The Wrong Cowboy

by Lauri Robinson

  By sheer will, Stafford found ways to stay clear of the house. Odd jobs kept his hands occupied, but not his mind. That was harder to control. So were his eyes. If they weren’t on the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of Marie, they were looking across the creek.

  The lumber hadn’t arrived yet, but there were things he could do to be ready once the order was delivered. Building Mick’s house, though—a new place for Marie to live—sat badly with him. As did most everything else he thought of, in one way or another.

  Pushing the air from his lungs, he dragged his gaze away from Mick’s place and refused to let it wander as he planted the post-hole digger into the ground. The new enclosure was needed. He’d planned on building it this summer. Half—if not all—of the town of Merryville would survive on beef from the Dakota Cattle Company this winter and they’d need this pen to hold the animals they’d deliver on a regular basis. It was a deal Mick had made with Wayne Orson while Stafford had been south. Chris Striker’s hotel was serving cuts of beef from their herd right now. The hands had delivered half a dozen head to Orson’s butcher shop while Stafford had gone to Huron to fetch Marie and the children.

  He’d overlooked that aspect of things. How would Striker feel about serving up Dakota Cattle Company beef while his former cook now resided at and worked for the ranch? Not that it mattered. Ultimately it was Orson selling the beef to Striker. The butcher was creating quite a thriving business for himself, and Striker wasn’t his only customer.

  “Company coming in.”

  Stafford caught the direction Red was looking and let his gaze go to the single rider stirring up dust on the long driveway.

  “Time to call it a day, anyway,” Shorty said. “I’ve got supper on the table.”

  Noting the sun was sinking in the western sky, Stafford nodded. The day was coming to an end, and though he’d had plenty of hours to contemplate things, he hadn’t made any headway.

  There was no reason he couldn’t tell Shorty to save a plate for him—that he’d join them for a meal in the bunkhouse after seeing who was approaching on the brown-and-white paint—other than the fact he didn’t want to. He used to do that more often than not, but he’d become accustomed to eating with Marie and the kids, and he liked it.

  “If it’s someone looking for work or just passing through,” Shorty said, squinting toward the rider, “I can scrounge up another plate.”

  Stafford acknowledged the man’s offer with a nod as he pulled off his gloves and left Mike and Red to carry the tools to the shed. He rounded the barn as the rider slowed his horse to a walk. It was a good-looking animal, well cared for, and Stafford understood why once he noted the star pinned to the man’s leather vest.

  “Stafford Burleson?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Marshal Abel Crane.”

  Verna Smith hadn’t wasted any time. Merryville didn’t have a sheriff, or any other type of lawman. Crane, the territory marshal, patrolled the area that included most everything west of Huron. The man must have been close by to have arrived so quickly.

  “I know we haven’t met,” Crane said, swinging out of his saddle. “But I met your partner, Mick, while making my rounds last winter.”

  “Mick said as much,” Stafford said, holding out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you.” He hoped he wasn’t wrong in that respect.

  Tall and broad shouldered, with a grip that said he was as strong as he looked, Crane let out a chuckle as they shook hands. “Yes, I’m here because of Verna Smith.”

  The marshal’s voice was low and scratchy, the kind that probably stopped outlaws in their tracks, yet Stafford didn’t miss the humor he spoke with or the grin in the man’s eyes. He took that as a good sign. “How’s Jenkins?” Stafford asked, referring to the past territorial marshal who’d taken a bullet while apprehending several members of a notorious gang of outlaws the previous summer.

  “Good,” Crane said. “He’s all healed up and settled himself down in Yankton as the town’s sheriff.”

  “I hadn’t heard that.” Stafford gestured for the man to bring his horse to the barn.

  “Then you probably haven’t heard he got himself married, either,” Crane said, walking alongside him.

  “Married?”

  “Yep, the woman that patched him up. Guess he figured since she’d saved his life, he might as well stick with her.”

  Stafford joined the other man in a short laugh, even though his spine was tingling.

