by Vonnie Davis
Chapter Seven
Their conversation went a long way toward easing Sophie’s fears about her new husband. He seemed gentle. Understanding. Protective of his family. The tone of his voice softened when he talked about his dead wife, so he was capable of love. How would he come to feel about her over time? Would he love her, too? Could she love him?
The team came to a halt in front of the darkened shape of a house. Cam set the brake of the wagon with his foot. “I’ll carry Eli in and light some lanterns. Then I’ll be back for you.” He jumped down and reached for his sleeping son. “Stay here until I get some lamps lit.” Footsteps scraped on steps and echoed across a porch. A door opened. Soon a soft light glowed in a window. Within minutes, boots crunched on the porch and steps again.
“A word of warning. I’m a rancher, not a housemaid. My maw would skin me alive for bringing company into her house with floors so dirty.” Cam wrapped his large hands around her waist to help her down. “I put Eli to bed. You go on in and look around while I carry things inside.”
Her heart pounded. This would be her home. A home she’d share with a strange man and another woman’s child. Odd how a person’s life could change so quickly. One minute she was a spinster; the next she was a wife, giddy with burgeoning emotions of hope. Hours later she was a widow. One minute she was a scrub woman in a brothel and the next, a new wife once again.
Cam passed her on his way for a second armful. “What are you waiting on? Nothing in there can hurt you.”
She didn’t realize she’d been standing there looking up the three steps into a house that would be hers. Now was no time for being maudlin, wondering why her destiny landed her here. She had things to do. Sophie picked up her skirts and stepped into her new world.
A kerosene lamp with a sooty chimney sat on a narrow table in a hallway littered with dirty clothes here and there. To the left was a parlor with heavy wood furniture covered with dusty, wine-colored velvet upholstery. A floral rug graced the floor. Maybe after she hung it on a clothesline and beat it she’d be able to tell what color it was. Dirty long johns were dropped onto the floor where Cam had evidently taken them off. Stiff, smelly socks hung on the one arm of a wooden rocking chair. She ran a fingertip over the grimy tables. Cobwebs draped a corner of the large room. Tomorrow would be a day of heavy cleaning.
Through a doorway was a large kitchen. She stepped inside and froze. Saints preserve me. It’s a pig sty, so it is. Dirty dishes were piled on the end of the large wooden kitchen table. Pans, crusted with something, sat on the stove. Muddy boots were thrown in a corner. A mouse skittered across the floor and into a hole in the worn wooden planks. Books were stacked on the floor next to a chair at the table.
How could someone live like this? She gave an involuntary shudder, pushed up her sleeves, and set to work. Cam McBride was in for a shock if he thought he’d continue living in a hovel. Dirty pans were moved to the table. Then she filled the stove with kindling. Once she had a fire roaring, she pumped water into a pan. She was pleased to see the kitchen had a pump at the sink that would save her trips outside for buckets of water.
Cam carried in sacks of flour, sugar, and coffee beans. He set them on the floor and opened a door to a little pantry. Two mice darted into the kitchen. The man dared to ignore her startled gasp. “Want me to empty these into the round tins Maw always used?”
“Not until I see how clean they are.” She waved her arms around the dirty, greasy kitchen. “Cam McBride, you should have your ears boxed for living like this. ’Tis an abomination, so it is.” She could have sworn she saw the corners of his mouth quirk as if he were fighting a smile. He turned to walk away, and she stuck her tongue out at him.
The next time he came back inside, he set packages of piece goods and notions on the settee in the parlor. Books he’d bought in town were dumped onto the kitchen floor next to the crooked pile already there. A stack of newspapers were tossed onto the table. She shot him a dark look. Had the man forgotten the bookshelves in the parlor? He stuck both hands in his back pockets. “I’ll put the horses away and check on the livestock while you…”
“While I try to clean one spot upon which to stand?” She snatched the broom and began sweeping out dead leaves and mud clumps. Although by the stench, she wasn’t completely sure it was mud. “’Tis a haven for dirt you have here.” Her motions were swift and jerky. She flashed him an irritated glare. “And where are your manners? Take your hat off inside.”
