The Wrong Cowboy

by Lauri Robinson

  He took off his hat and scratched at his head. When she’d looked up at him with those pleading eyes, he’d all but told them to come across the creek with him. That was the last thing he wanted. She’d gotten to him, though, with her statement about everyone needing a place to put their belongings. His family’s home had been large, but not as big as the one he’d built. Growing up, he’d shared a room with Sterling, and being the younger brother, he’d been given a very small space to call his own. Furthermore, most everything he’d owned had been Sterling’s first.

  The one thing that had been his first had been Francine, but in the end, he’d had to share that with Sterling, too.

  Stafford slapped his hat on his head and tore his eyes off Marie and how she’d gathered the children and now walked toward Mick’s cabin. Spinning around, he marched in the direction of his house. The monstrous one he’d built so he’d have room for all the things that were his. Things he’d never have to share.

  When he entered the house, he expected the warmth of homecoming, the satisfaction of knowing this was all his alone—for that had been his goal, and he’d relished his accomplishments the past few years. Instead, the echo of the door closing left him disgusted and lonely. As empty as the house.

  Stafford left as quickly as he’d entered and made his way to the bunkhouse where Shorty Jepson was sure to be. The old man had performed chow duty on every drive he and Mick had led, but when Mick was preparing to leave, Shorty had asked to stay behind. The other ranch hands were happy about that. It meant they weren’t on their own when it came to mealtime.

  It was all part of Stafford’s plan, too. The herd was large enough now that they needed year-round help, and having a cook for the cowboys was as necessary as the men themselves.

  “So, that’s Mick’s bride?” Shorty asked from his seat on the porch of the bunkhouse.

  “Yep,” Stafford answered, stepping up beside the man whose name matched his height. Shorty was whiskered, too, and gruff and opinionated, and Stafford knew he had to cut the man off at the pass. He was in no mood to answer the dozen questions in the man’s narrowed eyes.

  “Go over there and see if Mick left any provisions,” Stafford said.

  “You know he didn’t,” Shorty replied. “Mick never stocks up on anything.”

  “Well, go see anyway,” Stafford said. “Take whatever you think they’ll need, and show her where the springhouse is.”

  Other than rubbing his mustache, Shorty showed no sign of moving. “Seems odd, don’t you think? Mick ordering a bride.”

  The lump in Stafford’s stomach grew hard and heavy. “He’s been talking about it for years.”

  “That was just talk,” Shorty said. “You know that. Mick likes riding shotgun in life. Wouldn’t have a pot to pee in if he hadn’t partnered up with you.”

  Stafford made no comment. Mick liked to let people believe he was just along for the ride, but in truth he was driven, ambitious, and the bottom line was Stafford wouldn’t have a pot to pee in if he hadn’t partnered up with Mick.

  He’d left home after Sterling’s wedding with nothing but a horse, a saddle and less than a hundred bucks to his name. It seemed like enough, but by the time he hit the Rocky Mountains, he was counting pennies. His plan had been to hit a creek filled with gold and pluck out enough nuggets to go farther north and start a ranch. That’s how folks made it sound, that you just had to walk along and pick up gold. It wasn’t true.

  Mick, originally from Texas and making his way north, too, with a similar dream, was as broke as Stafford when they met up along the trail. Having already been in Colorado for a year, Mick knew there weren’t any nuggets just lying around. He’d said one man couldn’t do it by himself, but if they were to partner up, they might have a chance of finding enough flakes to make both their dreams come true. Over the next year, their dreams became one, and when they left the mountains, they both had money in their pockets.

  Though they shared the same dream, Stafford was the one insisting they kept things separate. Back then, his desire to never share anything ever again had been even stronger than it was now. Therefore, their partnership was more of a trio. The Dakota Cattle Company had a third of their findings, he had a third, and Mick had a third. So far it had worked out well. Kept squabbles off the table and allowed them to remain friends as well as partners.

  Stafford found his eyes were glued to Mick’s property, the buildings there, anyway. Cattle company funds had built the barns used for different aspects of ranching on each side of the creek, but they’d both used personal finances to build their homes. Mick had thrown his cabin up the first year they’d been there, said he’d build a bigger one when the time came, whereas Stafford had lived out of the bunkhouse for years, building on his place every chance he had. He’d known the house he wanted right from the start, and wasn’t going to live in anything less. When the day came for his family, namely his brother and Francine, to see what he’d built, he wanted a showplace.

  Mick had chastised him often enough. Had gone so far as to say he was building the house for a woman who’d never live in it and he needed to get over it—Mick did know all about Stafford’s past, just as Stafford knew about Mick’s—but Stafford had insisted his partner was wrong. He hadn’t built the house for Francine, but to prove she was wrong. A man didn’t have to inherit wealth in order to provide for a family.

  He’d stayed home many times when Mick had asked him to put his hammer down and come to town, spend an evening at the card games and a night in bed with a willing woman. There had been a few times he’d gone along, enjoyed the games and the women, but most of the time he’d declined.

