Texas Bride: A Bitter Creek Novel

by Joan Johnston

  That was odd, too, especially when the girl had come from Chicago in winter. Miranda Wentworth was far prettier than Jake had any right to hope, Cricket thought, since he’d selected his bride sight unseen. But it seemed she was poor as a church mouse, with not even a warm change of clothes to her name.

  Miranda also seemed overwhelmed by the situation she’d gotten herself into. Cricket tried to imagine how horrible things must have been at the orphanage where the girl had lived with her brothers, for her to have contrived to bring them secretly with her to Texas.

  Even before Miranda pulled the long john shirt over her head, Cricket’s stomach clenched at the sight of the blood streaking the back of it. The girl gasped as she tore the shirt away from a place where it was stuck to her skin by dried blood, then held the shirt against her breasts to preserve her modesty.

  Cricket had to bite back an oath when she saw the girl’s back. She wondered how her son had felt when he’d seen the results of the awful cruelty this young woman had endured. Some of the scars were flat and white and therefore old. Some of the scars had healed in raised welts, the result, perhaps, of beatings on top of beatings. The newest wounds were numerous. Some of them were well on their way to healing. Others, the ones not covered by sticking plasters, were still raw.

  “You poor dear,” Cricket said as she wet a cloth to wash away the blood from a seeping wound that wasn’t covered by a sticking plaster. “There must be a special hell for persons like your Miss Birch.”

  “I hope so,” the girl said fervently.

  Amazing that the young woman’s spirit had not been broken. Maybe she had more gumption than Cricket had first thought. It would have taken a very strong-willed person to endure this much pain and not shatter.

  “You must have caused a great deal of trouble at the orphanage,” she ventured.

  “Miss Birch didn’t need a reason to be cruel,” Miranda replied.

  “You must be glad to be gone from there.”

  “I am. I just wish—” She bit back the rest of her sentence.

  “What?” Cricket prodded.

  “Nothing,” the girl said.

  There was more to the story that hadn’t been told, Cricket realized, but the girl didn’t trust her enough to tell it. “Your secrets are safe with me,” she said as she applied more sticking plasters, which she found on the bedside table, to the worst of the uncovered wounds.

  The girl glanced over her shoulder, then turned her face away. She didn’t reply. She didn’t offer any further explanation.

  Cricket had opened her mouth to ask another question when she heard a ruckus downstairs.

  Two male voices were raised in anger. Younger male voices joined in.

  “Get out of my house!” a male voice roared.

  “That’s Jake!” Miranda cried, as she leapt from the bed and fumbled to get the long john shirt over her head. “We have to get down there, fast!”

  Then Cricket heard, “Where the hell is my wife?”

  She knew that, no matter how fast they moved, they were too late.

  Jake was sitting slumped in the wing chair with his foot propped up on a pillow, where his mother had left him when she went upstairs, when he heard a loud commotion in the kitchen.

  He grimaced as he eased his ankle off the stool where it was perched, then braced his hands on the arms of the chair to get himself upright. He hissed back an oath when he accidentally bumped his sprained ankle. He was barely on his feet when Blackthorne appeared in the doorway to the parlor.

  “Get out of my house,” Jake snarled in a low, deadly voice.

  “Where is my wife?” Blackthorne demanded in an equally quiet, yet equally threatening voice.

  “Are you afraid she’s left you?”

  Blackthorne paled. “Did you tell her?”

  “And if I did?” Jake said defiantly.

  His stepfather’s hands became fists. His mouth thinned and his eyes narrowed and turned as cold and hard as blue glass. “I told you what I’d do if you ever said a word of what you know. I don’t make idle threats.”

  “What you did was despicable,” Jake snarled. “You would have gotten away with it, too, if I hadn’t learned the truth from my father before he went away. You kept my mother from her rightful husband. You blackmailed my father into leaving her behind. You stole my patrimony.”

  “He returned too late. Your mother had already borne my sons.”

  “An honorable man would have admitted the mistake,” Jake said, his voice trembling with fury. “An honorable man would have found a way—”

  “There was no going back.”