He didn’t. In fact he stood there for a minute just staring at her. Then he reached out, wrapped a long arm around her waist and drew her to him. She slammed against his muscled chest and gazed at his hardened features. His blue eyes squinted as he seemed to regard her, and then slowly, very slowly, a smile spread across his solemn face. Merciful heavens. Look what a smile does to his eyes, to his face…to me.
“I won’t abide a bossy wife, Sophie Catherine. But I do like your spirit.” He tipped her chin with two fingers, the pads of them rough and strong. His blue eyes darkened as he leaned down to cover her lips with his. Both of his arms were around her now, and in his arms she felt safety, a measure of tenderness, and delightful physical sensations. The kiss was hard and swift—akin to her reaction to it.
“Did I say I wouldn’t demand my husbandly rights tonight?”
She stiffened and squared her shoulders, prepared to do verbal battle. “You most certainly did.”
“I think maybe I lied.”
Her eyes widened. She placed both palms on his cheeks and drew his face close to hers until they were eyeball to eyeball. “Well, I won’t abide a husband who lies.” She let him go and set back to cleaning.
His laughter—rich and deep—was a heart-stealing surprise. The heat of a blush rushed up her neck to swathe her cheeks. She kept on sweeping, hoping he couldn’t see his effect on her. His footsteps echoed across the floor, the door closed, and she smiled.
****
Cam stilled, one foot on the bottom step of the porch. The horses were bedded down for the night and the animals fed. A bucket of warm milk was in his hand. He glanced back over his shoulder in the direction of the cemetery, his sharing of the day with Amanda complete. Did she understand his sudden marriage? The many needs he had? How he was tired of being lonely?
He opened the door and stepped inside. Smells of fresh coffee greeted him, as did the aroma of cooking food. He hung his hat and coat on the peg of the hat stand and felt his shoulders relax. It was good to come home to a woman.
“I’ve got some fresh…” His words halted in his mouth. The table was cleared and covered with the new piece of yellow oilcloth he’d bought in town. Plates and silverware—clean ones—graced two spots at the table. A bowl of fried potatoes and a platter of fried eggs sent feathers of steam toward the ceiling. The floor was clean, as were all the dishes. The woman was a miracle worker.
His new wife was bending over to remove something from the oven. She turned, a pan of steaming biscuits in her apron-wrapped hand. “Don’t just stand there gawking. Wash up for supper. You must be tired.” Her tiny face was flushed from the heat. Wisps of red hair curled at her temples.
Shyness overcame him. This woman whom he barely knew had fixed him a meal. They were about to sit down and sup together, an intimate part of their day. Soon they’d be sharing other intimate things. His body hardened at images of her lying in his bed, her red hair spread over his pillow while he slowly made love to her. He shook the image away and reached for a clean jar in which to pour the milk.
Once he’d said grace, his new wife reached for his plate and filled it with food. “Smells mighty good, Sophie Catherine. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I set foot in the house and smelled your cooking.”
“Thank you. Are you insisting on calling me by both my names, then?”
He picked up a hot biscuit and tossed it back and forth between his hands to cool. “The combination sounds pretty to my ears. Lyrical, like a song.”
She handed him the but
ter dish and favored him with a tentative smile. “Have I married a poet, then, Cam McBride?”
Should he tell her the sound of her voice was musical in its own way, too? Foolish thoughts he’d best not share. He buttered his torn biscuit and bit into it—and moaned. “I haven’t had anything this good since Maw passed.” He forked in fried potatoes, fried crisp on the outside and tender in the middle, and chewed. Damn, the woman could cook.
“How many acres do you have, Cam?” She poured their coffee.
He reached for another biscuit. “Initially, we had a hundred acres, now it’s more than six hundred. Over the years we bought out other ranchers who either couldn’t keep up the mortgage or found life too severe here.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “How do you take care of so much land, with a little boy?”
“I take him with me.”
