by Craig, Emma
“Sure. Why not?” He walked over to the piano, prepared to meet his fate.
Juanita Valdez brought a plate of gingerbread and a pot of steaming tea into the parlor after he sat down and played the first notes of an old Christmas tune. As gingery fragrances kisses his nostrils, Noah Partridge played “We Three Kings.”
Maddie sang along, in between bites of gingerbread and sips of tea, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. For Maddie, Noah remained seated on that piano bench. For Maddie, his fingers kept moving over the keys. For Maddie, he didn’t scream, and he didn’t run away.
He considered it a minor triumph.
# # #
“Um, may I talk to you for a minute, ma’am?”
Grace looked up from the tub of sudsy water in which she’d been washing the supper dishes. Supper had been an easy meal tonight, consisting of bread and butter and cheese and apples, since she and Maddie were both tired from their adventurous day.
Mr. Partridge looked nervous as he stood there twirling his hat in his fingers. Grace hoped he wasn’t going to apologize for kissing her. Thanks to Mac’s cheerful questions and humorous supper-table conversation, she’d managed to forget that torrid kiss as they ate. Now the memory of it came crashing back into her mind like a herd of Chisum’s long-horned steers.
She decided not to borrow trouble. “Of course, Mr. Partridge. Let me dump this water outside.”
He lurched forward, consigning his hat to the table. “Here. Let me do that, ma’am. That tub looks heavy.”
She bit back the retort that she was fully capable of doing her own chores. He was trying to be nice. At least she guessed he was.
With a grunt, he lifted the wash tub and carried it out back. She heard the water slop out onto her garden, and was pleased he’d thought to empty it there even if she hadn’t told him to. Out here, one didn’t waste water, even left-over soapy dishwater.
He wasn’t going to ask her to marry her out of some misguided sense of southern chivalry, was he? Heavenly days, that’s all Grace needed. She tried to cast out the notion that she’d be awfully flattered if he did. But that was foolish thinking, and Grace wasn’t foolish. Besides, she didn’t want to marry anyone. Most particularly, she didn’t want to marry a hard-edged, broody man who made her nervous, even if he did play the piano and have a lovely voice and seemed nice under his burden of problems.
It was the problems that worried Grace the most. Andersonville, for heaven’s sake. Even if she managed to forget about how much she loved and missed Frank, she didn’t feel up to coping with Noah Partridge’s blue devils and her own both. The combination was more than any woman should have to cope with
Of course, if he got better—but, no. Grace was ashamed of herself when she realized the direction her thoughts were taking. It was wicked of her even to think about marrying again. Disloyal. And marriage to Noah Partridge? Why, he wasn’t anything like Frank. And Frank was the only man she’d ever loved and ever would love. Ever could love.
Troubled, she took the tub from Noah’s outstretched hands. “Thank you.” She tried to sound grateful.
With care, because he made her nervy, Grace hung the tub on its proper hook on the wall, scooped out a fingerful of Mac’s special lanolin cream, and rubbed it thoroughly into her hands. Only then did she feel settled enough inside to allow herself to look up and smile at Noah.
“Now, Mr. Partridge, you wanted to talk to me. Would you care for a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
“Well, I do believe I’ll have one. Coffee never keeps me up at night, because I’m so worn out it doesn’t have a chance.” She managed a little laugh, and was proud of herself.
“Reckon that’s true, ma’am.”
His voice sounded harsh, and Grace glanced over her shoulder at him from the stove, where a pot of coffee always stood. He didn’t look any different than he ever did—which wasn’t friendly and certainly wasn’t easy. There didn’t seem to be one single easy thing about Noah Partridge.
At the moment Mac was reading Maddie a bed-time story. Grace didn’t expect it to last long, since Maddie was so worn out from her happy day that she’d probably be sound asleep before Mac finished the second page. She supposed she should thank Mr. Partridge for the day. Leaving out the kiss, of course.
“Maddie had a very good time today, Mr. Partridge. Thank you for taking us—her—on that picnic.”
He brushed aside her thanks. “You’re the one who did everything, Mrs. Richardson. If only tagged along.”