  “You could have let him say good-bye to her,” Jake said fiercely. And to me. “If I hadn’t met him accidentally, I would never have known he was still alive. Or the contemptible things you did to get rid of your rival.”

  Jake lifted his chin and confronted his stepfather. “But I did meet him. So I know how you stole Lion’s Dare. I know how you deceived my father into believing my mother would never leave you or her sons. I know what a son of a bitch you really are.”

  Jake saw his words strike home. He knew how much his mother had loved his father, but even he wasn’t sure what her decision would have been, given a choice between the two men. Blackthorne hadn’t taken the chance that she would leave him. He’d arranged everything to make sure Jarrett Creed went away without ever speaking to her.

  But he must have feared she would leave. Even now, he must fear it. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be so determined to keep what he’d done from his wife. Jake had been angry enough at his stepfather over the years to want to tell his mother what he knew. But once his father was gone, seemingly beyond reach, spilling his guts would only have hurt his mother.

  Would she have left Blackthorne to return to Jake’s father a year into her marriage with another man? He would never know. Certainly, she wouldn’t have left the twins behind, and Blackthorne would never have let her have them. But his mother should have been given the choice. She should have been told the truth. She should have been told that her husband was still alive.

  Blackthorne had manipulated Jake’s father to make him go away. He’d made the choice for his wife. For that, Jake would never forgive him.

  “Did you tell her?” Blackthorne asked again, his voice tense, his shoulders hunched as though against a blow.

  Jake wanted to say yes. He wanted to make his stepfather suffer as he’d suffered for long years. But he feared the repercussions for his mother if he lied. So he told the truth.

  “Your filthy secret is safe.”

  “Smart boy.”

  “Nasty man,” Jake shot back.

  “Just so long as you keep your mouth shut, I don’t care what names you call me,” Blackthorne said.

  “Get out of my house!” Jake roared.

  “Where the hell is my wife?” Blackthorne bellowed back.

  Jake swallowed back the virulent epithets that threatened to spew out of his mouth. He hated Blackthorne for the lie he’d perpetrated on Jake’s mother, for the blackmail that had sent his father halfway across the world, but most of all, he hated Blackthorne because he’d allowed himself to be convinced—never threatened, but convinced, nonetheless—that the best thing to do was keep silent.

  The guilt of his complicity in the lie had made him a bitter and angry man. He’d grieved the loss of his father not just once, but twice. He hated his stepfather. He pitied his mother. And he would miss—and forever wonder about—his father, who was living on a continent so far away it was unlikely Jake would see him again in this lifetime.

  “Where is she?” Blackthorne demanded through tight jaws.

  Jake hesitated, then said, “She’s upstairs. With my wife.”

  Jake watched Blackthorne head through the parlor and take the first two stairs in a single step. “Stop right there!” Jake called out. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Blackthorne stopped and turned, an irritated look on his face. “I’m going to find my wife.”<
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  “I told you she’s tending to mine.”

  Jake could tell his stepfather was rattled when it seemed to dawn on him exactly where he was and what he’d been about to do. He looked upstairs with longing, then came back down to the main floor. He gripped the newel post and called up, “Cricket, get down here!”

  Jake had known his stepfather had a well-developed sense of possession toward his cattle, his land, and his children—and, of course, his wife. However, this was the first time he’d seen Blackthorne looking anxious about any of them.

  “I’ll be down in a minute,” Cricket called back from behind a closed door.

  “What happened to you?” Blackthorne asked, staring at Jake’s wrapped-up ankle as Jake stepped out from behind the chair.

  “None of your damned business.”

  “That boy in the kitchen needs his mouth washed out with soap.”

  “I’m sure whatever he said, you provoked it,” Jake said, defending Nick, even though he agreed with his stepfather.

  Slim appeared in the hall from his bedroom with two crying children. “What the Sam Hill is goin’ on out here? What’s all the shoutin’ about?”