  During the hours he’d spent building, he’d thought a lot about Francine and Sterling, and how they’d both insisted they hadn’t meant to fall in love. How it had just happened. Things like that didn’t “just happen.”

  Marie flashed into his mind then. Maybe because she and the children were carrying the table and chairs out of Mick’s house, setting them up on the hard-packed dirt in front of the doorway. He had to wonder how she would react to Mick’s penchant for gambling and visiting houses of ill repute. The thought didn’t take hold. Though he enjoyed a game now and again, Mick wasn’t a gambler, and he was an honest, dedicated man. When he married, he’d be faithful and a good provider.

  “You ain’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”

  Shorty’s declaration was loud enough to clear Stafford’s mind, and he turned to the man. “I guess I haven’t. What did you say?”

  “It don’t matter none at all,” the old man insisted as he hitched up his britches. “I’ll go see what they need.”

  * * *

  Surprisingly, Marie’s optimism had grown. Jackson had bid farewell, but before he left, he announced she could keep most of the readymade food he’d brought along. He assured her he still had plenty for himself, and what he left was more than enough to tide her and the children over for a few days. Then a man named Shorty Jepson—who insisted she call him Shorty—came over with supplies, including milk for the children.

  Shorty also gave her a tour of Mick’s property that included a building he called the bunkhouse. He said the cowboys all stayed at the one similar to it over at Stafford’s place. This one was only used when they had extra boys staying for a few days after cattle drives and such.

  Without a stove for heat or cooking, or a lock on the door, she couldn’t imagine living in the building, but she could see it as a playhouse of sorts. There was plenty of space that, once divided up, would offer each child their own private area to store their personal possessions, and the feather ticks could be carried to the cabin. With the table and chairs outside, a sleeping pallet could be created for everyone. It would take more rearranging, but she could picture it in her mind. Winter might prove challenging, being cooped up so, but she’d worry about that when the time came. Th
e important thing was proving to Stafford that she could cope.

  With newfound enthusiasm, she fed the children on the table in the yard, utilizing a few more chairs they’d found in the bunkhouse, and afterward she told them of the adventure they would have transforming the bunkhouse.

  Caught up in her eagerness, they all pitched in, and by nightfall, after another meal shared at the outdoor table, the children, as exhausted as she, climbed into their new beds. Charlotte and Beatrice, as well as the twins, slept in the cabin’s original bed—two at each end—and Terrance and Samuel occupied the two narrow mattresses now laid out where the table had been. She’d hoped for room for at least one more, for the twins, which would have provided her space with the girls, but no matter how’d they moved things, it just wouldn’t fit.

  There was room, though, between the foot of the bed and the wall, and that’s where she’d laid out a blanket and pillow. She’d had worse accommodations in her life. The children’s comfort and safety came first. The bolt lock on the door was reassuring, as well, and though she tried not to include him in her thoughts, knowing Stafford was just across the creek helped, too. She had no doubt he’d come to their rescue if needed. Although he’d tried to stay hidden, she’d seen him watching them all day, and that increased her determination to make Mick’s cabin livable.

  In the days that followed, when not providing lessons, she scrubbed and cleaned the cabin and the bunkhouse. She and the children also created partition walls in the bunkhouse out of the canvas once used to cover the wagon, as well as other canvas pieces they found in one of the barns.

  The children were adapting well to their new home, probably better than she was. However, the canvas walls did help her ignore how the bunkhouse reminded her of the orphanage. In their Chicago home, the six children had shared three rooms, so having a small space all their own was new to them, and that, too, made her look at things differently.

  “Marie, can I go see if Stafford wants to come see our rooms?” Samuel asked. He’d arranged his entire set of toy soldiers upon the floor in his area and was admiring his handiwork with great pride.

  “He’s not home,” Terrance replied from his space on the other side of the canvas.

  “How do you know that?” Charlotte asked. Her area included two crates upon which several porcelain dolls sat.

  “I saw him ride out a while ago,” Terrance replied. “Most likely to check the herd. He does that daily, you know.”

  Marie was biting her tongue, as she had to do quite often. The children had made a habit of crossing the bridge several times a day to visit Stafford. She’d questioned the appropriateness of that, but, missing him herself, she’d allowed it to continue. Not that she truly missed him. He was just different from any other man she’d ever encountered, that’s what she suspected, anyway. She saw him often, from afar. He still watched them closely, and somehow she knew he was the main reason she wasn’t scared witless. In some ways she found the isolation of the ranch comforting. The chances of anyone finding them, attempting to take away the children, was very remote. Out here, she could almost believe she had the family she always wanted.

  The children discussed things Stafford had told them over the past few days, about cattle and such, while she set a brace board in the trunk that held Charlie’s toys so the lid wouldn’t accidently fall on him, and she waited until there was a break in their conversation. “Perhaps after lunch he’ll have time to come see your rooms,” she said brightly. “And speaking of lunch, it’s time I go prepare something to eat.”

  Despite the nervousness fluttering in her stomach, she walked out of the bunkhouse. The last of the food Jackson had left had been used for breakfast, but that wasn’t her real concern. Shorty had brought over a basket of eggs, and he’d explained how she could scramble them for the children. It sounded easy enough. However, this would be her first attempt at using the stove. Something she had to learn to use, not just for cooking. Tonight was bath night. They would need hot water.

