The Bartered Bride (The Brides Book 3)

by Lena Goldfinch

  She shrugged that away, her features drawn.

  They hadn’t.

  How on earth had they passed the years with a child and not made a cake? Not done something.

  He thought of little Mae. She’d celebrated two birthdays. Two cakes. One, Lorelei had made, and it got smashed into their kitchen table, with Mae’s little hands splashing icing everywhere, balling it into her fists, bringing it up to her mouth. A lot of laughter. That’s all he remembered. The second cake—without Lorelei—they’d had up at Becky’s cabin. A quieter celebration, at least on his part. All the Jessups, especially the children, and Mae had made plenty of noise as he recalled. He’d been all wrapped up in wool, as if cocooned in a blanket. Numb.

  They’d need to have a third cake soon, he realized.

  “Mae’s birthday’s coming up too,” he said. “She’ll be three in November. Not long. We’ll need a cake.”

  Annie’s expression brightened. A little glimmer of mischief appeared in her eyes. A glow. She cradled her arms and for a second Jem’s heart stopped beating entirely.

  She couldn’t mean...a baby?

  She couldn’t be...expecting, could she?

  She couldn’t mean she wanted one, with him?

  No, of course not.

  Relief came on him in a rush as he remembered their conversation was centered on Mae’s birthday and planning a celebration. A cake for Mae. A gift for Mae.

  “A doll?” he asked.

  Annie beamed. Yes. She pressed one finger to her lips and tapped her foot once.

  “One is yes?” he asked.

  She repeated the action. Yes. Her eyes smiled at him. And something passed between them, a click of connection that was almost audible.

  It was a whole lot to take in all at once, so Jem quickly looked at the horizon.

  He didn’t want to connect.

  Don’t you?

  It was his own voice in his own head. Or was it? Was it God nudging him? That was quite a thought. He’d been doing that a lot recently—nudging.

  Jem looked at the Rockies, so unchanging. Solid. The sky changing colors even as he watched it. Clouds casting shadows on the crags and mountain faces.

  He knew he couldn’t stay in this place—where he was inside. He shouldn’t. But it seemed impossible to move. To change.

  He wanted it. He didn’t want it.

  All that left him with was stuck.

  Not a nice place to be.

  Birthdays, that same voice nudged.

  He sighed and looked over at Annie again. She was watching him, studying him. What did she see?

  She didn’t look completely horrified or put off—despite his full beard and the wall he’d built around himself—a fact that was remarkable in itself.

  “If...” He swallowed past a thickening in his throat, and continued, “If you could pick a birthday... What would it be?”

  She lifted her brows slightly. He’d surprised her. He experienced a loosening of pressure about his person, and a flicker of interest that broke through his eternal fog.

  Annie looked up at the rafters, out at the mountains, and back at him. Clearly contemplating. Then, to his shock, she pointed at him.

  “My birthday?” he asked. “Now, wait a minute. Don’t you want your own day?”

  She pressed her lips together.

  “You could pick any day. Any month...”

  She touched two fingers to her mouth. No.

  “November’s a good month...”

  She tapped the toe of her boot twice. No.

  “January? Not much going on in January. We’ve got the New Year, of course... How about February?”

  She stomped her foot twice. Her eyes danced. No.

  “No?” he asked.

  She repeated the action.

  “So two is no. And you want my birthday?” He scratched the back of his head, scratched lightly through his beard. She wanted his birthday. “Well, all right. If you’re sure.”

  She stood straighter and issued a challenging look. I’m sure.

  “Well, all right then. September seventh. We’ll have to get Ray to make us a cake.”

  She shook her head and placed a hand over her chest. I will.

  “Oh no. You can’t make your own cake.”

  She tilted her head in question. I can’t?

  “Nope. It’s a rule.”

  It is?

  “Can’t make your own birthday cake.”

  She shrugged, accepting, but her eyes traced over his whole person searchingly: his eyes, his face, the beard, his scraggly hair, the height and breadth of him.

  He felt sized up.

  But there was only acceptance in her face. She was trying to figure who he was, Jem realized, as much as he was trying to figure who she was.