Hmph. Grace sat and motioned him to take a chair on the other side of the kitchen table. He complied, and began fiddling with his hat again. She sipped her coffee and wondered what to say now. With luck, he’d take it from here.
He did. “Um, have you given any more thought to selling me your land, Mrs. Richardson? I mean, have you reconsidered? Thought it over, I mean?”
For a second, Grace felt like he’d punched her in the stomach. It took a mighty effort for her to set her coffee mug down on the table and not splash its contents into Noah Partridge’s face.
Was that why he’d kissed her? Had he believed she’d succumb to his fleshly lures and weaken in her resolve not to sell him Frank’s dream? Her eyes squinted up, her heart hurt, and she felt as she might if he’d shoved her from a high precipice. Her nerves jangled, and her throat tried to close up on her. Her eyes burned.
Pinching her lips tightly together, she managed to keep from yelling at him to get out of her kitchen. It wasn’t her kitchen. It was Mac’s kitchen, and Mac had invited this man in. Grace only worked in it, and in Mac’s mercantile. She had nothing in the entire world to call her own.
Except that one plot of land out there beside the Pecos River, where Frank himself had planted two willows and three cottonwoods. Where he’d aimed to build them a house one day, and run some cattle, and have some pigs and chickens and sheep. Perhaps they’d have had more children and reared them there, on that plot of ground that Noah Partridge wanted to take away from her. That land belonged to Grace, and it would one day be Maddie’s. It was all either of them had left of Frank.
“No, Mr. Partridge. That is, yes, I have thought about it. And no, I won’t sell you the land.” Her voice was amazingly level, considering the state of her nerves, which were tangled up in knots and jumping around like spring lambs.
His brows lowered over his hazel eyes. Grace glared into them, refusing to look away. He didn’t speak immediately. Grace wondered if he was surprised by her continued refusal or merely peeved. If he was, he certainly didn’t know her very well. According to Grace’s mother, Grace Richardson was the most stubborn female ever born. And perhaps her mother was right. Why else would she have agreed to brave the territory with Frank—or, even more to the point, without Frank.
“Quite honestly, I’m surprised you’re still interested in it,” she went on. She could hear the anger seeping into her voice and didn’t care. “There’s a whole lot of land available for purchase or claim out here in this part of the territory. Why do you insist upon that particular parcel?” Maybe he was one of those competitive men who always wanted what other people owned, like Hugh Blackworth.
He was furious; Grace could tell. There was nothing he could do to her, though, no matter how mad he got. She owned that land. It was hers to do with as she chose, and she chose to keep it.
“Damn it, ma’am—beg pardon. Didn’t mean to swear.”
Grace huffed softly.
“But, if you’ll pardon me for saying so, I think you’re being pigheaded about this whole thing. There’s no way you’ll ever be able to work that spread yourself, Mrs. Richardson. Why do you want to hold onto something you can’t use?”
She was so angry, her teeth didn’t want to unclench and allow her to respond. With some difficulty, she pried them far enough apart to say, “My plans are no concern of yours, Mr. Partridge.”
Noah averted his eyes. She could see fury radiating from him in almost palpable waves.
Too bad.
“To tell you the truth,” she continued, “I resent your continuing to pester me about it. I won’t sell that land. If something happens and I lose it, it won’t be because I haven’t done everything in my power to retain it.” She sucked in a deep breath and wished she hadn’t said that. “You can ask me from now until kingdom come, and my answer will remain the same. That land was bought by my husband, it was left to me, it will belong to our daughter someday, and no amount of asking or arguing on your part will change my mind.”
Her heart pounded like an artillery barrage. She wished she weren’t too well-bred to tell him to go to hell.
“Dammit, you’re being foolishly obstinate! There’s no way you can use that land, Mrs. Richardson!”
She stood, pressed her hands on the table, and leaned over until she was within an inch of his face. “That’s neither here nor there! That land is mine, and I won’t sell it. Not to you, and not to anyone else!”
Noah stood too, so precipitately that his chair tilted and almost fell over backwards. He caught it awkwardly. She saw his cheeks flush—with rage, she was sure.