  The thought hadn’t frightened her until this morning, when Shorty brought over the eggs. He’d warned her that Mick’s stove was finicky. In his gruff way, he’d said she’d need to leave the door open or it wouldn’t catch enough air for the fire to take off. He’d said to be careful. One spark could set the cabin aflame.

  Never, not once, had she been in charge of starting a fire, and she felt a little overwhelmed at the prospect.

  To be on the safe side, she stacked the extra mattresses on top of the bed, and considering Shorty had said the fire needed air, she made sure both windows were open as well as the door.

  Marie started with a few small pieces of wood and a handful of straw. It took several matches and a second handful of straw before the flames caught. At that point she added a larger piece of wood, and then, because she had no idea how much wood she would need, she filled the entire space with two more logs.

  The only cupboards in the cabin were a set of shelves nailed to the wall that held plates and such, so she carried a bowl and the basket of eggs to the table outside.

  Milk. She’d forgotten that needed to be mixed with the eggs, so she hurried toward the creek and the little structure Shorty had called the springhouse. He’d explained that the constant flow of water kept the milk and butter, as well as several other things, cold, and she was amazed at how well it worked.

  Emerging from the dark little building, Marie’s heart leaped into her throat at the smoke billowing out the cabin door. It was the Meeker’s house in Chicago all over again. She dropped the milk can and ran.

  The thundering of hooves sounded behind her, as well as a shout, but she ignored everything in her quest to get to the cabin. She was almost at the door when brute force shoved her aside.

  “Get back!”

  Marie stumbled, but recognizing both his voice and his bulk as he entered the cabin, she found her footing and moved forward again.

  The room was clouded with smoke, but she saw Stafford kick the stove door closed with one foot while doing something with the handle on the pipe that stretched up to the roof at the same time.

  “What were you trying to do?” he shouted. “Burn the place down?”

  “Of course not,” she yelled in return. The smoke filling her nose and mouth made her cough before she could finish. “I was cooking lunch for the children.”

  “You don’t know how to cook,” he yelled, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the door.

  “I’m learning,” she shouted back.

  “Well, learn how to build a fire first.”

  They were outside now, in fresh air, which got her lungs working again. “Shorty told me to leave the door open so the fire would take off.”

  Stafford had a hold of both her upper arms. “You also have to open the damper so the smoke goes up the chimney,” he shouted inches from her face.

  Over the noise of his voice she heard the trampling of footsteps on the wooden bridge and turned, a multitude of thoughts vying for space in her mind. Number one being that, even though he was shouting at her, she was rather delighted by the sight of him. It was like seeing the first robin in spring, when it made a person happy, even if there was still snow on the ground. Then again, maybe she was happy because she’d been right. He had come to the rescue.

  “Everything all right, boss?”

  It was one of the ranch hands asking the question. She hadn’t been introduced to anyone besides Shorty, but the children had, and by the descriptions they’d provided, she assumed this man was the one named Red. The children had asked how that could be when Red had black hair and a rather comical-looking black mustache.

  “Yes,” Stafford said. “She just forgot to open the damper.”

  “All right, then.” The other man tipped the brim of his hat and gave a little nod. “Ma’am.”

  She gave a slight nod in return. Her mind
was still racing, and still in one direction. Stafford. It had only been a few days, but she’d forgotten how handsome he was, and how tall. Right now, if she stared straight ahead, her eyes landed on the buttons of his shirt. She had to tip her head to see his face, which she was afraid to do again. A moment ago, while gazing up at him, her heart had started beating so frantically it hurt to breathe.

  The hold he had on her arms softened and his hands rubbed the area instead. The action caused a multitude of feelings inside her, and she could no longer keep from glancing up.

  His expression was no longer hard and fierce, and she couldn’t find a way to describe how he was looking at her. The tenderness in his gaze, though, made her gulp. It seemed as if time stopped, as they stood simply looking at each other.

  He was still rubbing her upper arms and the commotion inside her was growing stronger. She had an undeniable urge to step closer and stretch her neck so—

  The realization was startling, and Marie stepped back. Stafford moved at the same instant, separating them further. While she pressed a hand over her racing heart, he took off his hat and glanced around before replacing it.

  She’d never, ever thought of kissing a man before.

  “Make sure you open that damper,” he said gruffly.

  Her meek reply of, “I will,” caused her cheeks to grow even hotter. What was it about him that left her completely out of sorts? She didn’t have a lot of experience around men, but one hadn’t intimidated her for a very long time. That thought triggered a response.

  “I wasn’t trying to burn the cabin down,” she shouted at his back, needing to show him he hadn’t frightened her and never would.

  He spun around, frowning. A moment later, he nodded. “Good, see that you don’t.”

  “I won’t,” she insisted, marching toward the table and the eggs that still needed to be cooked.

  Marie did cook the eggs, and did so several more times, until a week later, when she burned down the cabin.