by Merry Farmer
“Dad may control just about every aspect of Haskell as its founder and mayor,” Franklin added, “But Bonneville keeps threatening to call in his big guns to bring him down.”
“It sounds like a delicate dance,” Corva said.
“It’s something, all right,” Jarvis grumbled. He took a breath, shifted his weight, and said, “Well, I just wanted to find you to make sure you knew about that.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it,” Franklin answered.
Jarvis nodded, then smiled at Corva. “I’ll leave the two of you to get better acquainted.”
He nodded once more, then turned to go. Then it was just the two of them again.
“I…I suppose I need to unpack my things and get settled.” Corva moved toward the table where she’d left her carpetbag. “I don’t have much.”
Franklin crossed the main room to the open bedroom door. “I’ve had the guest room made up for you. I hope you like it.”
Corva paused halfway through turning around, a lump in her throat. “The guest room?”
Franklin scratched the back of his neck, wincing for a moment before meeting her eyes. “I figured it was too soon for us to share a room. Since we just met and all.”
How thoughtful of him…and how uncomfortable. It was as clear as day that he wasn’t ready for a real marriage.
Corva forced her back to relax and put on a smile anyhow. There would be time for all that later. “Thank you,” she said, carrying her bag across the room to the spare bedroom. “It’s lovely.”
Once again, they ended up standing closer to each other than was strictly proper as Corva crossed through the doorway. Instead of feeling threatened or endangered, as she had far too many times before in similar situations, Corva felt safe. If that wasn’t a good sign of things to come, she didn’t know what was.
Chapter Four
The differences between Nashville and Paradise Ranch became astoundingly apparent to Corva early the next morning as she woke from a heavy sleep. Living at Hurst Home—and before that at her uncle’s house—waking was always accompanied by the bustle of traffic outside, of early morning hawkers out selling their wares, and, on good mornings, the rich baritone of the cobbler’s assistant as he walked to work, singing old plantation songs.
The only songs Wyoming held were the twitter of birds greeting the dawn, the call of a hawk somewhere in the distance, and the brush of trees swaying in a breeze. A beam of sunlight slanted through a crack in the guestroom curtain, spilling across the bed where Corva lay under a thick quilt, perfect for nights that were still chilly. The whole thing was so serene that she closed her eyes again, feeling that, for once, she was completely safe.
She awoke a second time to the clatter of pots in the kitchen.
“Blast.” A crack of fear burst through her, and with it, memories of at least a hundred blows and insults. Gasping, Corva launched herself out of bed and scrambled into clean clothes. The few things she had were old and wrinkled after spending the last week in her carpetbag during the journey. She was sure she looked like a destitute waif as she rushed out of the guest room and through the main room to the kitchen, but it was better to fix breakfast looking like a drudge and have it hot on the table by the time her uncle woke up than to feel the back of his—
She stopped in the kitchen doorway, and slapped a hand to her pounding heart. No, she wasn’t in Nashville anymore. Franklin wasn’t Uncle Stanley. That was all behind her, hundreds of miles away. Still, it was rude of her to sleep in.
Franklin was stationed at the stove, leaning against a contraption that looked like a cane with a leather seat on top, frying bacon. The legs of his trousers hung loose, no braces in sight.
“I’m sorry.” She scurried up to the counter where a loaf of bread and a knife stood waiting. “I shouldn’t have slept in. It was irresponsible of me, unforgivable. I promise never to let it happen again.” Her hands shook as she picked up the knife.
It wasn’t until she had sliced four pieces and slid them into the toasting rack on the stovetop that she realized Franklin was staring at her. She dragged her eyes to meet his, expecting to see anger, or at the very lease disapproval.
He watched her with nothing more than surprise. And perhaps a shade of bewilderment.
“I figured you were tired after such a long journey and would want to sleep in,” he said, soft and simple. “I make breakfast every day, so it’s no skin off my back.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Corva turned away, reaching for a bowl of eggs. “I…I was always the one to make breakfast at home.” The truth was more like her uncle insisted she wake up at the crack of dawn to have a full breakfast waiting for him when he rolled out of bed, but it sounded much nicer the way she said it.
