The air left Marie’s lungs slowly. She shouldn’t be staring, but Stafford had taken his shirt off. So had Mr. Jackson, but her eyes weren’t drawn to the other man as they were to Stafford. Dark hair covered his chest, and his shoulders and arms bulged. Muscles. She’d seen pictures of the male form in her studies, but goodness, none of those drawings had looked this...real.
Marie glanced away, downstream to where the horses stood in the water, drinking their fill, but that didn’t hold her attention. When she turned back, her gaze caught Stafford’s.
“Come on,” he said again, waving a hand as he now sat on the bottom with water swirling around his burly chest. “It feels great.”
The children joined in with his invitation, waving and begging her to join them. She could say no to him, but not to them. Dropping her skirt, for she couldn’t hoist it any higher, she edged toward the clapping and squeals.
And splashing. Water was flying in all directions, and it did feel wonderful. Then, all of a sudden, Marie went down. Though the water was shallow, she was completely submerged, her back thumping off the rocky creek bed.
Chapter Four
Marie came up as quickly as she’d gone down, coughing, but it wasn’t until Stafford saw the laughter in her eyes that he let the air out of his chest. He tore his eyes away, a bit disgusted he’d been holding his breath. People could drown in just about any amount of water, he understood that, but there were enough of them around to prevent that. What irritated him was how every time he caught a glimpse of her air snagged in the middle of his chest and sat there until it burned.
She was a looker, he could admit that, and what he’d seen this morning kept flashing in his mind like heat lightning—a sudden flash that was nothing but an illusion.
He hadn’t been drawn in by looks in ages. Frustrated in ways he hadn’t been in years, either, he ducked beneath the water again and held his breath until his lungs had a reason to burn. When he surfaced, he stood and made his way to the shore. He’d said it before and thought it again while seeing her running to the stream with the children, but had to repeat it to himself once more. Marie looked like the kids’ older sister, barely more than a child herself.
It didn’t help. She was a woman. An attractive one who took her job seriously. He was also willing to admit, she did it well. Not one of those kids could make a peep without her responding immediately, and right now they were gathered around her as if she was the queen bee.
Stafford stepped out of the water and bent forward to shake the water from his hair before he made his way over to where he’d left his shirt, boots, socks and hat. Right next to hers. Her little bonnet lay there, too, and he ran a hand over it, testing the thickness of the fabric. Just as he’d suspected, it was nothing more than thin cotton that didn’t offer much relief from the sun. Not on a day like this.
He sat to pull on his socks and boots, and his gaze locked onto the game of water tag happening in the stream. He watched as Marie caught both twins, one in each arm, and planted kisses on their wet heads before she let them loose and chased after the two girls.
A smile tugged at his lips, and he let it form. He remembered days like this. When it was too hot to do much else, his family would head to the river and spend the day frolicking in the water. It had been fun, and something he hadn’t thought of in a long time. Crazy as it was, he felt a touch homesick.
Boots on, Stafford stood and shrugged into his shirt before he made his way to the wagons where he checked hubs and axels and anything else he could think of to keep his mind from wandering deeper down memory lane. He was trying, too, to keep his thoughts off Marie. In reality, that is what he should be thinking about, figuring out what she wanted with Mick, but when he did let her into his mind, Mick didn’t accompany her.
“I feel like a new man,” Jackson said, leading two of the horses out of the water.
“It felt good,” Stafford agreed.
“Good for those kids, too,” the other man said, handing over the reins. “I know how hard it is keeping them cooped up in a wagon.”
“You do?”
Jackson, already heading back to gather the other team, paused with his gaze on the group still splashing about. “Yeah. I got two boys, five and nine, we moved out here from Wisconsin last year. That was a long trip.”
Stafford hadn’t met the man prior to hiring him and figured it made sense, the man having kids, given the way he’d taken to Marie’s bunch so readily.
“My wife’s name is Marie, too.” Jackson laughed then. “Maybe it’s the name. Marie. I can’t say, but mine is the best wife ever. She’s a dream come true, and there’s few prettier. Although that one comes close.”
Stafford ignored the feelings nettling inside him, almost as if he didn’t want other men looking at Marie and commenting on how pretty she was. He’d felt that way once, about Francine, and was never going to do that to himself again.
Jackson retrieved the other horses, and as soon as the man approached, Stafford, still trying to gain control of his mind, asked, “What are your sons’ names?”
“Jack is the oldest and Henry the youngest.”
“Jack Jackson?” Stafford couldn’t help but ask, glad to have something his mind could snatch up. When they’d been introduced, the man had simply said to call him Jackson.
“No.” The other man laughed as he started hitching his team to the freight wagon. “Jackson’s just the name I go by. My real name is William Borgeson.”
Buckling harnesses, Stafford asked, “How do you get Jackson out of that?”
“My folks had nine girls before I came along. My father’s name was Jack, so the entire town took to calling me Jack’s son. It stuck. I was about ten before I learned my real name was William.”
“That’s an interesting story.”
