by Kit Morgan
He smiled stiffly at the thought. He just hoped he didn’t regret this later.
9
“I now pronounce you man and wife!” Preacher Dan said happily. “Time for pie!”
“Preacha Dan!” Mrs. White said. “Ain’t ya fergettin’ somethin’?”
Preacher Dan glanced around. “The coffee?”
“No!” She slapped her forehead with her hand. “The kiss!”
“Kiss?”
“Yeah,” added Henry. “Ain’t he supposed to kiss the bride?”
Preacher Dan quickly looked at the disgruntled couple before him. “I’m not sure they want to.”
“Of course they do,” Henry argued. “All couples kiss when they get hitched.”
Mr. Judrow looked over his shoulder at Henry and glared. “Not all.”
“And certainly not us!” Emma snapped. How on earth had she gotten herself into this predicament? It sounded fine a half-hour ago, but a lot could happen in thirty minutes –like her getting her senses back. “What have I done?” she muttered to no one in particular.
“What you had to do,” Mr. Judrow pointed out.
“Oh yes, there was supposedly a reason behind this madness.” She met his glare with one of her own.
“You’d best go upstairs and rest,” he said. “We’re leaving just as soon as we can.”
“Leaving?!”
“I don’t mean tomorrow,” he clarified. “But the sooner we get out of here the better, which means you need to rest that ankle.”
Emma hopped around the chair she’d been leaning against during the ceremony and sat. “Mrs. White, I don’t think …”
“Right, ya don’t,” Mrs. White said. “Which is why ya hurt yer ankle in the first place.”
Emma gaped at her. “What?” She shook her head in exasperation. “I was only going to say that … I … well, I don’t think it’s such a good idea now. Never mind.”
“Too late for that,” Mr. Judrow said. “Now should I take you upstairs or do you want Oscar to?”
“Yer her husband, ain’t ya?” Henry asked. “Shouldn’t ya be carryin’ her upstairs?”
Mr. Judrow arched an eyebrow at him. “Right, Henry. I should.” Without warning, he scooped Emma into his arms.
“Unhand me!”
He smiled that devilish smile of his. “Don’t argue with your husband. You’re going to bed.”
Emma pressed her lips together. “Don’t tell me what to do!”
“I can do what I want. You married me.”
“Under false pretenses!”
He smiled.
“I mean … it’s supposed to be in name only!”
“Why’s that?” Henry asked, confused.
“Ya don’t wanna know, Henry,” Oscar said. “I’ll go get the coffee, Ma.”
Mrs. White nodded. “Good idea.” She turned to a red-faced Emma, who now had her arms wrapped around Mr. Judrow’s neck, and smiled. “All things work ‘cordin’ to His good purpose.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Emma huffed as Mr. Judrow headed toward the stairs.
Mrs. White grinned. “I gotta feelin’ yer gonna find out.”
Emma began to struggle in his arms but stopped when he gave her one of those looks. She stuck her tongue out at him.
Mr. Judrow laughed. “Next time I’ll catch it.”
She rolled her eyes. “With what?”
He said nothing, but bared his teeth.
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Oh, do inform me of what I wouldn’t dare do …”
“Mrs. White!” Emma pleaded.
Anson, silent all this time, began to laugh. “Ya made yer bed, girl – now lie in it! ‘Sides, don’t ya see we’re only doin’ this so he can protect ya?”
“Protect me by biting my tongue?”
“You started it,” Mr. Judrow said, proceeding toward the stairs again.
Emma groaned. “Isn’t anyone on my side?”
“No,” everyone in the room said except Henry, who was more interested in the cherry turnover he’d just grabbed.
Emma shook her head in resignation and kept her mouth shut. Besides, she was realizing how warm Mr. Judrow’s body was, the breadth of his chest, the tanned skin of his face and stubbled jaw. To add to the effect he had on her, his dark eyes were piercing and he moved with the grace of a cat even with her in his arms. Her heart skipped a beat as he started up the stairs.
“You’re unusually quiet all of a sudden,” he said. His voice was softer, deeper.
“I have nothing to say.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “What more can I say?”
He thought a moment as he reached her bedroom door. “Mmm. Not a lot.”
“See?”
He carried her into her room and gently set her down next to the bed. As soon as he let her go she sat on it – more like fell on it – and stared up at him. “Why? Why would you go to such lengths to protect my reputation?”
“Why wouldn’t I? Your brother spent a lot of money to have you brought to him in one piece. I figured that includes your reputation. Especially since the whole point of delivering you to him is so he can find you a good husband.”
Her eyebrows rose in amusement. “I already have one, remember?”
He chuckled deep in his throat, and it sent a shiver through her. “For now you do.” He turned on his heel and headed for the door.
A prick of disappointment hit her and she gasped.
He stopped and turned. “Something the matter?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Then I’ll see you in the morning …” He grinned. “… Mrs. Judrow.” He went out the door and closed it behind him before she could reply.
Emma groaned. If she’d had something to throw, she would. Instead she dropped into an unladylike slouch. For a new bride, she was miserable. But why? Their plan made sense now that she was getting over the initial shock. She and Mr. Judrow would arrive in Cutter’s Creek, get an annulment, and she could marry whomever she wanted. So long as Jack didn’t interfere, of course, but there was no guarantee he would.