  Jake realized he needed to stay near the chair to hold himself upright. “Bring Anna Mae over here,” he said to the old man. He waited for Slim to roll his wheelchair close enough for him to pick up his wailing daughter.

  When Anna Mae reached back and cried, “Harry, Harry, Harry,” Jake scooped up the little boy as well, wincing as he leaned back against the chair and balanced on his good leg and his bad ankle.

  Nick showed up in the hall, the twins dogging his heels, and demanded, “Are these darned Blackthornes leaving, or what?”

  “We’ll go when we’re good and ready,” Nash said.

  “And not before,” Noah added.

  At that moment, Jake’s mother and his wife came running down the stairs. Miranda reached Jake first and took Harry from his grasp and set him down, murmuring soothing words and swiping the tears from the howling four-year-old’s distraught face.

  Jake’s gaze was riveted on his mother as she crossed to his stepfather, put her hand on his heart, looked up into his face, and said in a perfectly calm voice, “I’m fine, Alex. As you can see, we’re all fine. I’m so sorry you were worried.”

  Jake had never thought of his stepfather as anything but invincible. The slight sag in Blackthorne’s shoulders when Cricket reassured him she was all right suggested that his stepfather had an Achilles’ heel. Unfortunately for Jake, he would never be able to attack that weakness, because that weakness was his own mother.

  When Jake finally looked at his wife, he realized she was half dressed, wearing one of his long john shirts and a pair of his Levi’s. “Are you all right?” he asked in a low voice.

  “I’m fine. Are you all right?” she said as she took Anna Mae from him.

  Jake watched as Miranda smoothed Anna Mae’s fine hair back from her tear-streaked face.

  “How are you, sweetie?” she cooed to the little girl. She produced a hanky from Lord knew where and dabbed at Anna Mae’s cheeks. “Let’s wipe away those tears, so we can see your pretty little face.”

  His daughter wasn’t used to such compliments. Priss had been far too practical, or too tired, to bother. He could see that Anna Mae liked being called pretty, or at least that she liked the attention Miranda was lavishing on her.

  He was amazed how quickly Miranda managed to calm both children, splitting her attention between them. By the time he looked up at Blackthorne again, his stepfather and his mother were engaged in what looked like a tense conversation.

  Abruptly his mother turned away and said, “Come on, boys. We’d better get started home.”

  “Isn’t Dad going with us?” Nash asked, turning to Blackthorne.

  “Your father can do as he pleases,” she said curtly.

  “I’m coming,” Blackthorne said.

  Ignoring Blackthorne, his mother crossed to where Jake was standing with Miranda and said, “Welcome to the neighborhood, Miranda. I hope you enjoy the pie. With any luck, the boys have finished the dishes. I’ll come visit again soon.”

  At the last statement, Jake saw his stepfather scowl. His mother seemed unaware of—or unfazed by—his disapproval.

  “Thank you, Mom,” Jake said. “For everything.”

  She kissed his cheek and said, “You’re my son. I love you. Take care of yourself, Jake. A lot of people are depending on you.”

  She didn’t have to tell him that. He was aware every day, every hour, every moment, of how vital it was that he turn this one-time cotton plantation into a successful cattle ranch.

  A moment later, he heard the kitchen door slam.

  “It’s stopped snowing,” Nick said, pointing out the parlor window.

  “Good thing, too,” Slim said. “We ain’t got no hay to feed them cows. Now we got to hope it melts quick.”

  “I’m glad I had a chance to meet your mother,” Miranda said. “Would you like a piece of pie?”

  Jake felt sick to his stomach. He thought if he ate anything, he’d probably throw it right back up. “No pie for me.”

  “Can I have your piece?” Nick asked hopefully.

  He owed the kid one for not liking the Blackthornes. “Sure. Help yourself.”

  To his surprise, Nick took Anna Mae from Miranda’s arms and leaned her against his waist, then grabbed Harry’s hand and said, “Come on. We’ll split it three ways.”

  Once the kids were gone, Slim said, “ ’Less you need me, I’m gonna finish my nap.”