Franklin saw beyond her words. “You cooked such a magnificent supper last night. I don’t mind cooking breakfast. I’m an early riser anyhow, and generally need to be over at the paddock beside Dad’s house when the other ranch hands get there.”
“I don’t mind, really.”
He paused, continuing to study her, then said, “Hurst Home is a place where women go when they’ve come out of some sort of dangerous predicament.”
Corva lowered her eyes.
Another pause, and Franklin said, “I may not be good for much, but I know how to treat a woman…and how not to treat her.”
Tears clogged Corva’s eyes and squeezed her throat. A younger version of herself would never have dreamed of a man saying that to her, and here Franklin was, making a dream come true without her having to explain what it was. He deserved at least a smile for that.
She took in a breath, stood straighter, and smiled with all the gratitude of her heart. “Thank you.” That was all she needed to close the door on her past and focus on the first breakfast she would cook because she wanted to in years. She nodded to the skillet of bacon. “That looks just about ready. Do you usually make your eggs in the same pan with the bacon fat, or do you use a fresh pan?”
“With the bacon fat, of course.” The tension around Franklin’s eyes and mouth dissolved. It was his version of a smile. “Everything is better with bacon.”
The rest of breakfast went more smoothly than Corva could ever have imagined. Franklin knew his way around a kitchen, but he also knew how to carry on a conversation across a table. As they ate and drank tea—Franklin preferred it over coffee, and Corva was happy for one more, tiny difference from her uncle’s ways—he explained the various gadgets around his house that made his life easier.
“The stick I was using in the kitchen is one of the few things that Gideon Faraday didn’t invent and make especially for me. It’s called a shooting stick, and is used in England by aristocrats outdoors on hunts. Very handy for taking unnecessary strain off of your legs.”
“I can imagine.”
He paused, swirled his fork through the remaining yolk on his plate, then said, “I’m not helpless. After the accident, it felt like everyone I knew saw it as their responsibility to take care of me, to do everything for me. Aside from the fact that I didn’t and don’t deserve that kind of attention, I hated feeling like a useless lump and an overgrown child.”
Corva focused on his eyes, trying to read what he was really saying. “I wouldn’t dream of treating you that way,” she ventured. “But as your wife, it’s my responsibility to share the load.”
Franklin tipped his head to the side. “True. I’m sure, given time, we’ll figure out our way around each other.” He planted his hands on the table and pushed himself to a standing position.
Corva’s smile faltered. She had no idea what to make of her unusual, new husband. Were his words a promise to form a true union or was he putting her off somehow? She stood as well, taking her plate and his into the kitchen to wash.
No. She shook her head to clear it. This marriage would never work if she constantly walked on eggshells, expecting Franklin to treat her the way her uncle had. Her worth in her husband’s eyes would not depend on how fast she worked or how eff
iciently she evaded his notice. Wyoming was a new world and Paradise Ranch a new life. She had a chance of being appreciated for who she was here.
“I’ll come home for lunch,” Franklin called from the other room. “Generally, I stay over at Dad’s and eat with the other ranch hands.”
Corva set the plates in the sink, under soapy water, then strode to the door. “You don’t need to change your plans for me.”
She stopped at the sight of Franklin sitting on the sofa, strapping his braces to his legs. One brace was propped against the sofa beside him. Open as it was, it reminded her too much of an iron cage, a prison that he willfully closed himself in. True, he could barely walk at all without them, but something about the cold, claw-like metal sent a chill down her back.
“I don’t mind coming back here,” Franklin went on, unaware of her thoughts. “To tell you the truth, I don’t much like sitting down with the ranch hands.”
Corva’s brow flew up. “Really? Why not?” Was it possible that he didn’t think he had a right to be with them? That he wasn’t man enough?
