She hefted the frame—a painting?—and eased it along the wall until the wire caught on the nail. Leaning back, she studied it, straightened it, and put her hands on her hips. “There. What do you think?” She had her attention on the picture and didn’t turn when Matt drew the screen door open and stepped in, his finger pressed to his mouth to still Betsy’s squeal.
When he stood right behind Gwendolyn, he made his voice as gruff and stern as possible. “What are you two doing?”
At his words, she whirled, arms flailing, and his hands shot out to grab her. The chair teetered, and she gripped his shoulders to steady herself. “Matt!”
A feeling of inevitability swept over him, and without thought, he tightened his grip on her waist and eased her from the chair. But somehow, she didn’t make it all the way to the floor. Instead, he held her against him, wrapping his arms around her waist. Forgetting everything around him, he found himself staring into her wide, violet eyes. Her arms wound around his neck in a move that felt way too good for his peace of mind. She blinked, her lips parting.
“You’re back.”
Her smile slammed into his heart and got it beating again, and bless him if she didn’t squeeze his neck.
Kiss her.
The notion came out of nowhere, but once it arrived, he could think of nothing else. His eyes zeroed in on her pink lips, so close to his. He halved the distance between them before he realized what he was doing.
Betsy’s chair squeaked, reminding him of her presence and the folly of what he was thinking about. He glanced over to see his sister trying to back out of the room. She stopped. “Welcome home, Matt.” Her innocent expression couldn’t hide the glee in her eyes.
Reluctantly he released Gwendolyn, letting her feet reach the floor. He tried to ignore the empty feel of his arms and the regret at not getting a taste of those sweet lips as she stepped away and smoothed her hair. He turned from her purply-blue stare, trying to gather his scattered wits.
“What have you two been up to in here?” He scanned the room that had been off-limits for even conversation for the past year. Though some of the furnishings were the same, it was as if all traces of Edith had been removed. Open, bright, and without the clogging clutter, he might even be able to sit in here without feeling as if Edith might spring out from behind the drapes.
Betsy rolled her chair closer. “You aren’t mad, are you? If you are, it was all my idea. But if you’re not mad, then we thought it up together.” She gave him a gamine grin. “Do you like it? We’ve worked so hard. And look.” She turned the chair left and right. “Plenty of room for my chair now.”
He rested his hand on his sister’s shoulder, noting the color in her cheeks—cheeks that had a bit of roundness to them again. How could he be mad when Betsy looked better than she had in months? “It’s nice.”
“We were just putting on the finishing touches. Isn’t it beautiful?” She motioned toward the painting. “Gwendolyn brought it all the way from Massachusetts.”
Gwendolyn had laced her hands and laid the sides of her index fingers against her lips—those soft, pink lips. He dragged his mind back to what she was saying.
“My sister Evelyn painted it. It’s of the shore near Seabury, where we lived.” She took a deep breath. “I can almost hear the waves hitting the beach. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know the sight and sound and smell of the sea. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I imagine I’m walking along the rocky shore, leaning into the breeze, gulls keening overhead. I knew becoming a mail-order bride meant leaving the sea, but I never knew I would miss it so much.”
The wisp of homesickness in her voice jarred Matt, as did her reference to being a mail-order bride, reminding him that her stay here was temporary, that soon enough she’d be on the train back to her beloved ocean. High-stepping easterners only caused trouble, changing everything to suit themselves then running off without a backward glance once they’d bled a fellow dry—and broken his foolish heart.
She still had a wistful smile on her face when she asked, “What do you think, Matt?”
He hardened his voice to bring them all back to reality. “What it looks like to me is that you’re settling in. I told you there was no point in unpacking that kind of stuff. You’ll just have to take it down again.” He avoided looking at either of them, knowing he’d see hurt and confusion at his harsh tone. But the sooner they accepted the truth, the easier it would be on all of them. “I’d best see to my horse.”
Gwendolyn sank onto the settee, staring after his departing form. All the happiness, the hope of belonging and companionship she’d built up during his absence, evaporated like a snowflake on a hot griddle.
Betsy pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes, watching Matt through the screen as he untied his horse and led the animal toward the barn. She fingered the end of her braid, a sign Gwendolyn had come to recognize as meaning she was deep in thought.
“Well, that didn’t go too well, did it?” Gwendolyn ran her fingers through her hair. It was finally dry now from the early morning washing she’d given it, and she pulled a ribbon from her pocket. With the dexterity of long practice, she divided and braided the heavy curls, winding and tying the ribbon. She coiled the braid, slid her hairpins from where she’d tucked them along the edge of her collar, and jabbed them into the knot of hair to secure it.
“Actually, it went better than you think.” Betsy grinned. “If he wasn’t starting to care about you, he wouldn’t have reacted so strongly. I saw the way he was looking at you, like he was a starving man and you were the last cookie in the jar. I just wish my chair hadn’t squawked when it did. He looked like he wanted to kiss you senseless.”