  Jake shook his head and the old man headed back toward his bedroom, leaving Jake alone with his wife.

  He looked at her and said, “Are you all right?”

  She grinned and said, “Are you? Your stepfather is a rather forceful personality, isn’t he?”

  He grunted. “You don’t know the half of it. How’s your back?”

  She flushed and said, “Much better. Your mother tended the few cuts that haven’t healed. What should we do with the rest of the day?”

  He grimaced. “I’m stuck here in this chair until the swelling goes down in my ankle. There are some crutches in the attic, if you want to hunt them down.”

  “I’ll go up there later. What can I do for you now?” she said as she crossed and put her arm around his waist. “Can I make up a pallet for you by the fire? Or would you rather sit in the chair?”

  “The chair.” Jake wasn’t used to being pampered. He’d been the one doing whatever pampering there was to be done. But he let his pretty young wife lead him around the wing chair and make sure he was comfortable, easing his injured ankle back onto the pillowed perch where it had previously rested.

  She crossed and pushed back the raggedy drapes from the parlor window and looked out. “The snow is so beautiful. Everything is so white and bright and clean.”

  Beautiful? He remembered Priss remarking once upon a time how beautiful the snow was. That was before they were married, before the snow had become one more trial and tribulation in their difficult lives, before it had caused so many disasters of the sort he’d managed to survive today.

  “How long before it melts?” she asked.

  “Hard to tell this time of year. Could be there a week. Could be gone tomorrow.”

  She turned back to him with a surprised look. “Tomorrow? Is that really possible?”

  “Nothing about this place is predictable, least of all the weather.”

  At that moment, the runt appeared in the parlor doorway and yelled, “Miranda, come quick! Anna Mae is choking!”

  Jake felt his stomach lurch and his heart pound as he launched himself out of the chair. By the time he was upright, Miranda was already gone from the room, along with Harry. “I’m coming, Anna Mae!” he shouted.

  As though the sound of his voice was any help!

  He hopped his way from one piece of furniture to the next and hobbled along using the wall for support until he reached the kitchen.

/>   He found Miranda sitting in a chair with Anna Mae in her lap, the child smiling up at her, while Nick and Harry hovered nearby. Miranda was holding out a button that must have come off one of his shirts and saying to his daughter, “Buttons don’t taste very good, do they, sweetie?”

  “She choked on a button?” He stared down at the two of them, feeling light-headed at how close he’d come to a second disaster in a single day.

  Miranda smiled up at him and nodded.

  “How did you get her to cough it up?”

  “Turned her upside down and gave her a slap on the back. Came right out and fell on the floor. Harry retrieved it for me.” She brushed a loving hand over her younger brother’s head.

  Jake realized he needed to hold his daughter, to reassure himself that she was all right. His knees buckled under him and he sat in a kitchen chair. Miranda kissed Anna Mae on her forehead before setting her in his lap. He marveled how his new wife had recognized his need to hold his child.

  “She’s fine,” Miranda said.

  He looked into his daughter’s brown eyes and she smiled up at him, apparently having already forgotten the life-threatening event. “No more eating buttons, honey,” he said. “All right?”

  “Okay, Daddy,” she said.

  “Come on, Anna Mae,” Harry said. “Let’s go play.”

  His daughter squirmed to get down and he set her on the floor, where she reached for Harry’s hand.

  Jake was recovered enough from his terror to realize he owed this woman, who’d been a stranger a mere twenty-four hours ago, his daughter’s life.

  Before the little boy left the kitchen with his daughter Jake said, “Thank you for coming to let me know Anna Mae was in trouble, Harry.”

  Miranda beamed at him, and Jake realized it was the first time he hadn’t called the little boy “runt.”

  Harry shrugged and said, “Nick told me to go get help, when he couldn’t get her to spit it out.”

  Jake turned his attention to the older, more prickly boy. “Thank you, Nick.”

  Nick shrugged and stared at his toe, which was drawing a circle around a knot on the wood floor. “Woulda done it for anybody.”

  “Thank you anyway,” Jake said. “I owe you one.”