The female voice, all soft and tender, caught Stafford so off guard he lost his hold on the drawbar yoke of the singletree harness, which promptly fell and smashed the big toe on his left foot. He almost cursed. The expletive didn’t leave his lips because his breath had caught again, sat there in his chest as though it didn’t have anything better to do than sting as sharply as his toe.
Marie was wet from top to bottom and was finger-combing her long hair over one shoulder. Her hands slid all the way to the ends, which hung near her waist, and her wet dress—once a pale blue, now much darker—and white pinafore clung to her in ways dresses shouldn’t cling. Not while he was looking, anyway.
“Thank you, Miss,” Jackson answered, hitching the yoke to the harness of his team. “Now that my father has passed on, the name has a bit more meaning for me, and it’s pretty much the only thing I answer to.” Chuckling he added, “Other than to my wife. She can call me anything she wants and I come a-running.”
Toe throbbing and lungs burning, Stafford wasn’t in any mood to hear how happily married the other man was, no matter how he got his name. He didn’t want to think of Marie being a wife, either, not to anyone. It would be nice, though, if his partner was here right about now. Then Stafford could wash his hands of this entire mess and not have to sit beside Marie for the next several hours.
“Get the kids loaded up,” he said, gruffly. “With any luck, we’ll be home before dark.”
Luck, it appeared, had left him so far behind he might never see it again. A couple of hours later, the freight wagon cracked a hub, and though they got it fixed, it was too late to take off again, even though he was so close to home he might be able to see it if they were atop a hill instead of in another river valley. And sitting next to Marie had been even more disagreeable than he’d imagined. This time, to keep the children occupied, with a sweet, perfect voice, she’d sung songs with them. Jaunty and silly tunes that had them all laughing and encouraging him to join in.
He hadn’t, of course, and he’d bitten his lip so many times to keep from g
rinning there probably wasn’t any skin left on his bottom one. His sister Camellia had been the singer in his family. She was married now, living down by Galveston, and he couldn’t help but wonder how she was doing.
It seemed everything had him thinking about his family, his home, and the bottom line was he didn’t like it. He’d rid himself of those memories at the same time he’d erased the ones of Francine and how she’d chosen Sterling over him. For ten years he’d gotten along fine without those reminiscences and didn’t need them back. The few times he’d seen his family since leaving home, he’d made new memories. They were enough.
Furthermore, it seemed to him that while he and Jackson had been working on the hub, Marie could have been gathering wood, lighting a fire and rustling up something for supper—the wagon was full of food. But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d led the kids into the shade and sat there reading to them and watching as they wrote on their slates. Schooling was fine, but when there was work to be done, that’s what should come first.
“Terrance,” Stafford yelled as he replaced the tools in the box beneath the wagon seat. “You and Samuel gather some wood for a fire.”
The boys instantly jumped to follow his orders, but Marie stood, too, and took Terrance by the arm. Stafford was too far away to hear what she said, however, the way both Terrance and Samuel bowed their heads he caught the gist of it.
Sitting next to her for hours on end—including those while her hair and clothes dried, filling the hot air that had circled around him with a flowery scent—his mind bringing up memories as if it was turning the pages of an old book, not to mention the broken hub and the heat, had taken their toll. Usually a tolerant man—well somewhat tolerant—he couldn’t put up with anything else. Shoving the box back in place he marched toward the trees.
She met him at the fringe of the shade. “I will not allow—”
His growl caused her to pause, but not for long.
After taking a breath she continued. “Have you forgotten what happened this morning?” she asked, red faced and snippy. “The snake?”
He’d be dead in his grave and still remembering everything about the snake incident. Taking out his gun, he stepped around the children and fired all six bullets into the underbrush. He spun around as the echoes were still bouncing. The two girls were peeking out from behind Marie with their hands over their ears, while the boys were clapping and grinning.
Stafford nodded to them before he lifted his gaze to her. “If there were any snakes, they’re hightailing it for safer ground now.” He holstered his gun. “Terrance, you and Samuel gather some wood.”
The boys looked up at Marie. Stafford noticed that out of the corner of his eyes. The rest of his gaze was locked on hers in a rather steely battle. Her glare didn’t waver, therefore, he narrowed his eyes and gave her a good hard stare.
It took a moment or two, but eventually, with a slow lowering of those long lashes, she glanced toward the two waiting boys. “Stay together and watch for snakes.”
“Yes’um,” they agreed, flying around him.
While Stafford took a moment to breathe—yes, he’d been holding his breath again—Marie sent the other children off toward the wagons with a few gentle words before her glare returned to him.
“That was not necessary,” she seethed between clenched teeth.
“You’re right,” he agreed. “If you’d have thought to gather firewood, I wouldn’t have found it necessary to ask.”
A frown flashed upon her brows. “Thought to gather firewood? Why would I have thought of that?”
“To build a fire?” he asked mockingly.
“For what? It’s still a hundred degrees out. No one’s cold.”
She couldn’t possibly be this dense. “To cook on?” he asked, half wondering if it really was a question.
Pausing, as if gathering her thoughts, she said, “Oh.”
“You do know what that is?” he asked. “Cooking?”
“Yes,” she snapped.