Gwendolyn shook her head, convinced she was already senseless. The way he’d held her for an all-too-short eternity … Her blood zinged in her veins. She hadn’t been able to resist winding her arms around his neck, and the instant it flashed in her head that he might actually kiss her, she realized she wanted nothing more. She was afraid to put too much stock in what Betsy said. The way he’d backed away, and worse, the wary look that had crept into his eyes were more reliable than anything his fanciful sister might read into his actions.
“We’d best get supper started.” She rose and picked up the chair to return it to the kitchen.
“And get some water heating. Matt’s going to want a bath.” Betsy followed.
Gwendolyn had just slid the pan of corn bread into the oven when the back door opened and Matt came inside. He hung up his hat and began dipping water from the reservoir into a bucket to carry upstairs for his bath. She wiped her hands on her apron. “The bread should be ready in about half an hour. If you’re all right, Betsy, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Returning to the parlor, she picked up the hammer from the mantel to take it back to the barn. It was nice to be able to leave the house for a while without worrying about Betsy being alone. She let herself out onto the porch and walked toward the barn. The prairie rolled away from her in all directions, the only trees a few stunted individuals clinging to the creek bank. In the northern distance, lavender hills rose. What had Cummings called the tallest one? Laramie Peak?
She breathed deeply of the grass-scented air. Hanging Evelyn’s painting had made her a bit homesick, both for her sisters and for the sea. How often had they rambled along the shore together, watching the waves roll in like a great ocean heartbeat? What would her sisters advise her now about Matt? What if he really did send her away? Where could she go? Jane’s place was much too small, and Evelyn’s cabin housed four already.
Lord, I don’t want to go. I want to stay here. Betsy needs me, and though he isn’t ready to admit it, so does Matt. He’s everything I could ask for in a husband.
She chuckled.
Except that he doesn’t want to be married. What made him so skittish, and how can I change his mind?
She could almost feel his arms around her again, and she knew without a doubt that she wanted him to hold her li
ke that again. Soon. She wanted him to want to be married to her.
Entering the barn, she let her eyes adjust to the dimness. The tools were kept in a room on the far side next to where they kept saddles and such. Her footsteps crunched on the dirt floor, and the smells of hay and livestock wrapped around her. The men must’ve stowed their gear and headed to the bunkhouse for supper. She entered the toolroom, grateful for the small window high in the wall that let in some light. A neat row of tools hung along the back of a wooden workbench, and she placed the hammer back where she’d gotten it.
“Evening.”
She whirled, clutching her throat, and found the cowhand who had been so insolent her first day here blocking the doorway. A quick glance told her nothing about him seemed to have changed in the intervening days. He wore the same intent expression, his gaze roving over her from hair to hem and back again.
“Good evening.” She gripped the edge of the workbench behind her.
“Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I was just returning something.”
He stretched, gripping the top of the door frame and leaning a bit into the room. “You’re sure a sight for this cowpoke’s weary old eyes. Don’t believe I’ve ever seen a woman as pretty as you.” His smile made her shiver.
“I need to get back to the house, if you’ll excuse me.” She waited, but he didn’t move.
“There’s no rush. I imagine you’ve been cooped up while we’ve been gone, what with looking after the cripple. That can’t be very pleasant for a woman like you. I’d think you’d be looking for something a little more—shall we say, stimulating?” He studied her, letting his eyes linger far too long on certain parts of her anatomy. “My name’s Jackson, by the way.”
She crossed her arms at her waist and tried to ignore the prickles dancing across her skin. “I’m sorry, but I really do have to go. I left something in the oven.”
He moved to the side of the doorway but not quite enough for her to get by. “I bet you’re a fine cook.”
The way his eyes glittered in the dusky light made her think of a gull. Dark, beady, watchful eyes, waiting for an opportunity to snatch up any morsel that happened to land in its path. He’d positioned himself so she would have to brush against him to get out of the toolroom, and his smirk said he knew it.
“Jackson?” A voice she didn’t recognize came from behind him. A man with graying hair and a grizzled beard stepped from the gloom.
Jackson straightened and stepped back. “Melton. I was just”—he broke off—“you know.”
The older man removed a toothpick from his mouth and stared hard at Jackson until the cowhand fidgeted and finally ducked his head and left.
Relief coursed through Gwendolyn, and she blew out a breath.
The man returned the pick to the corner of his mouth, clamped down, and spoke around it. “Trouble?”
“Uh, no. Everything’s fine.” She had no desire to try to explain Jackson or his behavior. “I’d best get back to the house, Mr….?”
“Melton. Circle P ramrod.” He jerked his head toward where Jackson had disappeared. “Best stay away from the men, ma’am.” With a tip of his hat, he was gone, as silently as he’d come.
“Stay away from the men?” she muttered on her way back to the house. “I’d love to stay away from that Jackson for the rest of my life.”
Chapter 5
Everywhere he turned, she had invaded his life. In the week since he’d returned from the roundup, Matthew’s world had been subtly and not-so-subtly altered. First it was the parlor, the painting over the mantel, the new curtains in the kitchen. Then it was cushions on the chairs, a chess set on the sideboard, and now, of all things, a flower garden along the picket fence.