“Even from the time you lost your family? How old was Eli then?” She passed him the platter of fried eggs.
“Barely two.” He took a measure of pride when her lower jaw dropped in surprise and forked off more eggs. “I had no choice. Although, for the first few months, we stayed here in the house. I was too…well, grief, you know.” He couldn’t talk about how hard he’d mourned for his Amanda. “I soon learned to tie him to me with rags for times when he wanted to crawl all over me, or when he slept.”
“Didn’t a neighbor lady offer to take care of him for you? I don’t know anything about ranching, but I imagine it’s hard work. To do it with a child, a small child, must have been very difficult.”
He nodded. “It was. Still is, but I believe in taking care of what’s mine, and that includes my son. Winters are harsh, Sophie Catherine. Some days we’ll be stuck inside while storms rage outside. Deep snow. Bitter winds. But I’ll still need to go out to check on my herd. I was worried how the boy would handle the weather this winter.”
Her green eyes regarded him. “That’s where I come in?”
“Yes. This is a marriage of convenience. We discussed all this before we took our vows.”
She pushed fried potatoes around with her fork. “I’m sure we did, but honestly I was so shocked by your proposal and the swiftness of events that I don’t remember a whole lot.”
“I know women set great store on falling in love. And the courting ritual. But there wasn’t time. You needed a home of your own, and I needed someone to take care of Eli and the house.”
He sipped his coffee. “You’re a great cook, Mrs. McBride.” He glanced around the room she’d made so livable in such a brief time. “The house bears your touch already.”
She trailed a finger over the new oilcloth and smiled. “You were generous today, allowing me to get this and the piece goods to make some clothes. As for the mortgage, I’m a thrifty woman. I’ll not add to your worries.”
Should he tell her there was no mortgage? That there was money in the bank? Not a fortune, but enough to see to their needs for a few years if things got rough and he couldn’t make the ranch earn a decent income. He drained the cup and reached for the coffeepot. “That pleases me, Sophie Catherine.”
When he took the milk out to the pump house after their meal, he kept an eye on his wife while she headed toward the necessary. Having her here certainly eased the loneliness. She wasn’t his Amanda, but she had her own special appeal.
Chapter Eight
While his new wife prepared for bed, Cam banked the fires in the kitchen and the parlor for the night. Stooping to place another log in the stove, he wondered for the twentieth time what had possessed him to take a stranger for his wife. Was it concern for his son? Or a strange instant connection with another lonely human being? Would he have married her if he hadn’t read her tumbleweed letters? Probably not. Something in those letters tugged at his soul, but darned if he knew what it was.
He ran a hand over his face. Fatigue was setting in. He picked up the kerosene lamp and headed for his bedroom. Sharing his bed with a woman again would take some getting used to. Would they eventually have a close physical relationship, or would she spurn his advances? What kind of woman was his new wife?
Cam opened the door to his bedroom and stilled, his feet glued to the floor and his eyes feasting on a sight he hadn’t expected. Sophie Catherine’s hair hung to her waist in red-gold waves and curls. His fingers wiggled as if begging to touch. She wore a thin white nightdress embroidered with blue flowers at neckline and hem. His cock hardened, begging, crying for release. Her one leg was bare as she rolled the stocking off her foot, her movements showcasing the red garter holding up the stocking on her other leg. Air whooshed out of his lungs; he couldn’t breathe or speak or move.
Sophie Catherine froze, her green eyes impossibly wide. They looked at each other for several minutes. Lord only knew what the woman was thinking, and he hoped to God she couldn’t tell what thoughts were running through his mind. He shifted his stance, hoping she couldn’t see her effect on him. Finally she cleared her throat, breaking the silent spell.
“Ah…I’ll go check on Eli.” He quickly closed the door and slapped his heart, willing it to keep on beating. My God! He’d thought her plain. He glanced back over his shoulder at the closed door and the delights of the flesh on the other side. Just how long would it take her to get to know him? How long until he could fist his hands in her beautiful hair and run his hands over those shapely legs?
