“We had a little fire,” he said, tightening the saddle he’d loosened before entering the home earlier.
“Anyone hurt?”
“No.” He let out a sigh. “Thankfully.” Flipping the stirrup down, he said, “But I’ll need lumber as soon as I can get it.”
“I’ll check for you.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.” Stafford swung into the saddle and steered his horse around. “Thank Becca again for supper.” Bringing up a question asked of him earlier, he said, “And tell her I don’t know if apple’s still my favorite or if it’s peach now.”
Ralph laughed. “I will. Take care.”
“You, too,” Stafford said, pushing Stamper into a trot.
The buildings were soon all behind him, and dusk had given way to night. The quiet darkness gave him little to think about, so his mind found other things. Plenty of them. As a rancher, a well-to-do one, he should consider hosting visitors. Not just the Petersons, but other folks. Merchants from town, other ranchers, even the railroad men and business owners that traveled through. His father used to do that. Host parties and gatherings for people from as far away as New Orleans. As a kid, he’d looked forward to them, knowing there would be others to play with besides his sisters.
The idea grew on him. Mick would like it, too.
Shifting then, he wondered about what kind of house to build for Mick. A cabin would no longer do, yet his partner swore he’d never want anything as large as Stafford’s. It wouldn’t have to be that big, but it would have to have several bedrooms.
That thought churned his stomach, and since he didn’t want to ruin the meal he’d enjoyed so much, he quit thinking about Mick and his house. Marie, however, was still on his mind. Kissing her was, anyway. Had been all day.
He was in the midst of reliving those moments when Stamper nickered. The answering whinny told Stafford what he already knew; he was home, and that left him with mixed emotions.
A light flickered, over on Mick’s property. It looked as though someone carrying a lantern had just entered the bunkhouse. Stamper wasn’t impressed when Stafford forced the horse to walk past the barn and over the little bridge. If Marie had refused to move into his house, he’d set her straight. There was no way she and those kids could live in the bunkhouse. Well, they could. Practically had the past week, but not anymore.
Stafford swung out of the saddle and slapped the horse on the rump, letting it make its way back to the barn. The clip of hooves trotting over the bridge echoed in the air as Stafford strode toward the bunkhouse.
* * *
Marie set the lantern on the table, noting how naked the bunkhouse looked without the canvas dividers and no mattresses on some of the wooden bunks. She was wiping the tears off her face when the sounds of a horse crossing the bridge echoed for a second time.
Good. She didn’t want anyone to know what else she’d done.
“What are you doing?”
The question sounded at the same time as footfalls and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold back a fresh bout of tears. She’d known Stafford would be home, sometime, but she certainly hadn’t wanted him to find her.
Not like this.
“Marie?”
She swallowed the burning in her throat and wiped her nose on the back of her hand, still fighting the tears pressing hard at her lids.
“Marie?” he repeated.
His hands settled on her upper arms, from behind, and she couldn’t quell the gasp that ripped out of her mouth. He was so strong and powerful, and she wished she could share all her burdens with him.
“What’s happened?” he asked, forcing her to turn around.
Biting her lips together, she shook her head, but as he forced her chin up, the tears escaped.
“What’s happened? Is it one of the kids?”
The concern in his voice left her no choice but to answer. “It’s Polly.” She swiped the tears off both cheeks at the same time. “She’s missing.”
“Polly?”
“I’ve l-looked everywhere,” Marie stuttered. “But I can’t find her. She must have b-been—” she had to swallow a sob “—been in the cabin.”
She wanted to lay her head on his solid chest and cry her eyes out, and when he let out a little shushing sound and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, she slumped against him.
“Hush, now,” he whispered. “Polly wasn’t in the cabin.”
Her fingers curled into the material of his shirt as she pressed her forehead harder against his chest. “She must have been. I’ve looked everywhere.”
His hands slid down her back to her waist, and then he pulled her entire body against his. He started swaying then, just slightly back and forth. It was uniquely comforting, and the pressure in her lungs released as the air slowly escaped.
“Where did you look?” he asked softly.
She twisted her neck so her cheek rested on his chest. “Everywhere.”
“In the daylight?”
“No, but the children looked, and they didn’t find her, either.”
“Are they out looking for her now?”
“No, they’re sleeping. I waited until they were before I started to look for her.” The tears had completely stopped and she lifted her head enough to wipe her cheeks again. “I told them she probably figured she couldn’t sleep in your house and was off pouting somewhere.”
“Pouting?”
“I didn’t know what else to tell them.” The large clump of self-pity in her stomach rolled over. “I not only burned down their home, I killed their dog.”
He let out a chuckle and she lifted her head to look at him. The twinkle in his gray-blue eyes made her frown. His behavior, up until now, certainly hadn’t been insensitive.
“It’s not funny.” She pushed at his chest, trying to break the hold he still had around her waist.
“Polly’s not dead,” he said.
