by Merry Farmer
“I see,” Corva answered, and again Franklin wondered if he was boring her.
That worry was short-lived. “We’re here.”
They crossed a wide, wooden bridge over a winding stream lined with shrubs and trees, and turned a corner. His modest house and stable came into view. Corva caught her breath and hummed.
“You’d hardly know this house was here from the other side of the stream,” she said.
“I planned it that way,” Franklin answered.
She turned to him, her eyes asking why, but he pretended not to see. Instead, he drove the wagon to stop beside a raised platform. The horse came to rest at just the right spot and bobbed his head with a snort as if to say, “We’re home.”
The platform was designed with a long ramp, so that all Franklin had to do was stand, take up his cane, and step carefully from the vehicle. Gideon Faraday—a scientist and inventor and another of Haskell’s unique inhabitants, who also happened to be his brother-in-law—had built the ramp and another just like it leading up to Franklin’s front door. In fact, after Gideon had gotten through altering the original house Franklin had built, there wasn’t a single thing that Franklin had trouble climbing or reaching or doing with his broken legs.
Franklin was still slow to walk around the wagon, and by the time he made it to the other side, Corva had already hopped down on her own.
“Oh, sorry,” she said when she saw his frown. “I should have waited for you to help me.”
Franklin shook his head and waved as if it didn’t matter, though somehow, deep in his heart, it did. Some husband he made. “Your weight probably would have knocked me over anyhow.”
He was already halfway to forgetting the comment when Corva’s face fell and she lowered her head. Franklin frowned, running back through his words. He wasn’t saying that she was clumsy or heavy or anything. It was best to let it go and move on.
“Let me just get Kingsman settled here, and I’ll show you the house.”
Corva waited as patiently as she could while Franklin unhitched his horse from the wagon and led it into the simple stable. The first sight of her fiancé—no, her husband now—had raised a hundred questions about how he could navigate his way through the tasks of everyday life with iron braces on his legs. Walking was difficult enough. But as soon as he pulled the wagon up to the strange ramp in front of his stable, as soon as she saw a similar ramp leading to the front door of his house and caught a glimpse of other adjustments and contraptions inside the stable—like railings around the walls and a long stick with a claw on the end that must have been for reaching things on high shelves—she was fascinated.
So fascinated, that by the time Franklin finished settling his horse and limped slowly back to where she stood, she burst out with, “Franklin, were you born lame or did something happen?”
Franklin froze halfway through offering her his arm. He lowered his arm and glanced off toward the stream, face pinched.
Shame hit Corva like a lightning bolt. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. It isn’t my place.”
Franklin took in a breath and offered his arm, escorting her on to the house. “I suppose if you look at it one way, it is your business now. You’re my wife.” He lowered his voice to a near whisper for the last statement.
Uncertainty crashed over Corva before she could stop it. Franklin didn’t seem as overjoyed to be married as his Aunt Ginny and Josephine did. He hadn’t smiled once since she’d stepped off the train. His expression was strained now, and though it could have been pain from his legs, it could also have been dissatisfaction with the situation. Mrs. Breashears had mentioned that Virginia and Josephine and Mr. Charlie Garrett were interested in bringing brides out to Haskell, Wyoming, but she’d never actually said that Franklin Haskell was eager to be married. What if this whole thing was someone else’s idea and she was an imposition?
All those thoughts zipped through her head in the time it took for Franklin to escort her around the parked wagon. “I had an accident about ten years ago,” he began, then paused. “No, eleven years ago.” He let out a breath and shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” Corva murmured. She was, especially for her presence and for marrying him if that wasn’t what he wanted.