  He didn’t know what she saw or how he stacked up.

  He combed thoughtfully through his beard as he stared back out at the view.

  After a bit, he sat on the top step, leaning heavily with his elbows braced on his knees.

  She watched him.

  “Well, are you going to sit with me or not?” he asked, when she didn’t move.

  He heard that same huff of a laugh that she made—no, not an ugly sound at all—and was pleased when she plopped down beside him. A clean flowery scent of soap came with her.

  In one of Lorelei’s plainer work dresses, one with a big full skirt and ruffled neckline, she looked somewhat dwarfed. She tucked the layers of fabric under her like a small girl, and sat with her elbows on her knees, her hands framing her chin. Not that she truly looked like a child. Petite, yes, but womanly, more like.

  And, Jem realized, she’d managed to leave space for about two brawny ranch hands between them.

  He smiled to himself as the silence fell around them again. It was surprisingly comfortable sitting out on the porch with her, a woman he barely knew.

  He suddenly had a hankering for a blade of grass to put between his teeth, but he was too settled to want to move. It wasn’t a bad feeling. Not bad at all.

  It wouldn’t hurt him to make just a little more effort to get to know her, would it?

  NINETEEN

  As was the custom, the evening meal at the Creed house was served in the formal dining room. Gabe sat at the heavy walnut table that stood in the center of the room, surrounded by walls paneled in the darkest mahogany that always made him feel like they lived in a palace. The table was set for eight: just the family, plus two empty chairs. He’d always wondered why no one had taken those two chairs out years ago. It wasn’t like his father would ever want any more children.

  The wall sconces provided poor light, as they were set so low. His father preferred two great candelabra to be lit, as they were tonight. The flames flickered, burning down the fragrant beeswax candles and letting off a gentle stream of white smoke now and then.

  Gabe liked the scent, and he didn’t mind the dim atmosphere. He didn’t much want his father—up at the head of the table—to have a good view of him anyway.

  Nearly four weeks had passed since his father had come home. Four interminably long weeks.

  Tonight the major was talking a streak, bragging about his days in the war against the Indians, telling tales about battles and ambushes in the most gruesome detail. He was drunk, of course. The crystal wine decanter before him was empty. Their serving girl, Margaret, had already filled it to the brim twice.

  Gabe’s older brothers had each enjoyed a modest glass, but that was all. So Father had drunk almost all of it himself.

  It was going to be one of those nights.

  Mama sat at the foot of the table, with Gabe maintaining his steady silence on her left. She hadn’t touched her dessert, which spoke of her distress. It was the only sign of her great distaste for Father’s horrible tales. Otherwise, her features were placid, if a little withdrawn.

  Gabe wanted to tell his father to stop, but the words jammed in his throat. He glanced at the silver punch bowl on the sideboard with his father’s name eng
raved on it: “Presented to Major Elias Creed for Acts of Service.” The script was beautiful, an elaborate scrolling affair. All Gabe wanted was to throw it across the room. Make some noise. Do anything to stop his father’s blathering. He hated his own cowardice almost as much as he hated his father’s casual brutality. It seemed he’d enjoyed killing, and not just the braves. Not just the men.

  He didn’t stop at the killing either. He bragged of other things. Things that turned Gabe’s stomach. Things no man should do, let alone brag about.

  Gabe’s fingers curled tightly around the thick stem of his crystal water goblet, so tightly he feared it might break. He could almost see it, could almost hear the shards scattering across the table, making a tinkling sound. Something had to break. Inside him, it felt much the same, as if he was being strangled slowly from within.

  But if he spoke now, he’d stumble over his words as he always did before his father. His trouble was always worst when he was talking to The Major.

  His father’s bleary gaze would invariably lock onto him. A fire would spark in his eyes. And Gabe would be next in line.

  The words would come at him.

  The attacks, more like it.

  Gabe didn’t have the stomach for it tonight. He simply kept his head down and tried to blend in with the walls.

  His time would come soon enough. If not now, then when the others went to sleep. The far-off cracks of lightning to the west only solidified his feeling that a storm was brewing.