  They entered the barn and Stafford opened a stall gate. Doug Jenkins had spent nights at the ranch several times when traveling through, and Crane would receive the same hospitality no matter who’d sent him.

  Most men prefer to unsaddle their own horses, so Stafford stood back and let Crane see to his animal.

  “Verna Smith caught me as I rode into town last night,” Crane said while unbuckling his cinch. “And Chris Striker filled my ear while I was eating breakfast this morning.”

  “I assumed as much,” Stafford admitted.

  “So you’ve got yourself a half-dozen kids and a nursemaid from Chicago, and Gertrude Baker is now your cook,” the man said as he flopped his saddle over the side of the stall.

  “That about sums it up,” Stafford said, gathering a bucket of grain for the horse.

  “There’s no law against irritating people,” Crane said, leading the animal into the stall. “And, though some folks like to claim there is, there’s no law about men and women who aren’t married living in the same house.”

  Stafford’s spine was tingling again. His expression must have given away more, too, because Crane held up a hand.

  “Don’t be jumping to conclusions,” the marshal said. “I’m on your side. You haven’t done anything illegal, and I already told Verna Smith and Striker that.” He took the offered grain bucket and held it out to the paint. “I just wanted to ride out here, let you know my thoughts.”

  Stafford attempted to keep his assumptions from becoming apparent this time. He must have succeeded because Crane didn’t bat an eye.

  “I don’t know what Jenkins was thinking, though.”

  Now, wondering when the conversation had flipped to the past marshal, Stafford frowned.

  “Give me rough-riding, gun-slinging outlaws over a town full of persnickety people any day,” Crane continued. “They’re the dangerous ones.”

  Still wondering what he’d missed, Stafford gave a single nod when the marshal looked over, as if to see if he was still following the conversation. He was. Sort of.

  “Town folks are like that,” Crane said. “Get along about as well as a den full of rattlers and water moccasins.” Shaking his head, the man added, “They’ll eat each other, you know? Snakes that is.”

  Yep, the mention of snakes had a lily-white backside flashing before Stafford’s eyes, and not even a quick shake of his head dispelled it.

  “They will,” Crane said. “I’ve seen it.” Dropping the feed bucket near the barrel of grain, the marshal nodded toward the door.

  Stafford waved a hand as he pushed off the opposite stall to follow the other man.

  “Anyway,” Crane said, once they left the barn. “I listened to what they had to say, Verna Smith and Striker.” With a perplexed grin, he added, “When I told Striker no laws have been broken, he claimed Gertrude Baker stole from him.”

  Crane waved a hand at that, as if it held no consequence, and the action did quell the bout of ire that had sprung forth inside Stafford. She hadn’t been here long, but he’d bet his last cow Gertrude had never stolen anything in her lifetime.

  “I also visited Ralph Peterson at the bank, mainly because I’d told both Striker and Smith I’d investigate their complaints. From what Peterson said, especially concerning the paperwork you have in your possession, I’d say everything is about as right as rain. What do you thin
k?”

  Stafford didn’t know what he thought, that was part of his problem. At least, believing what he thought was. Furthermore, his mind was still flashing images. Lily-white ones. “I’d say my thoughts are right next to yours,” he said.

  “Good. I’m glad that’s settled.”

  Nothing had been settled, yet Stafford once again nodded.

  Crane pointed his chin toward the bridge. “Heard about the fire, too, but in all honesty, Mick’s gonna need a bigger house.”

  Stafford might have responded if he hadn’t picked up the sound of the front door opening. His mouth went dry at the sight of Marie standing there. He hadn’t left the ranch all day, yet he’d missed her as if he’d been on the other side of the world.

  “Since I’ve met Gertrude Baker before, I’m assuming that is Miss Hall.”

  Unable to tear his gaze from her, Stafford once again gave a brief nod. This time he didn’t care what the other man read in his expression. Lawman or not, it was best every male for miles around understood Stafford had staked a claim. Marie was his.