“It was my own fault,” he went on, staring at the ground in front of him. “I was young and arrogant and stupid. I…” He stopped, shook his head, then straightened his shoulders and looked her in the eye. “It was back when Dad and Aunt Ginny were bickering about the property line. There was a contest to build fences. Whoever finished their fence first got to claim the line was where they wanted it to be. I…I was brash and full of myself, and I tried to cheat by sabotaging the other side. Only, in the process, I upset a wagon full of heavy fence rails, and the whole thing came crashing down on me. By God’s grace alone, none of the rails crushed my head or my vital organs. My legs, on the other hand… The lacerations alone nearly killed me, not to mention the breaks.”
He let out a long breath and kept walking. It was almost as if the weight of those fence rails was still pressing down on him. Corva bit her lip. Poor Franklin still carried that burden, and now there was a distinct possibility he’d been burdened with a wife he didn’t want either. He’d been kind and welcoming to her, but she couldn’t say he’d been warm.
“I know how it feels to break a leg,” she said after a respectful pause. Maybe he hadn’t wanted her, but they were married now, and she was determined to be helpful to him and not another problem.
“You do?” He sounded far more surprised than she thought her revelation warranted.
“Mmm hmm.” She tried to smile, but the terror of those memories turned it into something more like a grimace. “When I was a girl. We lived in Atlanta, Mama, Papa, and I. When the war started, Papa joined the cause, of course, so then it was just me and Mama. Then Sherman came.”
A shudder passed through her. Franklin stopped at the bottom of the ramp leading up to his door, squeezing her arm.
Corva gathered her courage and said, “He burned Atlanta, you know.”
“Yes, I’d heard.”
“We were caught in the middle of it.” She licked her lips as though she could still taste the ash and cinders. “They’d been telling us to evacuate for weeks, but Mama refused until the very end. We ran with only the few things we could carry. It was chaos—the fire, the gunshots, the animals and people dying. We made it to the edge of the city, but the crush of people was tremendous. I was only seven, and beside myself with fear. Mama tried to pull me out of the way of a burning carriage as it tore down the street, but she wasn’t fast enough. It struck me. There was fire all around—pieces of the carriage, the collapsed building I fell near, my dress as it caught fire. It seemed like hours of nothing but flames and pain before Mama and a pair of soldiers pulled me free, though I’m told it was less than a minute. I’m lucky that only my leg was broken.”
Franklin’s expression twisted. Whatever emotion was rolling around behind those blue eyes of his, Corva couldn’t decipher it. He continued to hold her arm, almost uncomfortably tight.
At last, he cleared his throat and said, “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” in a rough voice.
Corva shrugged, and they continued on up the ramp to the narrow front porch. “That was a long time ago. As soon as I was pulled out of the burning debris, everyone around us came to our rescue instead of pushing and shoving. Mama got me to a doctor—I don’t remember how—and he set the bone and treated my burns. I healed, and that was that.” At least for the physical scars of the war. There were other scars Corva knew would never heal.
“What did your father say when he found out you were hurt?” They stopped at the top of the ramp.
Corva lowered her head, a lump forming in her throat. “We found out more than a month later that Papa had been killed in the Battle of Cedar Creek.”
There was nothing else to be said. Part of Corva wanted to laugh at the gloom of one of the first personal conversa
tions with her husband. It certainly wasn’t the wedding day she had dreamed about as a girl.
Franklin hummed as though he shared her feeling that enough seriousness was enough. He turned to lead her on to the door.
They paused at the sight of the two tall, thin crates that held her paintings, her carpet bag, and paintbox.
“It looks like Luke beat us out here,” Franklin said.
“How did he get here so fast?”
The corner of Franklin’s mouth twitched as he peeked at her. “Luke is something of a daredevil. Whether it’s wagons or horseback, liquor or women, he doesn’t know the meaning of a moderate pace. He drives his ma, Josephine, to distraction.”
Corva giggled, pressing her fingers to her lips. “Oh dear.”
“I don’t suppose you want these outside in the elements for too long.” Franklin let go of her arm, took hold of the railing at the edge of the porch, and walked across to the crates. He inspected one, nudged it as if judging its weight, then turned back to open the front door.