Matt hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and stared at the scraggly plants in the newly dug soil. Yarrow, Indian paintbrush, Queen Anne’s lace. Weeds, every one of them. What did a body want with extra work like tending flowers when there was plenty to do with the vegetable patch and looking after the house? Not to mention the fact that in just a couple of weeks, Reverend Cummings would be back through here, and she’d be on her way somewhere else.
“Stop scowling.” Gwendolyn passed him with a sloshing bucket of water, pouring around each plant carefully before moving on. “What harm can a few flowers do? It pretties up the place a bit.” Her shrug and ultra-innocent expression made him want to smile.
Grasping for a hold on his irritation, he tugged the kerchief from his neck, removed his hat, and wiped the sweatband. “You realize you’ve planted a row of weeds.”
“Wildflowers,” she corrected. “I didn’t notice any nurseries around here where I could get roses and pansies. I had to make do.” She bent to touch the ivory blossoms of a Canada milk vetch and trailed her fingers over a tiny cluster of harebells. “Aren’t they pretty?”
Pretty. If anything in this yard could be called pretty, it was her. The afternoon sun bathed her face, bringing out honey strands in her hair and the smooth surface of her skin. He busied himself with retying his kerchief to keep from reaching out to stroke her cheek. What was the matter with him?
“What’s going to happen to them when you leave here? I don’t have the time to weed and water them, even if I wanted to, which I don’t.”
Her happiness at the flowers faded, and she gave him a reproachful glance that lanced his gut. More and more, the thought of her leaving gave him a hollow feeling under his heart. He had to remind himself why she couldn’t stay, and it seemed she needed the reminders, too. Everywhere he turned, she was going against his orders not to settle in. He decided to change the subject.
“Where’s Betsy?”
“Reading in the parlor. She’s enamored of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales at the moment.”
“One of your books?”
“Yes. My father used to read it to us in the evening, and we’d discuss it bit by bit. Even Jamie, my nephew, joined in, though he preferred Mallory’s tales of King Arthur. He even had a stuffed dog he named Glastonbury Tor.” Her smile flashed, and there was a faraway, remembering look to her eyes. “I miss Jamie. I wasn’t yet ten when he was born, and I was sure Evelyn produced him just so I would have someone to play with. I wish I could see my sisters for just a little while, so I could make sure they were all right.”
“You sound like a close family.”
“Very. We’ve never been apart like this before. Every time things have been hard, we’ve always had each other to lean on. When Mother died, and when Evelyn lost Jamison in the war, when Father passed away. Then when we were being evicted from our home.” She watered another weed. “Hard times remind you of who you can count on. God and my sisters have always been faithful. Our adversity brought us closer together.”
“Adversity doesn’t always bring people together. Sometimes it tears them apart.” Sadness coated his words. Adversity, distrust, deceit, despair. He’d felt them all over the past year.
Her brows inched together. “But you and Betsy have a beautiful relationship.”
“It’s not Betsy I was thinking about.”
She smoothed her hands over her hair, trying to tame some of the wispy curls that escaped the knot on the back of her head. Remembering the way her hair fell down her back in a glorious cape of curls when she was hanging that picture in the parlor, he swallowed. What would it be like to bury his hands in her hair, to let those curls twine around his fingers? He found himself stepping closer to her, close enough to touch, close enough to see the purple flecks in her blue eyes.
Her pulse beat in her throat. “Betsy told me how you used to argue with your grandfather.”
He pulled his attention back to what she was saying. “We did. But neither of us was much for holding a grudge. Flare up and forget about it. Granddad knew just what to say to get my back up. He loved a lively debate. There for a while, after my father died, I wondered if Granddad would ever care about anything enough to argue again. He just sort of drifted for a few months. Then o
ne morning he lit into me about something, and instead of getting mad, all I could do was grin. That made him madder, and he really erupted. It was nice to have things back to normal.”
She fetched a sigh. “I wish I could’ve met your grandfather. He sounds like quite a character.”
“That he was. I still can’t figure his sending for you, but—” Matt just stopped himself from saying he was glad she’d come. Was he glad? She’d lifted his load considerably, and there was no denying she was the prettiest thing he’d seen in a long time. Fun, cheerful, and easy to talk to as well. He couldn’t resist reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, and it just seemed so natural to let his fingers trail down her cheek. Softer than a sage leaf. Before he really knew what he was doing, he’d bent his head to brush his lips across hers. He pulled back to gauge her reaction.
Her eyes widened, and she looked so bewildered he had to kiss her again. Everything he’d been dreaming about since the day she arrived, all the questions he’d been asking himself about how soft and sweet she’d be got answered in that kiss. His arms came around her, and he angled his head to deepen the kiss. After her initial gasp of surprise, she delighted him by kissing back. The bucket fell from her hand, thunking to the ground and splashing his boots.
Reluctantly aware that they were standing in the yard in full view of anyone on the ranch, he ended the kiss and stepped back. Her lips were rosy pink, and a delicate coral color graced her cheeks. He had a sense of having taken a giant step across a line he’d drawn in the sand. There could be no going back to a time when they hadn’t kissed. But did he want to go back? Maybe things would work out, maybe he could trust her after all.
Love Is Patient Romance Collection Page 18