“I’m their boss,” he said, reaching for the other brace and securing it around his leg. “Not only that, I’m younger than half of them. It makes for some awkward conversations.”
“Oh.” Yes, she suppose that made sense too. “I’ll make sure to have a hearty meal ready for you by, well, would noon be good?”
“You don’t have to—” He stopped, his hands pausing over the buckles on his braces, and let out a breath, relaxing. “Noon would be fine.” The corners of his mouth twitched.
What she wouldn’t do to coax a smile out of her husband.
When he stood, braces in place, and walked across the room to fetch his cane from its spot near the door, his movements were clunky, but faster than without the braces. Corva waited in the kitchen doorway, wondering if he would come over to kiss her goodbye.
“I’ll be off now,” he said instead, nodded, then headed out.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Corva’s heart began to race. It was the opposite reaction from what she should have, but there she was, alone in a house she had yet to feel was her home.
She drew in a breath and took a look around, studying the space without Franklin in it. It really was a delightful house. The walls were straight and covered with wallpaper bearing a subtle, geometric design. The fireplace in the main room was well-maintained and clean. The furniture was neat and artfully arranged. What surprised her the most was that she hadn’t noticed the details of the place while Franklin was there. Her husband somehow demanded all of the attention in the room without raising his voice or stomping around. Corva hummed to herself as that thought struck her. Yes, she could be happy here, and she might just stand a chance of pleasing Franklin too.
The first order of business in gaining her new husband’s approval was to clean up breakfast. If Franklin was the sort to keep his space clean on his own, she would keep it doubly clean while she was there. She scrubbed and put away the breakfast dishes, cleaned the counters and the stove, then mopped the floor for good measure. Each chore was something she’d done daily before, but now she actually took pride in her work, hoping it would provide a good impression instead of fearing it would earn her more bruises.
Once the kitchen was taken care of, she moved on to tidying the main room and the bedrooms. Franklin’s bedroom was his own, private space, so she only gave it a quick dusting and smoothed out the already-made bed, giving herself a few seconds to wonder about the rails and other inventions the room contained to make his life easier.
The real fun came when she finished with the cleaning and opened her crates. Her heart leapt with joy as she cracked open first one, then the other, and slid out the paintings that had been her only friends for so many years. She spread them around the room, propping them against the table, the sofa, and the walls, saying hello.
She spent a good half hour shuffling the paintings from one spot to another. Some were portraits—her mother, her father, and one of the maid who had lived across the street from her uncle’s house who had been her friend. A few were cityscapes. Most, however, were landscapes. Nothing made Corva happier than painting sunlight in the trees or dewdrops on grass.
The last item she unpacked from the crates was her beloved easel. Any other artist would probably scoff at the collection of patched and glued sticks that was Corva’s easel. Her mother had bought it for her new and whole when she was young, but as soon as her uncle had caught on to just how much Corva loved it, loved painting, he had taken out his rage by smashing the fragile frame and breaking it to splintered pieces. There was nothing Corva could do to purchase a new one, so each time it was broken, she would lovingly patch it back together, fixing the pieces in place with glue, wrapping them with strips of muslin, and doing whatever it took to get it on its feet. Now it stood crooked, and it wobbled if she put her weight against it wrong, but she wouldn’t have traded it for the world.
She couldn’t resist taking it straight outside, out into the panorama of amazing views that surrounded the house. The problem now was not so much what she should paint, it was which majestic vista she should start with. Forgetting all else, she chose a spot to the side of the house, facing the stream and a stand of sun-touched trees. One thing led to another, she rushed back into the house to fetch her paint box and the last blank canvas she owned, and a stool. She told herself she would only sketch out the painting, mark her spot so she could come back to it when she had more time, then go back inside to fix lunch.
Two hours later, with greens and browns and blues popping on the canvas as the scene took shape, Franklin came riding up the path.
“Oh, no,” Corva gasped, putting her palate and brush down so fast she nearly threw them. “Lunch.”