“Do you mind if I go in and find a place for these?” Corva crossed to pick up her carpet bag and paint box.
“No, no, go right ahead.” Franklin held his arm out, inviting her into his home.
Corva nodded, then stepped over the threshold. She smiled broadly at the sight of the room she walked into. Franklin was a single man who had been living by himself for a long time, or so she gathered, so his house could have been a disaster. Instead, it was tidy and organized. The front room was a combination parlor and dining room, with a stuffed sofa against one wall near a modest fireplace, and a polished dining table with four chairs close to the other wall. She caught a glimpse of a kitchen through a doorway beyond the dining area, and a bedroom through an open door on the side with the sofa. Another, closed door sat in the wall facing her. With a carpet on the floor that looked Turkish and ornate lamps on the dining table and a pair of side tables, the only thing that felt unfinished or rough about the space was the scarcity of decoration, particularly on the blank walls.
Corva drew in a breath, letting it out along with a good deal of her tension. Once again, her feelings about the unique situation she found herself in changed. Franklin may not have wanted a wife, but he had certainly picked the right one, at least if he wanted pictures on his walls.
She turned back to the door only to find Franklin struggling with one of her crates.
“Let me help with that.” She dashed to the side to set her bag and paint box on the dining table, then met Franklin in the doorway.
“It’s not particularly heavy,” he grunted, shifting the crate. “One thing I can do around the ranch is lift things, as long as I’m stable, but I can’t seem to balance this enough to lift it.”
One peek at the frustration lining Franklin’s face as he attempted to drag the crate into the doorway was enough to tell Corva not to comment on his struggle. “Maybe if I squeeze through and push from the other side.”
She turned sideways and slid through the door beside Franklin. For one heightened moment, their bodies brushed against each other. Corva rested her hand against his shoulder to balance herself, more due to the dizziness of being so close to him. Struggles or not, she could feel the firmness of his chest and arms, the tautness of his stomach, as she slipped by him. Crippled legs or not, he was a man who kept himself in prime physical condition. Lifting things indeed.
By the time she stepped out onto the porch, her heart was pounding so fast even Luke would approve. She pressed a hand to her hot cheek to cool it, even though the gesture was far too obvious. Something else. She needed to think of something else before the awkwardness—was that awkwardness or was it…more?—consumed her. Franklin hadn’t moved a muscle since the moment of contact.
When Corva finally dared to glance up at him, she found him studying her with more enigmatic and unreadable emotion in his eyes. That only made her flush deeper. He couldn’t possibly—
“Whoa, whoa, I can help with that.”
Both Corva and Franklin flinched and gasped at the interrupting voice. Corva twisted to see a tall, handsome man with long, dark blond hair tied at the base of his neck dismounting an equally handsome roan horse. He let the horse go with a pat to its flank, then strode toward the porch with long strides.
“Here,” he said as he reached the doorway and the crates.
Franklin stepped back, lifting his hands in a gesture that almost looked like surrender. He backed into the house. Corva followed him. Seconds later, the long-haired man carried both of the crates inside as if they were nothing.
“Thanks, Jarvis.” Franklin nodded for him to set the crates against the wall near the door.
“Don’t mention it.” Once his hands were free, Jarvis planted them on his hips and turned to where Franklin and Corva stood, side-by-side, a grin on his sun-touched face. “Is this the bride we’ve been hearing so much about?”
Franklin cleared his throat and sent Corva an apologetic smile. “Corva, I’d like you to meet Jarvis Flint.”
The name rang a bell. “Oh. You’re the one who works for Virginia Piedmont.”
“I’m her foreman, you’re right.” Jarvis extended a hand.
Corva took it, impressed by how large and warm it was and how firm his handshake.
“It’s a true honor to meet you, ma’am,” he said, then, with a glance to Franklin, “We’re all so happy that Franklin has finally found someone to settle down with.”
Somewhere under the pleasantries, Corva caught a distinct feeling that he was also implying “We’ve all been worried about him.”