Hope flared. “She’s not? Did you see her when you rode in? Where?” Craning to see the doorway around his broad shoulders, she asked, “Where is she?”
“I don’t know where she is—”
Her optimism plummeted. “Then how do you know—”
“Because,” he interrupted. “The door to the cabin was wide open. She wouldn’t have stayed in a burning building.”
“What if—”
This time it was his hold that interrupted her words. His arms had tightened, forcing her hips firmly against his thighs. “My guess is she’s hiding somewhere because she’s having her pups.”
“Why would she do that?” Marie had to shake her head to clear her thoughts—they were shooting off in another direction. One that hadn’t been far away all day. Kissing him. “Hide?”
“Animals do that,” he said. “She wouldn’t have come when the kids called for her.”
Hope was rising again. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
Marie tried to read his face, make sure he wasn’t trying to fool her, but all she could think about was his mouth touching hers again. Pretending that was the furthest thing from her mind, she said, “I hope you’re right.”
His eyes were on her lips, making them quiver. “I know I’m right.”
There wasn’t a single part of her that wasn’t aware of what was happening. Every breath she took was filled with the spicy scent she’d become so accustomed to on the wagon ride here. Her body, even where it wasn’t touching his, had grown overly warm and tingling. She was trying to tell her hands to push against him and her feet to take a step back, but her fingers wouldn’t let loose of his shirt and her toes had curled inside her shoes at the heat racing down her legs.
She could feel his breath on her lips and that made things worse. The warmth pooling in her stomach floated throughout her system, making her e
yes want to roll back in her head at the delicious sensations. It was crazy. Ridiculous. Wonderful.
And then, his lips touched hers. Softly, barely connected, it was both heavenly and torturous. Torturous because she suddenly knew she’d want his kisses for the rest of her life. Anything this sweet, this delirious, would be too hard to forget.
“I’ve never tasted anything as sweet as you, Marie,” he whispered, kissing the corners of her mouth one at a time.
Unable to respond with all that was going on, she closed her eyes and wasn’t sure if that made Stafford’s kisses more intense, or if the pressure really had increased. Either way, she tightened her hold on his shirt to keep from toppling as he kissed her square on the mouth again.
The throbbing inside her grew harder, more forceful and concentrated, and she wasn’t sure what that meant, but certainly didn’t want him to stop.
Eventually, he did. His lips left hers to kiss her cheek, then her forehead, before he rested his chin on top of her head and started to rock her back and forth again as he had before.
Marie kept her eyes closed and his hold encouraged her to relax, just rest upon him. Slowly her entire system grew calm and tranquil, and a long slow sigh emptied her lungs.
He leaned back then and she lifted her head, felt a flash of heat in her cheeks at the smile on his lips. “Come on,” he said, releasing his hold. One arm stayed around her, though, while the other reached over to pick the lantern up off the table by its handle. “You’ve had a long day. It’s time for bed.”
A little amazed she was able to walk after all that, she waited, unable to speak until they were outside, heading toward the bridge. “Do you think Polly will let us find her tomorrow?”
The arm around her shoulder tightened slightly as his hand rubbed her upper arm. “I promise we’ll find her tomorrow.”
No one had ever promised her anything, not ever, and she couldn’t help but glance up. There was nothing but sincerity looking down at her. He was so unique. Right from the start there had been something about him that had eased her usual nervousness around men. She’d thought it was because he irritated her, but that didn’t make sense.
He walked her to the front double doors, and then handed her the lantern so he could turn the knob. “Go to bed now, it’s late.”
She entered the house, but when he didn’t attempt to follow her, she turned around. “Aren’t you coming in?”
“I have to go unsaddle my horse.”
“Oh.” Not wanting him to leave, she held out the lantern. “Do you want the light?”
“No. You go to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He reached for the door, and unable to come up with anything else to say, she whispered, “Good night.”
“Good night, Marie.”
He pulled the door closed and she stood there until long after his footsteps no longer sounded on the porch or the steps. It was a shiver that raced over her body that finally had her trudging toward the staircase. She’d kissed him again! Something a good nursemaid would never do.
Perhaps that was the problem. Maybe she wasn’t a good nursemaid. She had taken the children away from all they’d ever known, hauled them to a stranger’s home, burned that one down, lost their dog and kissed a man. Twice. On the same day, no less.
She might as well rip up that recommendation from Miss Wentworth along with her training certificate. Ultimately, neither one of them meant squat.
As frustrated as she was with herself, she made the rounds of the children’s rooms, sneaking in to make sure each child was covered. It was comforting to see them sleeping in real beds again, but she’d had very little to do with that.
In her room, she removed her dress—uniform, actually. Upon obtaining the position at the Meeker home Miss Wentworth had presented her with two work dresses. Simple gowns of pale blue.
