversations from the other end of the bar.
“The Montrose brothers have said they’ll take turns keeping an eye on things,” Trey said. “But I doubt there will be any trouble.”
“How do you know?” Sam frowned. “This is the Wild West, after all.”
Trey chuckled. “Those dime novels and the newspapers might call this west wild, but you and I both know that Haskell is about as wild as a Persian cat.” He chuckled, shook his head, and thumped Sam’s arm from across the bar. “You’ll be fine
without me.”
As much as it gnawed at Sam, Trey was probably right. At least, he was probably right about Haskell. The saloon was another thing.
“What was that?” Sam grumbled half an hour later when a loud crash sounded from the second floor.
“Your wife up there?” Chan asked. He’d arrived minutes before and had only just settled in to work.
“Yeah,” Sam answered, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. “I’d better go see what she’s destroyed now.”
He left Chan to man the bar, crossed the room, and headed up the stairs. His gut knotted in anticipation of what he would find in a way that it hadn’t since Cheyenne, when he’d led the local sheriff to the den where a notorious train-robber had hidden in the saloon where he worked. The feeling only intensified as he made it to the top of the stairs, only to hear Julia and Bebe muttering and grunting, as though they were struggling with something.
He picked up his pace, and reached one of the guest rooms at the end of the hall just as the tall bureau that had rested up against one wall crashed forward.
“Oh!” Julia shouted.
Bebe screamed.
Sam dodged just in time to stop himself from being squashed as the bureau smashed to the floor. Wood splintered and the top of the bureau popped off, shooting into the opposite wall and leaving a dent.
“For the love of—” Sam couldn’t think of a curse strong enough that wouldn’t hurt the ladies’ ears. “Julia!”
“It was an accident,” Julia insisted, a hand pressed to her chest. “We were only moving it so that we could see if this wall would be a suitable place for a sampler. It’s a terribly awkward piece of furniture, though, don’t you think? It doesn’t belong in a room this small.”
“It looks like it doesn’t belong anywhere now.” Sam fought hard to keep from shouting. Heat worked its way up his neck, but for some reason he couldn’t make up his mind about whether to rage or to laugh. “It’s not good for anything but kindling now.”
