The Rancher's Perfect Bride

by Caroline Clemmons

  “If Joe Martin comes by before one of us goes to Cottonwood Springs, I’ll send a note to Sheriff Dixon. Maybe I should send Pete into town tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure I’m worrying for nothing. We were so careful not to let Hoskins know where we went because we know he’s one of my stepfather’s spies.” She explained how they eluded the coachman but didn’t mention that lately she’d had the feeling someone watched her, even after the two thieves were apprehended and taken to the sheriff.

  He shook his head in disbelief. “You are cunning, my dear wife. I hope you never decide to deceive me.”

  She appeared incredulous. “Why would I? You’re kind and a good husband and you promised to remain so. My stepfather made those same vows but I know he saw other women even before my mother became ill. He’s worse than that rattlesnake and just as venomous.”

  “You’ve convinced me. Now let me doctor your hands with the balm. Honey, when something like what’s happened to your hands occurs, please tell me.” As she suggested, he wrapped each of her hands in a towel to protect the sheets.

  He stood. “I’ll take the dishes to the kitchen and make certain everything is set for the night before I join you.”

  As he predicted, the kitchen was tidy and leftover food in the pie safe or cool space. He pumped enough water into the dishpan to cover the dishes his wife had used. After checking the door, he turned out the lamps, banked the stove, and went to join his wife.

  The next morning, she rose as usual.

  “You should rest today. Pete and I will see to your chores.”

  “I’m quite rested, although I will be shamefaced in front of the men. My hands feel much better. Thank you for your kindness and understanding yesterday.”

  They went into the kitchen where she immediately started coffee. As soon as the biscuits were in the oven, she had meat frying and then peeled and sliced potatoes and chopped onion in them. He rang the bell for her when breakfast was ready to serve.

  When the men came in, she blushed. “Your clean clothes are ready to be ironed today.” She stared at the laundry basket. “Why, most of them are gone.”

  Pete gestured to the stack. “Miss Zenobia, ain’t no use in ironin’ what we wear for ever’day. Cattle and crops don’t care.”

  Max took his seat at the table. “We sorted through and pulled out our shirts and pants last night. We don’t iron what we wear for work.”

  “Kind of you to say so and save me that chore. I’ve been wondering who did your laundry before I arrived?” She looked at her husband.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Took our good clothes to Mrs. Gomez, the laundress in Coldwater Springs. We washed our own work things, but not very often. Afraid we wore our clothes almost until we smelled as bad as the pig pen.”

  Pete laughed and pointed a thumb at Brand. “Sometimes worse, right?”

  Brand blushed under his tan. “He’s right. In summer we sure get sweaty and dirty and I sweat more than most men. Honest work, though, and nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

  Zenobia’s face wore a wide smile. “I am happy to learn two things. One, there’s a laundress in Cottonwood Springs. Two, that I don’t have to iron your work clothes. I’m afraid they wouldn’t look worth more than cattle seeing them anyway. I’ll work extra hard on the good shirts and pants for you to wear to the barn raising.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The following day, Zenobia re-read Mrs. Nesbitt’s notes on ironing. She didn’t have as many sad irons as called for. How did women keep track of which weight should be used on which fabric and style?

  She started on her underthings. Soon, she realized that for the work required, she didn’t need her shifts, unmentionables, and petticoats ironed. Those set aside, she took out the shirt Callum had worn to their wedding.

  Hmm, she was supposed to have rolled it up when it was damp. She sprinkled water on the shirt and set it back in the clothes basket. Then, she did the same with the ranch hands’ good shirts and her dresses.

  They needed to stay rolled up for a little while. She set the two irons she had on the range to heat. She didn’t have an ironing board so she would make do with the kitchen table.

  To make changing irons easier, she scooted the table closer to the range. According to Mrs. Nesbitt’s notes, the irons would need to be hot. Zenobia added fuel to the fire and gave it a vigorous stirring with a poker.

