The Wrangler's Inconvenient Wife

by Lacy Williams

  She shifted him out of the way with a gentle shoulder and began unknotting the ties.

  “The horses are holding it steady—for now. If we unharness them, the whole thing could go.”

  “Fran?” Emma’s voice sounded frantic with a hint of a sob. There was more shuffling. The wagon shifted an inch and Edgar grabbed the tailgate with one hand, not that he could really stop it if it was going over.

  “Be still,” he said, words sharp this time. He wasn’t used to being questioned—his brothers knew who was in charge and followed his directions without question.

  Fran glanced at him, and he saw the worry on her face again.

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” she cooed. “We’re trying to get you out, but you have to be patient.”

  He snorted.

  She finally got the ties undone and the flap tucked back enough for him to duck his head and see inside.

  The girl was half-buried beneath two crates, her back to the canvas on the low side of the wagon. Another two crates balanced precariously above her head—and if they had any weight in them at all, she could get hurt if they fell on top of her.

  She was in a full panic, struggling against the weight pinning one of her legs.

  “Emma. Emma.”

  The girl’s eyes finally looked up at Fran’s calm, soothing tone just behind his shoulder.

  “I’m coming in there with you.” Fran glanced up at him, silently asking his permission at the same time as she comforted her sister.

  “Coddling,” he mumbled.

  She tapped his chin with one forefinger. “You seemed to like my coddling last night. You said it reminded you of your ma.”

  He had? He didn’t remember that and didn’t want to talk about his ma, so he steadied her as she stepped over the tailgate and into the mess in the back.

  “Be careful,” he warned her. Not because he was worried about her getting hurt.

  She glanced once back over her shoulder at him. He did his best to brace his feet and steady the whole shebang. He felt a little like David against a Goliath of a wagon.

  “I’m stuck,” Emma said, still struggling. “It’s like before...he’s got me pinned—”

  “Shh.” Fran could barely reach, but she put her palm on Emma’s cheek. Soothing her.

  Her next words made his blood run cold. “We’re not in Tennessee anymore, remember? There’s no one here but you and me and this cowboy, right?”

  She looked back at him, chagrined. Probably hadn’t wanted him to hear.

  Her sister began to calm, and Edgar’s sudden insight as to why they’d fled their orphanage made him hot and angry all at once. Someone had attacked Emma? No wonder she seemed so fragile.

  He worked to steady himself. His anger wasn’t going to help anybody.

  “Can you reach that top crate, there? It’s teetering—don’t want it to fall on her.” He spoke softly and gently, like he might to a horse if it’d spooked.

  He directed Fran on moving the crates. She passed them to him out of the wagon so they wouldn’t throw anything else off balance.

  When she finally got her sister loose, the other girl threw her arms around Fran and clung.

  “C’mon outta there,” he said. But more tenderly this time.

  The girls picked their way through the overturned detritus, and he helped first Emma, then Fran out with his good left hand.

  “Seems like you been derailing everything since I met you.”

  She cocked her head at him, but her eyes were soft and shadowed. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t see the drop-off.”

  And for some strange reason, he wanted to comfort her. “Neither did I.”

  He realized he was still holding on to her elbow, even though they were both on solid ground, and he dropped it quickly.

  Emma huddled on the ground nearby. She seemed okay, if shaken. The white dog nuzzled her hand, licked what it could reach of her chin.

  “Will you help me unharness the horses?” he asked.

  “Let me see your hand first. I heard you—you landed on it, right?”

  His ears went hot that she’d heard him squeal like a girl. It had hurt. He held out the appendage for her inspection. It was probably quicker than arguing with her.

  “Does it hurt any worse than before?”

  Looking down on her dark head bent over his hand, that same uncomfortable warmth from the morning lit his chest again. “Not really.”

  She turned his hand, and her gentle, cool fingers traced the lines on his palm. “It looks a little better than it did last night, I guess.”

  She tilted her face up to his, and her eyes were still shadowed. Had they always been that way and he hadn’t noticed before?

  He looked back at her sister. They needed to talk, but now wasn’t the time.

  Walking up to the front of the wagon, he could see the herd was farther off. His brothers apparently hadn’t noticed they’d fallen behind. It could be a while, and if the wagon went over now, the horses could be injured. Better to unharness them and put them back in the traces when his brothers had gotten the wagon back up.

  “What will we do if they don’t come for us?” she asked.

  “They will.” He knew his brothers.

  She took a good long look ahead, all around them.

  Her sister was sitting on the grass behind the wagon, still shaken up.

  “Don’t you ever get scared...being out here? Without any help close by? What if that bite on your hand would’ve been worse? And...no neighbors? It seems sorta lonely.”

  He followed her gaze across the rolling plain, far out to the horizon. “I guess I’ve been here long enough to see it different.”