“Then why didn’t you?” he asked as she started walking toward the wagons. Stafford hadn’t completely expected her to cook, yet it seemed to him that most women would have. Catching up to her, he asked, “Why didn’t you prepare supper while we fixed the wagon?”
She stopped and hands on her hips, glared at him again. “Because I am a nursemaid, Mr. Burleson, not a cook.”
He didn’t miss the emphasis she put on his name. “So?”
“So, nursemaids don’t cook.”
Realization clicked inside his head. Maybe luck was on his side. “Don’t or can’t?”
She continued to glare.
“I thought you graduated at the top of your class.”
“I did. Nursemaid classes.”
“And feeding children isn’t part of taking care of them?” He shook his head then, even as another question formed. “Who do you think will be cooking for the children once we arrive at my—M-Mick’s house?”
“The cook, of course.”
Stafford took great pleasure in stating, “Mick doesn’t have a cook.”
Her expression was a cross between shock and horror. “He doesn’t?”
“Nope.” Having hot meals waiting for him at home was just one of the many things Mick proclaimed a wife would do, and knowing that wasn’t about to happen had Stafford’s mood growing more cheerful by the second.
“Who cooks for him?”
“He cooks for himself.” Seeing her frown deepening had Stafford adding, “Once in a while he eats over at my place.”
“Your place?”
He nodded.
“I thought you said—” She stopped to square her shoulders. “Don’t you live with Mick—Mr. Wagner?”
Shoot, he’d forgotten about that. Then he’d been too happy to see her look of shock to explain everything fully. “We live on the same ranch, in different houses.”
Frowning, she said, “Oh,” and then asked, “Who cooks for you?”
The older boys had brought an armload of wood to Jackson, who was busy digging a fire hole, and Stafford started walking that way. “Me.”
Marie was certain her stomach had landed on the ground near her heels. Her entire being sagged near there, too. No cook? That possibility had never occurred to her. Everyone had a cook. Everyone she’d ever worked for, anyway. Miss Wentworth had assured her it would be that way. Nursemaids weren’t expected to cook.
She spun, staring at the men and boys near the fire now flaming in a small hole. No cook? Not even learning she wouldn’t be living under the same roof as Stafford could ease the shock of it. Before they’d left Huron, she’d wondered about meals along the trip, and had asked Mr. Jackson. He’d told her not to worry, that he had everything they needed for the journey and that he’d see to the meals.
She’d been grateful to hear that, knowing the duties of taking care of the children would keep her busy. That would continue, once they arrived at the ranch. How could she cook, as well? Well, she could—make the time that is, for feeding them was a top priority—if she knew how. Nothing in her past had included cooking instructions. She’d gone straight from the orphanage to Miss Wentworth’s school and then to various positions as a nanny.
Despite the still warm and muggy air, a chill rippled across her skin. Mick Wagner would probably expect her to cook—at least for the children—even if she didn’t have to follow through on the mail-order bride scheme.
Her chill intensified, and it didn’t take much to discover why. Stafford was staring at her and a very distinct grin sat on his face. He thought it was funny. Or, more to the point, he thought she was incompetent and enjoyed it.
Marie may not have been born with much—not a family or name—but she had been born with determination, and it kicked in right now. She’d show him. Graduating at the top of her class meant
she hadn’t let anything stop her from proving she could become someone—the best nursemaid ever—and she’d prove it again. To Stafford Burleson. She’d learn to cook. Become the best one he’d ever have a chance to know.
It couldn’t be that hard. The children would need to eat once they arrived at the ranch, and she would not—could not—be beholden to Stafford for anything more than this trip. Actually, she couldn’t wait to get to the ranch and bid him farewell, watch him ride off to his place—wherever that might be. Hopefully miles from Mick Wagner’s place. Ranches could be that large, couldn’t they?
Marie was determined, but she wasn’t stupid, therefore, that night she watched, making mental notes, and did so again the following morning while Jackson—the man had insisted she drop the Mr. from his name—did most of the cooking. A blessing for sure, because he didn’t mind her whispered questions. The meals were simple affairs. Canned beans for supper, and bacon tucked inside biscuits he pulled from a bag for breakfast. Jackson—bless his heart—even expounded upon the answers he provided. Explained how thick to cut the bacon and how to keep turning it so it wouldn’t burn. He even explained how to make the coffee both he and Stafford seemed to enjoy so much.
She preferred tea. Always had, and she knew how to brew a pot, but Mick Wagner would probably rather have coffee, too, and she’d learn how to make it. If she could cook and take care of the children, there would be no reason for Mick to marry her at all. No reason to worry about some of the things Stafford had her thinking about. Things only husbands and wives did in private. Frustrating thoughts that she couldn’t fathom.
The sun had barely made its way into the sky when Stafford’s clipped and hard tone suggested it was time to head out.
Marie bit her tongue to keep from telling him there was no reason to shout, only because she felt a bit smug at how irritated he was with her. His brows had been furrowed all morning as he’d watched her conversing with Jackson.
If she’d slept last night, she might have had the energy to explain how a person who graduates at the top of her class has the wherewithal to learn whatever they need to, but considering she and all six of the children slept, or tried to sleep, in the wagon, she was simply too tired.
The Wrong Cowboy Page 6