  While the clothing had time to get damp throughout she would polish the lovely bedroom furniture. By that time the clothing should have had time to be ready to iron. She used beeswax and elbow grease to shine the top of the dresser then replaced the scarf.

  Sniffing, Zenobia wondered at the strange smell. Almost as if—

  She set aside the wax and polishing cloth and rushed to the kitchen. Smoke rose from the basket in front of the range. As she approached, she heard a strange noise and flames shot up from the clothing.

  Dear heavens, the house could burn!

  Afraid to pick up the oval wicker basket, she kicked it toward the door and off the porch onto the dirt. When she looked at her own clothing, she saw the dress she was wearing had caught fire near the hem. With a final hard kick, she sent the basket bottom-side-up on the ground between the house and barn but not close enough to either to create danger.

  Holding her skirt away from her, she wondered how she could pump water and not let the smoking skirt touch her skin. The only solution appeared to be stepping into the horse trough. The fabric’s sizzle and steam rising let her know she’d had a narrow escape.

  But, what a mess she’d created. Now the better clothing from the laundry was ruined, as probably were her boots. She sat down in the water, leaned her head against the rim, and closed her eyes while she sobbed.

  ***

  Callum was deep in thought when Max interrupted his reverie. “Boss, you’ve looked back towards the house a dozen times in the last hour. Why don’t you go home and check on your bride?”

  He figured he must have a sheepish expression for his lack of concentration on work. “Guess I might as well since I can’t stop wondering if she’s all right.”

  As he rode close to home a plume of smoke drifted upward from the yard. What the heck? He kneed his horse into a gallop.

  At first he thought someone had drowned his wife in the horse trough. Apparently she heard the hoofbeats and raised her head. Instead of standing up, she remained laying in the water with her head resting against the rim.

  He dismounted and walked to the source of the smoke. Only clothing remnants and a few pieces of what was probably the laundry basket remained. What had happened?

  Why wasn’t she moving? “Are you injured?”

  She turned her head to watch him and he saw her eyes were red from crying. Tears still streaked her face. “Not really. My dress is ruined and the water probably ruined my half boots.”

  “Don’t you think the trough’s a little small for a swim?”

  She folded her hands on her stomach. “First time I’ve been cool all afternoon. Needs scrubbing out, though.”

  “Come on, Zenobia, time to get out of there. Why don’t you tell me what happened?” He leaned down and took her hand to help her stand.

  She rose and stepped out of the water with his help. “Everything went wrong at once. Mrs. Nesbitt’s instructions didn’t mention fires that burned up clothes and baskets. She made it sound so logical. Ironing, that is.”

  He examined the burns on her skirt and petticoat. His knees almost buckled from the fire’s seriousness. Only a miracle protected her tender skin.

  His friend and fellow rancher, Forrest Clanahan, was badly scarred from an unsuccessful attempt to rescue his wife from their burning home. That could have happened to Zenobia.

  “Let’s go into the house. I want to hear the explanation.” He led her into the kitchen.

  “You’re here early.”

  “After the day you had yesterday, I was worried about you.” His voice was terse. “Now, let’s hear the de
tails of your day that led up to you in the horse trough.”

  Without consideration for her dripping clothes, she plopped onto a chair at the table. Waving wildly, she went through the steps that led to her current predicament. “I’m sorry, but I had to put out the flames.”

  The thought of her dress on fire terrified him. In spite of his usual calm nature, he yelled, “What were you thinking? Everything we have could have burned down.”

  She had the nerve to look offended. “You needn’t yell, I said I was sorry.”

  He gestured toward the yard. “I’m guessing that pile of ash out there includes mine and the men’s best shirts.”

  Her chin came up. “Yes, but don’t worry, your precious house is fine.”

  “It’s our house and I can see it’s survived. Dadgummit, what am I going to tell the men about their blasted shirts?”

  Keeping her chin raised and her back straight, she said, “Nothing, I’ll explain to them. Thank you for coming to check on me. As you can see, I’m quite all right and you can rejoin your ranch hands.”