  He gestured back the way they’d come. “There’re neighbors. Old man Miller and his family live over that way, less than an hour on horseback. Longer in the wagon. With Oscar’s family nearby and all the rest of us at the homestead, it’s never quiet there. And when Maxwell gets back, we’ll have our own doc, won’t we?”

  She gazed up at him, still not fully understanding. He pointed her to the first buckle on the harness, knowing he wouldn’t be able to undo it with his injured hand.

  He watched her for a moment, making sure she’d gotten what he wanted. She had.

  “I guess there’s a...freedom to it,” he tried to explain.

  She went to the next buckle.

  “It’s like...when we were teasing back in the wagon, about manners. Out here, they don’t matter as much.”

  She looked up at him sideways as she went to the next and last buckle.

  He didn’t know if he was botching this explanation or if she was purposely misunderstanding. “I can do what I want to do,” he went on. “If I want to raise cattle, I can. Or sheep, or horses. If I keep to myself, no one’s going to bother me.”

  She wrinkled her nose as she trailed him around the front of the horses to the other side. “Don’t you mean no one will have any expectations of you?”

  He froze, the depth of her question surprising him. “What do you mean?”

  She looked at him from the side. “You take care of your papa’s ranch, but being so isolated... It keeps people away. Keeps you from having to interact, I guess.”

  He didn’t have an answer, not that she was really asking for one.

  “Problems?” a familiar voice asked.

  He whipped around to see Ricky already dismounted and another hand not far behind. Had they ridden up and he hadn’t noticed? He’d been wrapped up in Fran’s discussion.

  His brother looked like a thundercloud, but as of late that seemed to be a common expression for him.

  Fran moved off to see to Emma.

  “Needs a good shove from the lower side,” Edgar suggested.

&n
bsp; “I can see that.” Ricky rounded the wagon, eyes on the ground.

  “Not there,” Edgar said as his brother knelt to examine one of the wheels that were still above the wash.

  His brother sent him a scathing look over his shoulder. “I can see what needs doing. I don’t always need you bossing me like I’m a young pup.”

  Edgar’s footsteps faltered, but then he joined up with the other hand at the back of the wagon while Ricky went into the wash.

  He could at least help steady the thing, even if he didn’t have use of both hands.

  Was that what Ricky really thought? That he bossed like a mother hen? Jonas had left him in charge. It was Edgar’s responsibility to get those cattle where they needed to be. It was on him if they didn’t make it.

  They got the wagon back on solid ground, and he moved to his brother as Ricky used the toe of one boot to inspect the spokes in each wheel.

  “Pa left me in charge—” he started.

  “How could I forget? You keep reminding us at every turn.” Ricky wouldn’t look directly at him. What was eating him? Could he be jealous?

  Then Ricky turned to him. “You know, she might be right about you hiding out on Pa’s spread.”

  Edgar’s ears went hot again. So Ricky had heard Fran’s conclusion. Did he really think the same, or was he just trying to get under Edgar’s skin?

  “You really happy there? Because not all the rest of us are.”

  And with that, he stalked off. Not giving Edgar a chance to really talk to him, not really solving anything.

  And making Edgar more worried than ever about getting the cattle to Tuck’s Station on time. If Ricky didn’t do his share, there was a real chance of some of the cattle getting hurt or falling away from the herd.

  Frustrated, he ducked behind the wagon, kicking through the tall grasses.

  He hated feeling so distant from his brother. Not being able to solve the problem with Ricky. Hated feeling helpless.

  A disgruntled frog hopped away, displaced from some nearby stream.

  And the idea that popped into Edgar’s mind made him forget about his troubles with his brother. For the moment.

  * * *

  Her husband had been acting strange all afternoon.

  But Fran was so happy to be out of the wagon that she dismissed it.

  For someone who’d been as irritable as a bear the previous two days and had then spent a good hour that afternoon upset with his brother, and was snakebit to boot, he was smiling to himself quite a bit.

  Ever since they’d reorganized all of the items in the back of the wagon.

  When she went to get the large pot to make the stew Chester had told her he wanted, she found out why.

  She took off the lid, and a large green amphibian leaped toward her.

  She was proud that only a small shriek escaped and that no one had been on her side of the wagon to witness her clang the lid down, trapping the frog inside the pot.

  She supposed she should be angry at the man, but after his gentle care of Emma earlier, she couldn’t muster it.

  Or maybe this was just the way Western men courted their womenfolk?

  She shook her head, remembering his words about being on his own. There was something deeper underneath them, but she didn’t think he wanted to share it with her—if he even knew himself.

  “Food on?” asked Chester, bringing the firewood that Edgar had told him to bring.

  Seeing the older, grizzled cowboy gave her an idea. “Do you know how to cook a frog?”

  She followed his directions, swallowing her squeal when she had to dismember the poor animal. This had better be worth it.

  And it was, when she presented her husband with the fried frog legs, arranged neatly on top of his biscuit and stew.

  His eyes widened, and the cowboys all around guffawed. Even Emma smiled from her retreat in the wagon.