  Crack.

  Another low rumble. Another summer storm. It had been a month for rain.

  Outside the windows, the ranch was tinged in gray tones. The hillsides of their land had grown dark and windswept, prepared for yet more rain.

  The horses were restless—their cattle seeking shelter too, as best they could.

  Gabe took a sip of his cold spring water. It may as well have been hot air. There was no refreshment in it.

  “I see your boy’s huddling beside you tonight.” The Major’s voice came like a crack of thunder right in the house. Sudden and unwelcome.

  Mama stiffened. She picked up her dessert fork and glanced at Margaret, dismissing her without even lifting a hand.

  “Your son Gabe is sitting quietly and respectfully beside your wife, Elias.” She lifted her chin, proud as ever, restrained. Everyone said she was beautiful. Did they all know his father didn’t deserve her?

  Gabe’s father picked up the decanter and, as if only now noticing it was empty, slammed it back onto the table. Crack.

  Gabe clenched his jaw, half expecting it to shatter, but it didn’t. He took another sip of his water, his hand betraying a tremble.

  “My son,” the major scoffed. “Is that right, Gabe? My son?”

  Always with the accusations. Gabe gripped his goblet. His face flooded with heat, then went icy cold, his head floating oddly toward the ceiling. He blinked to clear his suddenly tight vision.

  Not now. Not now.

  “Y-yes, sir,” he said miserably. His brothers fixed their eyes on their plates. This was something no one wanted to see. It was always the same. Even in town. People averted their eyes. Pretended not to notice. The Major might backhand him, make a joke of it. Like he was kidding. Might rain insults down on him. Claim Gabe had spilled this or that. No one saw.

  But this.

  How dare you insult Mama! How dare you suggest she was unfaithful! She’d never do such a thing. That’s what Gabe wanted to yell at the top of his voice. Same as ever. He didn’t, of course.

  “Y-yes, sir,” the major repeated, waggling his bleary head in disgust. He lurched up from the table.

  Gabe froze in his seat, bracing instinctively for a blow, but his father merely grabbed up the decanter and stood facing the door to the dining room, calling out, “Margaret! More wine!”

  It was sure to be one of those nights. A night that would not end soon enough.

  TWENTY

  Jem had grown accustomed to evenings in the parlor after dinner. Ray always seemed to prefer his own company after dinner. Ben seemed to prefer not spending any more time than he needed to in Jem’s presence. So that left Jem in the company of Annie, Mae, and the puppy of an evening.

  Some nights he read. Others, like now, he simply sat and enjoyed a moment to relax and do nothing at all. He found he liked the quiet companionship, broken only by Mae’s occasional chatter.

  Tonight the quiet of Castle Ranch’s front parlor was interrupted by the sounds of a storm brewing. Lightning crackled in the west over the head of Pikes Peak. A low rumble of thunder shook the foundations of the ranch house beneath Jem’s rocking chair. The tremor traveled up his feet and legs. Sugar darted off, scrabbling first upstairs, then down, trying to find a low place to hide. She finally hunkered down on her haunches under Jem’s legs, not settled, but for the moment holding still enough to pat.

  “Easy, girl,” Jem said, stroking the rounded dome of the pup’s head. Her fur was so silky soft there, even softer around her ears. Nearly a month had passed since he’d bought her from Creed, and she already seemed a mite taller. She was going to be a big dog when she was grown, possibly even knee high on him.

  Mae was curled up with Annie on the settee. Annie was showing her how to stitch up a hem, not an unusual occurrence of late. Not only had Annie needed to add a couple more serviceable dresses and skirts to her wardrobe, Mae had needed her pinafores and dresses let down. That child was growing like a weed.

  As he continued to soothe Sugar’s rattled nerves, Jem caught Annie glancing over at him occasionally. Her approving gaze sparked a disconcerting flare of warmth in his chest, and he wondered what she was thinking. Was she too remembering the day they took Sugar from Major Creed? If he wasn’t mistaken, it was something even simpler and more immediate, for her eyes seemed to say, You have such a wonderful way with animals. He’d seen that same look often enough in his life and heard those exact words from other people to recognize her thoughts. Or he thought he did.