Her carpetbag, holding her other dress, still sat at the foot of the bed. Actually, the bag wasn’t hers. It had been Emma Lou Meeker’s, but since the woman would no longer need it, and Marie didn’t have one for the trip, she’d used it for her belongings. It had been the only thing she’d taken, and looking at it made guilt rise up inside her. Sarah had said it wasn’t stealing, and eventually Marie had given in, agreeing to use the bag, but it was stealing. Another thing a good nursemaid would never do.
“Oh, good heavens,” she growled in self-admonishment. “Whether you’re a good nursemaid or a terrible one has very little bearing on what needs to be done. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and go to bed.”
Marie changed into her night dress and climbed between the covers. She was just closing her eyes when she heard the front door close. Pulling the covers over her head, she whispered, “And stop thinking about him, too.”
Chapter Eight
Stafford was up early, and Polly, whom he’d found behind the woodshed at Mick’s place along with her four pups, was now in the vestibule in a blanket-lined box. He grinned when he heard movement upstairs while pouring himself a cup of coffee. He carried the coffee to the table where he sat down to glance at the paper he’d picked up in town yesterday.
He’d slept remarkably well, all considered, yet nothing in the paper enticed him to read more than a line or two. His ears were too busy listening. He hadn’t been this excited for a long time. Seven people were going to be very surprised when he told them to look in the vestibule. The commotion upstairs increased, and Stafford tried once again to focus his attention on the newspaper. The typeset letters swirled into one another. He’d imagined Marie would come down first, even anticipated showing her Polly—and her reaction—and how the two of them would then surprise the children. As if it was Christmas morning or something.
He snapped the paper open, scanning the words with more determination. He hadn’t celebrated Christmas, not by exchanging gifts and such, since he’d left home. And he liked it that way. That was the way things were going to remain, too.
The footfalls on the stairway leading into the kitchen off the far wall sounded like a tribe of Indians on the warpath, and as hard as Stafford fought it, a smile won out. He folded the paper in half as Terrance bounded off the bottom step.
“Hey, Stafford,” the boy greeted him, showing two front teeth his face still had to grow into.
“Morning,” Stafford responded.
If his ears weren’t still peeled, he might not have heard the gasp that sounded somewhere up the staircase, or the somewhat harsh whisper, “Children!”
The rest of the tribe, all five of them, raced down the steps and collided with Terrance’s back. The boy’s spine had gone stiff. One by one, the other five children, right down to Charlie, who plopped his thumb in his mouth, but then quickly pulled it out, straightened their stances, and moved to form a straight line next to their brother with their lips clamped tight.
Stafford frowned. Faces shining, they all stood board stiff as Marie entered the kitchen behind them. Moving nothing but their eyes, all six kids looked at her as she skirted around them.
For no apparent reason, Stafford’s heart slapped the inside of his chest. She was dressed in her normal blue dress, and her hair was once again braided and twisted into a coil at the back of her head. He’d watched her tame the long brown locks after they’d gone swimming that day, and how she’d deftly looped it around and pinned it in place. One pin was all she’d used. He’d been amazed it held. Still was.
“Children,” she said tartly. “Say good morning.”
“Good morning, Stafford,” they said in chorus.
Somewhat hesitantly, for they sounded like a well-trained classroom—completely out of the ordinary for them—he replied, “Good morning.”
She nodded then. “Take your seats.”
Seats? It was a kitchen.
With slow even steps, they crossed the room and sat down at the table. The
ir grins, when they looked his way, were familiar, but disappeared quickly and they averted their eyes.
Marie’s steps were no more relaxed than the children’s had been as she walked across the room. She stopped facing the stove, her back to him, and he noted the deep breath she took by the rise of her shoulders.
After casting a wary gaze around the table, noting the bowed heads, Stafford stood and made his way to her side. “I already built a fire,” he said, taking a guess at how hesitant she’d be about having anything to do with stoves for a day or two.
Her sigh was audible before she caught herself. “Oh, thank you.”
“There’s flour in the pantry and eggs in—”
“I know how to scramble eggs,” she said quickly.
A faint groan came from the table, but when he glanced that way, no one had moved. The boys all had their hair combed, although the cowlick on the top of Weston’s head was fighting the water that must have been used to calm it. Copper-colored hairs were popping up one at a time to stand as proudly as a rooster’s comb. Charlotte’s hair was braided with yellow bows tied on the ends, and a large clump of Beatrice’s red curls had been tied back with a blue ribbon. No one and nothing, other than Weston’s wayward hairs, still popping, so much as twitched.
Stafford shifted his gaze back to Marie, who’d moved to the counter where he’d set the basket of eggs Shorty had given him this morning. The old man had said he’d brought over stew for them to eat last night, so Stafford had also taken a pan out of the cupboard in case she hadn’t had time yesterday to discover where such things were located.
She picked up the frying pan and moved toward the stove, but stopped a good three feet away to reach over and gingerly slide the pan across the top of it. As if it might get bitten, she pulled her hand away and quickly returned to the counter where she started cracking eggs.
The Wrong Cowboy Page 11