Sophie Catherine was lying in bed, the covers held to her neck in a death grip when he returned to the bedroom. He could almost read her mind by her fearful expression.
****
She was going to sleep with a strange man tonight. What if he tried to go back on his promise? If she told him she was still untouched, would he take it easy on her? She knew so little about men. “Is…is Eli sleeping well?”
He placed the kerosene lamp on the stand beside the bed, sat, and toed off his boots. “Yup. Fella’s plum tuckered out. Had the blankets kicked off. Still holding onto your torn dress, though.”
What would she do about the child’s attachment to her dress? “I could make him two shirts from the material. Do you think he’d like that?”
Cam was on the edge of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt, his broad back to her. “I think he’d wear the print off the material.” He shrugged out of his shirt and tugged off his undershirt. Sweet Mary and Joseph. Skin bronzed by the sun covered hard muscles. They rippled with every movement he made. Her hand took on a life of its own and reached for his wide shoulders. His skin quivered when she touched him.
“Sophie Catherine…” His voice was raw with need. “I promised I’d give you time. If you touch me, I won’t be able to live up to my promise.”
She snatched her hand back, embarrassed by her boldness. ’Tis a hussy I am. Forcing her gaze toward the ceiling, she tucked her hand back under the covers. “I’m sorry.”
He sat silent for a few heartbeats. “Do you like to be read to?”
“Read to?” She’d read to her students and suffered while young readers in her class struggled through passages in their primers, but no one ever read to her. “Not that I can recall.”
Cam stood and removed his trousers.
She kept her gaze focused on the spider web draped from one log beam to another.
Cool air swept in when Cam pulled back the quilts. The mattress dipped. Bedclothes rustled. Her husband’s warmth heated the bed. He shifted and reached for a book on the table. “I’m reading The Tale of Two Cities. Are you familiar with it?”
“’Tis written by Charles Dickens, is it not?” She turned on her side toward him and tried not to notice the mat of dark hair on his chest. She swallowed. His very naked chest. Would the hair be coarse or silky? Her fingers itched to touch. She’d touched Tommy’s chest, but it had only a few sprigs of hair, mainly around his nipples. Nothing like Cam’s. If she could only rub her cheek against the hair, just to feel its texture…
“Sophie Catherine.” His voice was very low, almost like a whisper across her skin.
“Yes?” He
r gaze took in the muscles on his shoulders and wondered what it would feel like to lay her head on them. Would the muscles be hard like the ones on his back?
“You’re staring.”
Her gaze snapped to his face. There was humor twinkling in his eyes. “I…I…ah…”
A slow smile spread, softening his hard features. “Now I know how a jar of penny candy feels with a child’s eyes glued to all the treats inside.”
Her embarrassment over his teasing was strong. The heat of a blush rose from her shoulders to her hairline. “’Tis a dreamer you are, Cam McBride. I was only…only…”
The bed shook with his laughter, and his large arm swept around her, pulling her to him. “Put your head on my shoulder. I’ll start at Chapter One. I’m on Chapter Nine, but we’ll share the whole book. A chapter a night.” He kissed her hair. “First, undo your braid.”
“My braid? Why?”
“You had it down earlier.”
“Yes, but I always braid it before going to bed.”
“The Good Book says a woman’s hair is her crowning glory. I want to feel how soft and silky your hair feels. It’s not an unreasonable request, is it?” His blue eyes were locked on hers. He rubbed the leather-bound book slowly back and forth across his bare chest as if he were nervously waiting for her response.
“I’ve never unbound my hair for anyone before.” Still, she could understand how he’d want to touch her hair. Hadn’t she wanted to do the same thing? To touch him? Surely she could do this small thing for her husband. She reached up and began unbraiding her hair. “Now you’re staring, Mr. McBride.”
“So I am.” He watched her every movement. His gaze floated from her hair to her breasts. His breathing grew rapid. The deep blue of his eyes changed to a dark stormy blue. She had a strong inkling he could see through her new nightgown. Her nipples peaked in awareness.
Slowly his hands drifted toward her. The book plopped onto the floor.