“I’m happy to be here,” Corva answered. She glanced to Franklin, making sure he knew her comment was as much for him as for Jarvis.
An awkward pause followed. Corva waited for Franklin to say something, but his lips seemed to be glued shut, and a flush had come to his cheeks. Without touching him, she could see his muscles had gone hard as rocks. Jarvis seemed equally as much at a loss for words and ground his toe into the carpet. The silence between the two men was as good as a novel.
“Anyhow.” Jarvis finally broke the silence, as if they were in the middle of a conversation instead of stuck in a ditch beside one. He shifted his weight and let his hands drop. “I came to talk to you about the calves.”
Business took over, and Franklin transformed before Corva’s eyes. He stood straighter, squared his shoulders, and frowned. “What about them?”
“Some are missing,” Jarvis said. “Well, I guess that’s what you call it when a cow goes out to pasture plump and pregnant and comes back not pregnant.” He glanced to Corva. “If you’ll pardon my saying, ma’am.”
“It’s fine.” Corva waved away the frank talk.
“They’re coming back not pregnant?” Franklin crossed his arms, rubbing his chin. “And no calves with them?”
“None.”
“How many?” Franklin asked.
“At least half a dozen in the last week,” Jarvis answered.
Franklin arched an eyebrow. “Has anyone gone to check how many calves Bonneville has in his herd at the moment?”
At the question, the air in the room went alive with an electric charge. Anxious prickles made their way down Corva’s back. “Are you suggesting Mr. Bonneville might have somehow taken the calves right out of their mothers?” The idea seemed ridiculous and abhorrent to her.
Jarvis shrugged and grimaced. “Not exactly taking them out, but watching to see as soon as they’re born, then whisking them off and pretending they’re part of his herd.”
“You see, there’s a lot of open range around here,” Franklin went on to explain. “Everyone brands their cattle so that we can tell them apart, but calves who are born out on the range aren’t branded. If someone were to snatch one and whisk it away, out of sight, they could claim that it was from their herd all along and brand it before anyone can protest.”
“Isn’t that cheating?” Corva asked.
It was the wrong thing to say. Franklin flushe
d and glanced away, almost as if he wished he was somewhere else. Jarvis squirmed as though someone had dropped a worm down the back of his shirt. Both men suddenly looked as though they would rather be on different continents, let alone in the same room.
One blink, and Corva knew why. The story Franklin had told her about the fence-building competition, about how he had tried to cheat and ended up with crushed legs. She didn’t need to ask to know that Jarvis was involved in that, probably deeply involved.
She bit her lip, remembering the promise she’d made to herself to be helpful to Franklin instead of causing him more problems. “What do you plan to do? How can you prove what Mr. Bonneville has done, or even that it’s him?”
Slowly, both men shook themselves out of whatever attack of awkwardness they’d fallen prey to.
“Bonneville has pulled stunts like this before,” Jarvis explained. “He wants to be at the top of the totem pole in these parts.”
“A position my father will not let go of lightly,” Franklin added. “He won’t take rustling like this lightly either.”
“Exactly.” Jarvis nodded. “The problem is, how do we approach Bonneville about the possible thefts without setting him off on another one of his tears?”
Corva breathed an inner sigh of relief. The two men were back to discussing business.
Franklin sighed and rubbed his forehead. “We’ve barely settled from the last dust-up.”
“With Mr. Bonneville?” Corva asked.
Jarvis grunted. “Rex Bonneville is a thorn in all of our sides. The trouble is, he’s a member of the Wyoming Stock Grower’s Association.”
“Dad joined too, earlier this year,” Franklin put in.
“But he doesn’t make the trips out to Cheyenne to socialize with the other ranch owners the way Bonneville does.”
Franklin grunted. “That’s half the problem right there, if you ask me. Bonneville is more interested in cards and cigars and more with that lot than with overseeing his business.”