  * * *

  Air locked itself in Marie’s lungs, and even as the men approached, it wouldn’t let loose. Stafford was a tall man, but the one with a badge pinned to his chest was taller yet. He had a booming voice, too, and the only thing that kept her from jumping out of her shoes upon their introduction was the way Stafford settled a hand in the small of her back.

  He kept it there as he explained the marshal would be joining them for supper and spending the night. She attempted to be affable, but Stafford’s penetrating gaze made it difficult. Her heart took to beating so fiercely she was afraid it might leap right out of her chest. The children were just as skittish, squirming in their seats as if their pants were on fire. Only Gertrude seemed at ease. She and the marshal carried on conversations as if the rest of them were barely there.

  After the meal, however, the marshal sent a pointed stare her way. “Miss Hall,” he said in that rough voice. “I do need to speak with you.”

  “Go into the parlor,” Gertrude said, as brightly as ever. “The children will help me clean the kitchen, and afterward we can all have a piece of cobbler.”

  Not a single one of them made a peep, yet every child at the table turned toward Stafford. Marie couldn’t blame them. She was waiting for his approval, too.

  His smile was reassuring, to the children anyway. They took his permission to leave their seats, taking their plates with them. He rose and walked around the table, pulling her chair out upon arriving at her side.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” he said reassuringly.

  She still had to swallow hard as he guided her, with his hand on her back again, out of the dining room and down the hall to the parlor. Marshal Crane followed and the solid thud of his footsteps on the wooden floor had her nerves running amok.

  Stafford sat down next to her on the sofa, and Marie found she was more thankful for his nearness than she’d been for anything before in her life. But as her gaze met his, all she could think about was how they’d kissed last night. The shame—that which she’d acquired last night while convincing herself she was a trollop—was nowhere to be found. Instead, warmth spread across her stomach and lower, in the exact spot it had last night. Marriage flashed across her mind again. Marrying Stafford, not Mick Wagner.

  “Miss Hall.”

  Marshal Crane’s booming voice shattered her thoughts, and though Stafford took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, she accepted that marrying him wasn’t an option. She had no rights to the children, no reason for being here, and the marshal could send her back to Chicago faster than a hummingbird flies.

  “I just wanted to talk with you,” the marshal said. “I know Mrs. Smith can be a bit frightening. I’m sure the rumors about the deaths of her husbands, both of them, have something to do with her attitude. Those events were thoroughly investigated, and Verna Smith was found completely innocent in both cases.” The man glanced toward Stafford. “Privately, because it’s really no one else’s business, the evidence suggests both men may have taken their own lives. Verna, of course, knows that, and that, too, most likely has a bearing on her disposition. Knowing your husband would rather be dead than married to you probably isn’t easy to live with.”

  Having never considered such a tragic thought, Marie whispered, “How dreadful. The poor woman.”

  “Yes,” Marshal Crane responded. “It is dreadful. But it doesn’t give her the right to unjustly accuse others of wrongdoing when no crimes have been committed. Neither she, nor anyone in the community of Merryville, has the authority to remove the Meeker children from Stafford’s home, so rest assured the children are safe and will remain right where they are.”

  In view of the fact her thoughts had been more focused on herself than the children, a large lump of guilt formed in Marie’s stomach. “Thank you, Marshal Crane,” she said. “I’ve told the children as much, but it will be nice to reassure them you said the same thing.”

  “Go right ahead and tell them the territory marshal says they don’t have anything to worry about.”

  His kindhearted smile suddenly made the large man seem much more approachable. “Thank you,” she replied.

  “Now,” he said. “I’m sure Stafford has already told you this, but let me reiterate it. Mrs. Smith is, well, she’s a bit crotchety. Her goal seems to be to find something people can gossip about in order to make her past not matter as much. I believe that’s how most people are. They like to have others talk about them when it comes to good deeds, but don’t want to be the center of attention when it comes to bad ones. I’ve seen it in all the towns I patrol. I’m sure before Mick arrives home she’ll find something else to focus on. Something else to file a complaint about.”