Then why did she feel … well, disappointed?
She fell back on the mattress and sighed as comprehension dawned. “I’m now married to a handsome, strong, mysterious man, all I’ve ever wanted. And can’t have him.”
Figures.
One week later …
“Emma! Ya take that bread outta the oven yet?” Mrs. White called into the kitchen. The pretense of calling her “Taloa” had long since been abandoned.
“Yes, ma’am!” Emma called back as she set two hot pans on the worktable. She wiped her brow. She was up and about, working like a dog to get things ready for the upcoming journey.
Mr. Judrow had made himself scarce over the last few days. He’d taken Anson hunting, and they’d brought back enough game to last the Whites a long time. Mrs. White was ecstatic. Emma wasn’t – she’d had to help dress and clean the catch. She’d almost gotten ill twice, but wasn’t about to give Mr. Judrow the satisfaction. She swore he’d made her help just to upset her. She couldn’t get to Cutter’s Creek and civilization fast enough.
“How’s the stew comin’?” Mrs. White asked, poking her head into the kitchen.
“I’ll check it in a moment. I have another pan of bread to take out.”
“Fine – do that then give it a stir.”
Emma nodded as Mrs. White retreated back into the front room. She blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes and stared at the now-closed door. A pang of regret hit, and she realized how much she’d miss Mrs. White and her sons. Even Henry. With a sigh she turned to the oven, removed the rest of the bread and checked the stew.
She was about to start a batch of cookies when Mr. Judrow sauntered in through the back door. “Mmm, smells good.” He eyed the loaves on the worktable, then the mixing bowl in her hands. “What are you going to make next?”
“Never you mind,” she
snapped, setting the bowl on the table next to the bread. “Now get out!”
He smiled a slow, lazy smile that unnerved her to no end. Her heart fluttered and her knees went weak. How could he possibly affect her like this? Good heavens, one would think they were … oh. Right – they were married! And yet never would be, if that made sense. She was still trying to sort it out in her head.
“You didn’t answer my question.” He walked over to the hutch and leaned against it.
Emma stared at him a moment. She’d already forgotten what they were talking about. Oh bother!
“Well?” he prompted.
“I … uh … weren’t you leaving?!”
He nodded at the bowl. “What glorious confection is going to come out of that?”
She straightened just before she laughed. “Glorious confection?”
“Cookies are my guess. But what kind?”
“What do you care?”
“I do care, Miss Carlson. More than you know.”
She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Seems to me sweets are all you care about. And shouldn’t you be calling me ‘Mrs. Judrow’? This silly idea to get married so I can travel with you was yours, after all.”
“No, that honor belongs to Mrs. White.”
She snatched a large spoon out of a stone jar on the worktable. “Be that as it may, it’s still …”
“Still what? Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet?” He crossed his arms. “Because it’s a little late for that.”
“I do not have cold feet.”
“You do.”
Her mouth dropped open. “I do not!”
“You’re sure fun to rile up,” he said with a smirk.
“Get out of here!” She threw the spoon at him.
He ducked, the utensil just missing his head. Before she knew it, he’d locked her wrists in his hands and was staring into her face. Yet he didn’t look angry. It was much worse – he looked amused. “You missed.”
“Too bad,” she shot back.
He let go of her wrists, and she was surprised at how empty she felt. “I think you’re sassy enough for us to leave in the morning.”
“The morning?” she squeaked. “As in, tomorrow?”
“That’s what the term ‘the morning’ generally means.”
“But I thought we weren’t going to leave for several more days.”
He shook his head. “Not after what I just saw. I think a good week on the trail will settle you down. Two weeks, even better. Then maybe you’ll be civil to your brother. Or even to me.”
“I … that … it was just a spoon, for Heaven’s sake!”
He looked affronted. “You could put an eye out with that thing.”
She glared at him. “With a wooden spoon?”
“Men have been killed with far less.”
Emma gaped at him and for a moment wondered if he’d lost his senses. “You’re joking.”
“Actually, no, I’m not. I’ve seen a few things in my travels.”
She thought about that, and supposed he had. But she wasn’t about to back down. “Imagine what I could do with a fork.”
“I shudder at the thought.” He leaned toward her.
Emma backed up a step. “I’d be lethal with a fry pan.”
“No doubt.” He smiled, then suddenly straightened and looked first toward the window, then at the door to the front room. “Is there a stage scheduled to stop here today?”
“No, not that I know of.” She watched him go to the window and part the lace curtains, and heard the sound of horses entering the barnyard. “What is it?”
“It’s not a stage, but a group of men.” He let the curtains go and headed toward the stairs. “Stay here.”
“What?” she called after him. “But Mrs. White is upstairs. Someone has to greet them.”
A minute later he returned – wearing his gun belt. “I’ll do it.”
“You’re … you’re …?” It took her a few seconds to form a sentence in her mind. “You think they might be trouble?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “I know these men. And they’re not the type you want spending the night if it can be helped. Stay put – and away from the windows.” He left the kitchen, closing the door behind him.