  His eyes sparked. She thought for a moment he might be angry, but then he ripped into one of the legs with his teeth like a mountain man with no manners—harking back to their earlier conversation, no doubt.

  He raised the bone to salute her.

  And she retreated behind the wagon as the cowboys laughed again—this time her husband included.

  * * *

  Supper was long gone, and Fran was attempting to muster the energy to take the dishes to the stream. They’d made camp about the same distance away from the one they’d found the day before.

  She leaned on the corner of the wagon as she attempted to cajole Emma into helping her. The other girl remained holed up inside the canvas-covered box.

  “Please come down,” Fran said. Suggested. Gently.

  Emma shook her head slightly, eyes flickering past the firelight to the shadows beyond. Still afraid.

  “Is it Edgar? His brothers?”

  “No. They’re fine. I don’t know...some of the others.”

  Fran’s curiosity piqued. “Has someone said something inappropriate to you?”

  “No, just...”

  Emma was sensitive. Had always been so. Fran thought her mother probably wouldn’t have sent Emma to the finishing school but she’d once overheard her father saying that Emma needed something to bring her out of her shell.

  And she had become more social around her friends at the Girls’ Academy. Until the awful Mr. Underhill had changed everything.

  With the visible fear on Emma’s face, Fran couldn’t push her into getting out of the wagon.

  Even if it meant she had to do all the dishes on her own.

  She was so tired that it made her answering “fine” sharp.

  Emma looked apologetic, but apology didn’t really help get the chore done.

  Fran wished—for both their sakes—that things were different.

  No doubt Emma did, too.

  She couldn’t let guilt cripple either of them.

  She gathered the last of the tin spoons and added the pieces to her stew pot, already filled with the rest of the soiled dishes.

  With one last glimpse of Emma making her bed in the wagon, she turned the corner.

  Hidden behind the wagon, she heard the voices near the bedrolls but couldn’t be sure if they knew she was there.

  “There’re at least two of them, judging by the tracks.”

  She became instantly aware at the serious tone in one of the cowhands’ voice. Two of whom?

  “Looks like they circled back, kinda like they’re following us.”

  “How long have they been following? Could you tell?” That was Edgar’s voice.

  Her heart began to pound. Someone was following them?

  “Maybe since yesterday. Maybe today. Hard to tell. I tried to catch a glimpse but either they were long gone or holed up for the night.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You thinking it’s rustlers?”

  She was thinking something entirely different. What if Underhill’s men had tracked her and Emma this far?

  Heart thrumming like a bird’s wings, she rose from her crouch by the stew pot.

  Should they try to run?

  A glance back at the wagon and the slight shadow of Emma’s profile within calmed her very slightly.

  Emma was safe—for now. The two of them alone on the prairie? It would be much more dangerous for them, wouldn’t it?

  Knowing Emma was safe for the moment released some of the tension in her shoulders. Only a bit.

  If Underhill’s men were still chasing them, what could she do?

  She grabbed the pot and rushed out into the darkness, tears and fear blinding her. She dropped to her knees at the creek bank, thoughts racing.

  They were as good as in the middle of nowhere. In between two small towns in the wilds of Wyoming. Even if
she were able to spirit Emma away, where could they go for help?

  She scrubbed the first plate violently. She washed the second the same way, acting out her anger and the fear twisting her gut.

  It didn’t help.

  She wanted to shout at God. They’d made a deal, hadn’t they? She would do anything if He would keep Emma safe.

  And now this.

  Tears rushed in again. With Emma around all day, she had no release for the fear and frustration that constantly hounded her. But now, in the darkness, there was no one to see her.

  She bowed her head and let them come silently.

  She knew God didn’t owe her anything. That she couldn’t really strike a deal with Him. She vaguely remembered a Bible verse about His sun shining on the good and evil both.

  But she’d begged for God’s protection for Emma. Where was His answer?

  A branch cracked behind her, and she whirled, one hand brushing at the tears on her cheeks, the other scrambling through her dishes for anything that might be used as a weapon. A knife, perhaps?

  She came up with a spoon.

  A man crashed through some brush several yards away and she shrieked, knowing she was probably too far away for the men back at the campfire to hear her.

  How could she have been so foolish as to come out here alone?

  Chapter Seven

  “Kinda foolish to come out here by yourself.”

  Edgar had seen cornered animals before. Knew to be ready for her to run or to turn and take a swipe at him.

  But she’d been surprising him from the beginning.

  Edgar saw his wife drop her shoulders and a silver utensil she’d been holding. She took a swipe at her face. Was she crying?

  “Aw, snakeskin.”

  Like his pa and most of his brothers, he had no idea what to do with a crying woman.

  He tiptoed closer. Warily.

  She dabbed at her face again, then grabbed up one of the dishes and splashed it into the stream, scrubbing it harder than the thing probably warranted.

  “You scared me,” she said to her plate.

  He had a guess as to why, especially if she’d overheard his conversation with one of the hands, John Michaels.