“That piece of property is perfect for what I want, dammit, Mrs. Richardson.”
“It’s perfect for what I want too, Mr. Partridge. That’s exactly why I won’t sell it!”
“But what are you going to do with it?”
“That’s none of your business!”
“But you can’t use it!”
“So what?” Grace snatched her cup from the table, whirled around, and marched to the sink. She almost cracked the mug when she set it down. “I don’t care to talk about it anymore.”
“Damnation!”
She turned again and almost shouted at him, “And I would appreciate it if you would stop swearing!”
A soft chuckle from the door brought them both up short. Grace felt her own face flame when she saw Mac, his eyes gleaming like sapphires, grinning around the pipe clenched in his teeth. He removed the pipe, blew out a smoke ring that danced in the kitchen air, and shook his head.
“Tut, tut, you two. What a row ye’re havin’. I’m surprised wee Maddie can sleep through it.”
Grace pressed a hand to her cheek. “Oh, dear, did we wake her up?”
“Nay, lass. ‘T’would take an army to wake the bairn up tonight. The two o’ ye showed her a fine time today.”
Noah grunted. Grace swirled around. “Too bad it didn’t last.” And with that, she flounced from the room.
Chapter Thirteen
Noah was mad enough to spit horseshoe nails when he stomped out to his lonely bed in the stall that night. Damned recalcitrant female. Why the hell was she being so stubborn about that parcel of land? It wasn’t as if she could ever do anything with it. She needed a man to help her if she expected to build anything out there, or plant crops, or raise cattle or sheep. Hell, she’d even need help raising chickens unless she aimed to build a coop by herself.
He kicked the ground at his feet and sent a shower of dirt onto his neatly stacked bedroll. Cursing, he shook out his blankets, figuring this was a fitting end to a frustrating day.
It took a while to rearrange his bedding comfortably, during which period of time he fumed. Then he lay back on the rolled-up saddle blanket he used for a pillow and stared into the night sky. It looked like a million stars were twinkling down at him, but he didn’t appreciate the serene beauty of the heavens. He was still too furious to appreciate anything but the bull-headed obstinacy of certain females he could mention.
He’d been fuming in his bedroll for a good fifteen or twenty minutes when something Grace had hollered at him penetrated his anger.
If something happens and I lose it. What the hell had she meant by that? Noah frowned at the stars, his head cradled in his clasped hands. The night had turned bitter, but he didn’t mind. He was glad of the cold. Besides, he was plenty warm in his bedroll and long johns and temper.
He wondered where the nearest land agent was, and if there was a telegraph office in Rio Hondo somewhere. Susan Blackworth had mentioned that she was going to wire to the Estey Organ Works about parts for her organ, so there must be.
He hoped to hell Rio Hondo’s telegraph operator wasn’t Mac, because what he planned to do might be construed as sneaky.
# # #
“A telegraph? Aye, lad, we have us a telegraph in Rio Hondo.” Mac waggled his bush eyebrows at Noah. “Plannin’ a coup, are ye, lad?”
Noah had been slumped in front of the old pot-bellied stove in Mac’s mercantile, drinking the coffee Mac had pressed on him. He looked up from his mug and frowned. What the hell had the old man meant by that? “A coup?”
Mac chuckled. “Never mind, lad. Aye, we got us a telegraph. It’s down the road a piece, in what passes for the courthouse. That’s where the circuit judge sets up when he comes through, which isn’t often.”
“Thanks.” Noah was sure he heard Mac laughing when he stumped out of the mercantile and headed toward the wagon yard gates.
Mac was right about the courthouse. It sat next door to the Pecos Saloon, and looked like it had been slapped together out of two-by-fours and glued into place. Noah shook his head and wondered if Rio Hondo would ever be a grown-up town with the real trappings of civilization. He hoped not.
# # #
The telegraph operator, Percy Wiggins, chomped on his cigar and eyed Noah with distaste. Pompous little bastard. Noah hadn’t hardly met him yet, and he didn’t like him already.
“I can’t tell you how long it’ll take to get an answer, Mr. Partridge. I ain’t responsible for answers to the wires I send out, just the wires themselves. For all I know, the Comanches will cut the lines, and you’ll never get an answer.”