  Her dismissive attitude on top of the fire set his temper boiling. “Don’t you get your hackles raised when I’m the injured party here, the one whose shirt burned. I’m the one who could have lost a wife and a home in one fell swoop.”

  He took another step toward her. “There’s no fire brigade out here. We could have lost our home and all those fine things you brought that have been in your family for generations. Worse, you could have died, Zenobia, or have been so badly burned you’d never recover.”

  Her blue eyes appeared about to overflow with tears. “I thought you were only worried about the house. I was afraid you were going to send me away because I keep having these… incidents from not knowing how to be the perfect bride you deserve.”

  Wet skirt or not, he sat down and pulled her onto his lap. Her fear doused his irritation concerning the fire but not his exasperation at her refusal to believe he meant his wedding vows.

  “What do I have to do to convince you I’m not going to send you away? I can’t help being angry about the fire but I’ll get over that.

  She snuggled against his chest. “I know you deserve someone who’s a better wife. No one would blame you if you did send me back to Atlanta—although I warn you it would have to be somewhere else because I won’t go there.”

  Holding her always set his blood pounding. Now, though, he held her waist and stood. When he was certain she was steady on her feet, he took her by the shoulders.

  “Aren’t you listening to me? No one is sending you anywhere. I know you’re trying. Everyone makes mistakes.”

  She stared at his wet pants where she’d sat in his lap. “Looks like you made one by having me on your lap. In fact, it looks like you didn’t make it to the privy in time.”

  “I’ll dry but you’d better change clothes. You don’t want to catch a cold.”

  She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. “Thank you again for coming to check on me.”

  “I have a good idea. Since I’m here, why don’t we go to the bedroom and I’ll help you out of your dress.”

  “Are you…” She looked around as if checking to learn if anyone overheard. “But it’s the middle of the day.”

  “Right, and light enough that I can see your beautiful body.”

  Her glorious smile lit her face. “You’ve convinced me, scandalous though it might be.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Days later, Zenobia sat at the table making her lunch from biscuits and slices of ham left from breakfast. She cut the ham so it fit inside the biscuit. The rooster and hens raised a ruckus outside and sent her to the window. The skinniest and largest dog she’d ever seen was trying to get into the chicken pen.

  She opened the door and called, “Listen, doggie, you can’t have our hens.” She’d swear the dog smiled at her as he trotted right up to her.

  Poor thing looked half-starved. He was much larger than Callum’s two cattle dogs. His matted hair was grayish-tan with darker fur across the shoulders and on his ears.

  “Where are you from? I’ll share my lunch but you must leave the hens alone. Is that a deal?”

  He pushed right by her and into the house. Sniffing, he headed for the table where her biscuits with ham waited.

  Hurrying around him, she snatched up her lunch. “No, you don’t. Dogs don’t belong in the house.” She relented and gave him one of the biscuits.

  In one gulp, the food was gone so she gave him the other one. That one disappeared just as quickly. With a sigh, he laid down and put his muzzle on his front paws. He obviously intended to nap where he was.

  “Did you hear me say dogs don’t belong in the house?” She walked to the open door. “Come on. Back outside. You can sleep on the porch.”

  He watched her as she coaxed him but he didn’t budge. Grabbing his forepaws, she tugged.

  Half-starved, he still must weigh at least sixty unwilling pounds. Perhaps she could pull the ruff of his fur. Her fingers touched something around his neck.

  Upon investigation, she found a few inches of leather cord that must have bound him to something wherever he had lived. The portion of cord around his neck was so tight she couldn’t slip her finger between it and the dog’s skin.

  “Oh, you poor thing.” She got her knife and cut the leather. Gently in case it was imbedded, she removed the binding. Dried blood flecked part of it. She knelt to examine his neck more closely. Sure enough, she found where a sore place had been, possibly from him tugging to be free of the tether.

  He licked her hand.