Her panic was cut short at the figure Franklin cut atop his horse. He still had his braces around his legs, but he sat so easily atop his horse that without those braces, there would be no way to tell what was wrong with him, if anything. His back was straight, and he moved as one with the horse. More than just competent, he looked dazzlingly handsome in the noon sunlight. Her heart flipped in her chest…and not from fear of her negligence.
“Oh good,” he said as he rode closer. “You found something to do. I was afraid you’d spend all your time cooking and cleaning and getting bored.”
She winced and rose from her stool, wringing her hands. “I’m afraid I got carried away and lost track of time. I’ll get started on your lunch right away.”
His only answer was a slight frown. Was he upset? Had she made him angry by getting distracted? Or was he just curious? A hundred possibilities flitted through her mind as he rode right up to her side, handling his horse with expert skill. From his seat high above, he glanced down at her new painting, then at the stretch of stream that was her model. Something dark and troubled settled over him.
“It’s nice.” He quickly turned his horse and marched off to the same ramp he’d used to climb down from the wagon the day before.
“Nice?” Corva murmured, too quiet for Franklin to hear. She peeked at her painting. He didn’t like it. There could be no other explanation. He’d turned away so quickly. “Nice.” She bit her lip and marched away, leaving her work where it was. It would be all right where it was until after lunch.
Franklin dismounted with the help of his ramp, and followed Corva into the house.
“I can fix you something for lunch from the leftovers you have on hand.” Corva rushed ahead of him to the kitchen. “Your pantry is well-stocked.”
Franklin didn’t follow her into the kitchen. Through the kitchen doorway, she could see him studying her paintings. She’d hung most of them before going outside. As she rushed back and forth between the kitchen and the pantry, she couldn’t get a clear view of his expression. Did he like her work, or did he think it was just “nice?” Suddenly, his opinion of her talent meant everything.
She tried not to dwell on it as she put together a plate of cold chic
ken and some sort of leftover cold bean salad that had been in his icebox. She brought two plates to the table, but was far too agitated to sit.
“Are you sure it’s all right for me to have hung them?” she asked, frustrated at the shake in her voice.
Franklin took his time replying. Every second that ticked by made Corva more anxious. Her husband was the most unreadable man she’d ever met. Not smiling was one thing, but not betraying an ounce of opinion one way or another in how he looked at things was near maddening.
At last, he said, “Since we’re so far away from any city with an art gallery, these will do.”
It was as if the air itself dropped flat to the floor, taking Corva’s stomach with it. These would do? Her whole heart and soul, every stifled, tangled emotion she’d been forced to keep locked away lest she provoke her uncle’s wrath, all her happiness for the past ten years on display for anyone to see…and it would do?
She couldn’t speak. Throat tight with tears that she refused to shed, she fled into the kitchen to pour two glasses of water to go with lunch. Through the window, she caught sight of her easel and the new painting she had started. What was the point of starting another one if the best it could ever be was adequate?
Franklin was seated at the table when Corva returned and placed a glass of water at the top of his plate. “They found one of the calves this morning,” he said as if he hadn’t just brought her world down with a careless comment. “At least, we assume it’s one of ours. Cody Montrose found it suckling one of our cows, but it had already been branded by Bonneville. It’s shameless to brand a calf that young.”
All Corva could manage in reply was a nod. She hadn’t been married for a full day yet, and already she despaired that she would never be truly accepted for who she was, no matter what place she found in Wyoming.
The calf that was found in Howard Haskell’s herd bearing Rex Bonneville’s brand was almost certainly one of Howard’s. Franklin mulled over that truth and what it would mean for relations between the two ranches as he drove Corva over the short distance between his house and his parents’. It would be too easy for Bonneville to claim some sort of mistake or negligence on the part of one of his ranch hands, but it didn’t explain the other missing calves. Bonneville wasn’t the sort of man to confess to the crime and make amends. He wasn’t the sort to go on the attack either, fortunately, or they could have an even bigger problem on their hands. Grazing cattle on the open range had already made for some dicey situations between competing ranchers.