Emma did as he said, but leaned against an outside wall, hoping to hear what was transpiring on the other side. She heard Mr. Judrow greet the newcomers, then all went silent. What was going on? Maybe if she opened it a crack, she’d be able to hear them … no. Safety first – stay hidden, just as he’d said.
She heard the sound of retreating footsteps. When there was silence again, she cracked the door to see Mrs. White standing in the other room. “What was all that about?”
Mrs. White glanced at her, then back at the front. “Seems Mr. Judrow wants a word wi’them fellas.”
“He told me he knows them.”
“He said as much to me, and that I probably didn’t want ‘em around. And he’d handle ‘em.”
“But who are they?”
Mrs. White looked at her. “No idea, child. But ‘parently they ain’t the nicest folks. Ya see ‘em?”
“No, and I can’t see them well now.” Through the window, Emma saw the men riding away.
“Just as well – they weren’t much to look at.”
“I still don’t understand what the big deal is.”
“I suppose yer husband’ll explain later. Now git them cookies made ‘fore he busts a gut.”
“He’s not my … oh, never mind.” There was no use arguing – she was legally married to him, after all, even if in name only. “I’ll go start on the cookies.”
“Molasses.”
Emma turned to her. “What?”
“He likes molasses cookies. Might be his favorite.”
Emma put her hands on her hips. “You want me to make him his favorite? Just because I’m married to him doesn’t mean I have to …”
“Yer gonna be out on that trail a long time with him,” Mrs. White cut in. “Better ya keep him happy.”
Emma hadn’t thought of that. “Oh. Good point.” She took one last look out the front window, just in time to see Mr. Judrow holster his gun as he walked back. Who were those men? She had a feeling she didn’t want to know. Without another word, she went into the kitchen and started working on some molasses cookies.
10
“Blast it,” Lucius muttered under his breath as he watched Walt Mattson and his gang ride off. He’d brought in one of them last year. The only reason he was still alive was presumably that the Mattsons didn’t know it was him that had done it. They either hadn’t seen Jasper before he was carted off to prison, or they didn’t mind he was gone. It was, after all, one less mouth for Walt Mattson to feed – or split any loot with.
The gang had been laying low ever since, and had Lucius not already been tasked with the delivery of the new Mrs. Judrow, he’d be sorely tempted to haul them in. He’d have to settle for leaving word with Mrs. White to pass on to the stagecoach drivers. They could let the sheriff in Clear Creek and any other settlements between the Whites’ and Cutter’s Creek know that the Mattson Gang was in the area.
They knew who he was, of course, even if they weren’t aware he’d hauled in one of their own. He had a reputation and had taken advantage of it, telling them he’d leave them be if they left the stage stop. They agreed – perhaps too readily, which made him nervous. He’d be out on the trail with Emma … Miss Carlson … blast it, his wife … and didn’t want to risk running into them again.
But it was a chance he’d have to take if he wanted to get her to Cutter’s Creek in a timely manner. The weather was unusually good for this time of year and he wanted to take advantage of it. He didn’t relish the thought of getting caught in any summer storms during their journey, and in a few weeks those chances would only increase. He wanted to be back before then. He went to the barn, checked his horse and returned to the house.
When he entered, the smell of molasses cookies caught
his attention and his mouth began to water. His little wife was baking. He smiled and headed straight for the kitchen, making a note not to call her that too often. Then again, they’d have to get used to it in case they ran into folks along the trail.
She looked up as he entered. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, sounding disappointed.
Faker. “Were you expecting someone else? A beau, perhaps?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You are a married woman, after all …” Tarnation, he did like riling her.
She put a hand on her hip and waved a spoon at him with the other. “Then how can I possibly have a beau?”
He laughed and joined her at the worktable, stuck a finger in the dough, then in his mouth. “Mmm, molasses.”
Emma swatted him with the spoon. “Get away from that!”
Lucius laughed again, enjoying her annoyance. Her eyes flashed as she used the utensil to nudge him gently to the door. “You’re getting dough on my shirt,” he pointed out.
“Then you can lick it off!”
“That’s not a very ladylike thing to say.”
“I don’t care. Stop interrupting my work.”
He found himself searching for an excuse to stay a little longer. She was adorable all worked up like this. No – “adorable” wasn’t the right word. He studied her and his whole body tightened. Uh-oh … “desirable.” That was it – if not “luscious.” If he didn’t get out of there fast, he might do something stupid. “Fine, I’ll be going. But you’re going to wash my shirt.”
“Wash your own shirt!”
He couldn’t resist one last jab. “Now is that any way to talk to your husband?”
“Ohhhh! Get out of this kitchen!” she screamed.
“Better get used to it,” he laughed, turned on his heel and left before she could get in another word. Two weeks or more with her would be fun! He just had to make sure it wasn’t too much fun or he could be in trouble. What would her brother think? What would she think?
“Mr. Judrow,” Mrs. White called.
Lucius turned to her and did his best to wipe the silly grin off his face. He hadn’t even realized she was there! Great Scott, had the baking banshee addled his brain? “Yes?”