  Marie tried to nod, but couldn’t quite manage it. Mick Wagner’s return was something she was not looking forward to.

  “It’s too bad,” the marshal said. “If Verna would just realize it’s not doing herself or her past any good to stir up trouble she’d be much better off. Some folks just don’t understand that, though.”

  This time Marie was able to nod. She had firsthand knowledge of causing trouble.

  “So, rest assured,” Marshal Crane said. “You and the children aren’t going anywhere.”

  Stafford’s hold on her hand tightened, and she couldn’t help but sigh. He and the marshal started talking about other things then. The weather, the price of cattle and other such concerns she let float in and out of her ears. An easy comfort had settled in the room, and it increased when Stafford leaned back. His fingers had laced between hers in a more relaxed way, too, and that had other thoughts springing into her mind.

  What Gertrude had said earlier was making more sense. How life throws people into whirlwinds, good ones at times. It was happening to her. She’d defined herself as a nursemaid, but that had changed. Now she just had to figure out what to do about it.

  “I wonder where Mrs. Baker is with that cobbler,” the marshal said. “If it’s anything like the meal she just cooked, I may need two helpings.”

  Marie’s gaze went to the doorway, where the woman stood, tray in hand.

  “I’m right here,” Gertrude said. “But, I didn’t make the meal, Marie did. She made the cobbler, too.”

  Marie doubted her cheeks had ever burned so hotly, not with the way Stafford was smiling down at her.

  Gertrude set the tray on the table. “But trust me, Marshal, you’re going to want two servings.”

  Squirming under such praise, Marie scooted to the edge of the sofa. “I best go see to the children.”

  “There’s no need for that,” Gertrude declared. “Weston was listening at the doorway. He’s already explained that the territory marshal said there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Everyone chuckled as Gertrude handed Stafford a plat
e, which meant he had to let go of Marie’s hand. She formed a fist then, just to contain the warmth left behind.

  “The children are eating their cobbler in the kitchen,” Gertrude said. “And then they will see to Polly’s needs.” Handing Marie a plate, she added, “Terrance put himself in charge, as usual.”

  That was something else that had changed. Terrance. He’d matured lately. Instead of teasing his siblings and causing never-ending disturbances, as he had on the train and even while back in Chicago, he was now growing into a responsible young man. Actually, some of his behavior put her in mind of Stafford. Samuel was following in his brother’s footsteps, as always, but this time it was encouraging. It seemed Stafford was a positive influence on all of them.

  The cobbler—which had turned out remarkably well—and coffee—which she now also knew how to make—were consumed as the four of them conversed on a variety of subjects. Marie hadn’t participated in many social gatherings and found it stimulating. It was very pleasant, and well, it fit her. She liked it.

  Not until the clock on the mantel, the one she enjoyed winding each day, struck the hour did Marie realize how late it was. “Excuse me,” she said, once again moving to the edge of the sofa to stand. “I need to see the children to bed.”

  “I need to stretch my legs,” Marshal Crane said. “But first I have to say, I haven’t enjoyed an evening so much in a very long time.”

  Marie started to make a reply, but noted how the marshal was looking at Gertrude, who was blushing brightly.

  Stafford had stood, as well, and was also noticing the other two. “I’ll help you with the children,” he said, rather hushed, as his hand slid down her arm to catch her hand.

  As they left the room, she heard Marshal Crane ask Gertrude if she’d like to step out onto the porch, just to stretch her legs.

  “It’s a good thing you are such a fast learner,” Stafford whispered. “It looks like we may lose our cook faster than anticipated.”

  Marie frowned, but as his meaning settled she bit her lips to contain a giggle. All sorts of things happened then. Several inside her. They’d entered the kitchen, and as she started toward the stairway, he stopped her with a tug on her hand, spinning her round and bringing her entire body up against his. At almost the same instant, his mouth covered hers.