  She smoothed her fingers across his muzzle and rubbed between his ears. “Why, you’re a sweet boy, aren’t you? If you’re going to live here, you have to learn to follow commands. I suppose your name will be… how does Brownie sound? Do you like that?”

  He licked her face.

  She laughed and stood up. “I appreciate your affection, Brownie, but I’ll save my face for my husband to kiss.”

  With a small piece of ham, she enticed Brownie to the front porch and closed the door behind her. She sat down on a bench and petted him and he plopped down at her feet. If she could keep him out of the chicken pen, he would be nice to keep her company during the day and act as a watchdog.

  After a few moments, Zenobia stood to return to the kitchen. When Brownie tried to follow her, she thought about the state of his fur. How could she give the dog a bath?

  No one had yet cleaned out the horse trough. She’d use the opportunity to bathe him there and then clean out the moss. All she had to do was entice Brownie to climb in.

  She retrieved the bar of soap the men left on the pump for when they returned from work and wanted to wash their hands.

  “Come on, Brownie, want to play in the water?”

  He wouldn’t get in the water. Unable to reconcile her actions with what she’d been taught, she took off her shoes, stockings, petticoat, and skirt and set them on the porch. Wearing only her pantalets below her waist, she stepped into the water.

  “Come on, Brownie, let’s play in the water.”

  This time, the dog joined her. She pretended to be playing with him while she lathered and rinsed his fur. He reciprocated by sharing as much lather as he could and splashing her thoroughly.

  When he was clean and she was as wet as he was, she stepped out of the water. Brownie—who was now tan—followed her to the porch. He shook himself and sent water droplets flying to the clothes she’d left on the bench.

  “You’ve made your point, Brownie. You don’t like baths much, but look how pretty you are. When your fur is dry, I can brush you and you’ll be so handsome.”

  He followed her into the house.

  She searched and found an old blanket which she folded and laid on the floor. “There you go, boy, a nice bed for you.”

  As if he understood, he plopped down and rested his muzzle on his paws. Soon, he appeared to be asleep.

  She donned her clothes and got busy preparing sup
per. A nice cobbler would please Callum and the other men. She hummed to herself as she worked.

  Brownie leaped to his feet and the fur on the back of his neck stood up. He crept to the door emitting a low growl. She followed him and looked out the window.

  “They’re supposed to be here, Brownie. You be nice if you want to stay with us.” She opened the door and went onto the porch.

  The two cattle dogs, Rusty and Star, came up to sniff at Brownie.

  She laid her hand on Brownie’s neck. “Play nice, doggies. You have to be friends.”

  Callum and the ranch hands stared at her. Callum came toward her but Brownie braced his legs and growled. Callum stopped.

  She patted Brownie’s head. “Be nice to Callum or he won’t let me keep you.”

  The dog appeared to relax a little so Callum came forward.

  “Zenobia, where did you get your friend?”

  “He came to visit about noon. He wanted chicken but was content to accept biscuits and ham instead. His name is Brownie.”

  “You know he’s part wolf?”

  She looked down at Brownie. “Maybe that’s why he’s so large. But, look how skinny he is.”

  Max ran a finger over his mustache. “Isn’t that the dog old man Hollister had? You recall that after he died and we went to help the nephew round up things to sell, the dog was gone.”

  Brand rubbed at his beard. “That’s been at least two months. Wonder where the dog’s been all this time.”

  Callum stood with his hands on his hops as he regarded her new dog and then her.

  Zenobia met Callum’s gaze. “Brownie has been obedient since he came. He let me bathe him and then fell asleep on the little bed I made him in the kitchen.”

  “You let this animal inside the house? Dogs live in the barn with the other animals.”

  “Seems this one wants to be near me. He is a lot of company. He doesn’t mind me singing off key and listens to everything I tell him, no matter how uninteresting.”

  “Lucky dog.” Callum rolled his eyes. “Honey, this isn’t a lap dog. He’s half wolf, remember?”

  As if he understood the choices being made, Brownie licked Callum’s hand.