  It wasn’t like Annie was all that difficult to read—mostly—she simply couldn’t speak through words like other folks did.

  What was bothering him of late was seeing her in Lorelei’s clothing. It was a jolt to see this particular dress again: the same one she’d worn the night after he’d brought Lorelei’s trunk down to her, a dress with dark red fabric and yellow flowers. The sight of it had tickled the edges of Jem’s memory. Since then, he’d remembered more. He’d been with Lorelei when she bought that fabric at a general store in Iowa, early on when they’d first moved there and he was building his practice. She’d loved that dress. Called it her buttercup dress.

  The thing that bothered him wasn’t so much that Annie looked like she was wearing Lorelei’s dress. It was more the fact that it looked so different on her.

  She’d had to cut the dress down to suit her smaller frame, of course. He understood that. But she’d made other more subtle changes that drew his attention to the nip of her waist and the smooth curve of her shoulder where it met her neck. To how graceful her arms were. Things he didn’t particularly desire to notice, but he did. He’d noticed that first night, and he couldn’t seem to stop noticing.

  The truth was settling in: Annie was pretty. She wasn’t dingy at all or “simple” as he’d first thought of her.

  That had been a layer of sorts. Gathered around her to keep Daniel—the foolish preacher—away. The man had obviously had questionable morals. She’d had to protect herself whatever way she could. That was only natural. And smart-minded.

  She’d gone back to braiding her hair again, he noticed. She’d only worn it back in a ribbon that one night. Once had been enough for him to learn it went clear down to her waist. Thankfully, she wasn’t covering half of her face, as she once had. Her braid was pulled more neatly to one side, framing her face in a soft fashion. Her petite figure was womanly.

  And to his chagrin, eye-catching.

  He quickly turned his attention to Mae. She had her knees drawn up tight to her ch
in. With each rumble of thunder her expression turned more fearful. She’d never liked storms. She and Sugar had that in common.

  He fought for something to say to allay his daughter’s fears.

  Before he could form any words, Annie circled one arm around Mae in a loose embrace and cradled her hand over the top of Mae’s head, calming her with a feminine touch. Something he couldn’t ever provide.

  He sent Mae what he hoped was a reassuring smile and went back to patting Sugar.

  After a while, he rose and stretched.

  “Gotta check on the horses,” he said, giving Sugar one last pat.

  Annie called Sugar over with a sweeping gesture, her eyes never leaving Jem.

  She did that. Watched him.

  He cleared his throat and stopped to give Mae’s head a waggle before he went out.

  The summer air met him, damp and hot. Heavy with moisture, though the rain had held off until now. He could feel it building. A gust of cooling wind tugged at his shirt, flapping it against his skin.

  Ben’s pregnant mare was a restless creature that had a habit of slipping through whatever gap she could find in the fence line, so Jem checked on her first. While he was crossing the paddock, the rain opened up, soaking his shirt through. The lightning was flashing closer and closer now, not drifting along the far edges of Pikes Peak as he’d hoped. So he led the skittish mare to a stall for the night. He checked on Flora’s hoof too and found her healing nicely.

  By the time he got back to the house, Annie had already taken Mae and Sugar up to bed, it looked like. In fact, the first floor was deserted, so he gathered Ray must have retired early as well. He knew Ben was out in the stables with the ranch hands feeding the last of the horses. He’d passed his brother-in-law several times as they worked, but Ben had always somehow managed to stay out of his path.

  Jem’s wet shirt clung to his skin. His hair dripped onto the wood floor as he went upstairs and down the hall. He needed to towel off, and he sure hoped Ray had left a pitcher of warm water on his washstand. He usually did.

  First, he’d stop to check on Mae.

  But Mae wasn’t in her room. Her sheet was hanging off the end of her bed, pooling onto the floor, as if she’d kicked it off in a hurry. Probably some flash of lightning in her window had scared the wits out of her, poor thing. He checked his bed next, thinking she must have snuck in to see him and taken his bed when she found him gone. She wasn’t there either. His bed looked untouched.