Of course. Noah knew that. He resented the self-important little man for being snippy with him anyway. “How’ll I know when an answer comes in?”
Wiggins blew out a ring of gray smoke and looked irked. “You’ll have to come in and ask, I reckon, just like ever’body else does.”
Noah tugged his hat brim down lower over his forehead. He wanted to punch the insolent man, and knew the impulse to be irrational. So, what else was new? He’d been irrational for years now.
Without succumbing to violence, he wrote out his message, paid Percy Wiggins the appropriate fee, and waited until Wiggins had clicked it into his machine. Noah didn’t trust him to do it out of his watchful eye.
“There,” said Wiggins when he was through. “I’ve sent your message.” He smirked.
Noah didn’t thank him. He merely nodded and left the depressing building.
Because he didn’t want to see Grace Richardson even more than he didn’t like Percy Wiggins, Noah stopped in at the Pecos Saloon before he returned to the wagon yard. He hated drinking, and he had no interest in whores. The two times he’d used a whore, he’d felt dirty afterwards. Today, when Miss Aggie rubbed her bosom against his arm, he almost succumbed, not because he felt any lust toward Miss Aggie, but because his frustrations were running so high.
In the end, he couldn’t make himself do it. It might be pleasant to lose himself to passion for a few minutes, but there was something about buying all that pink-and-white flesh that set his teeth on edge.
Grace Richardson, now . . . Hell, he could make love to her from now until ten years from now and consider himself a lucky man. Miss Aggie’s hard, painted face, overblown body, and undoubted laudanum habit—every whore Noah’d ever met had drug habits—seemed grotesque by comparison. Miss Aggie cursed him when he left the saloon without even buying her a drink. He figured his luck with females was running true to form today.
That night, for the first time in two weeks, Noah awoke in the middle of the night shaking and sweating and hollering. He’d been back at Andersonville, listening to the sounds of distant cannon fire and digging graves for the bodies of his fellow prisoners. The cannon fire didn’t quite muffle their groans and whimpers, and there was nothing he could do for those men except dig graves to hold them when they fina
lly stopped whimpering.
Thank God he still slept outside. He’d almost given in to the lure of Mac’s fireplace. He’d have felt like even more of a dolt than he already did if he woke up yelling in Mac’s parlor. He’d probably scare poor little Maddie to death.
“Damn.” He sat up, shivering. The sooner he got that property, the better. He’d find himself a dog and buy himself some cows and a couple of pigs, build a chicken coop, settle down, and never have to think about Grace Richardson again.
His mood didn’t lighten any when Gus Spalding made an appearance at the supper table a couple of nights later, for Thanksgiving. Noah had forgotten all about Thanksgiving, but Grace wasn’t one to forget things like that, he reckoned. She had prepared a fine meal, considering the pickings were pretty slim for a traditional dinner out here on the frontier.
From somewhere, Mac had found a turkey. Noah was beginning to think of Mac’s powers of supply as almost magical, although he didn’t believe in magic any more than he believed in the goodness of man. This bird wasn’t one of those skinny prairie-chicken varieties, either, but a plump hen that weighed at least twelve pounds and tasted like Noah remembered from his childhood. Grace roasted it with cornbread stuffing, and she served it up with potatoes and gravy and string beans, and she’d made a pumpkin pie for dessert. She was a better cook than Noah’s mother had been. There wasn’t so much as a sliver of pie left when the meal was over.
During the entire evening, Gus looked like a love-sick calf, gazing at Grace Richardson as if he was starved for a word from her. She gave him plenty of words. She was as warm to Gus as she was cold to Noah.
It was obvious that Maddie and Gus were buddies of long standing. The young cowboy and the little girl had built a rapport Noah envied. Maybe if he could get on Maddie’s good side, Grace would soften her attitude towards him. Given Noah’s state of mental health, such a proposition seemed unlikely, more’s the pity. Noah was as tense and standoffish as Gus was friendly and easy-going, blast it. It was no wonder that Maddie liked Gus. The wonder was that she was friendly with Noah.
