The Bartered Bride (The Brides Book 3)

by Lena Goldfinch

  Ray was easier to ignore. He stood at the washbasin with his arms immersed in sudsy water, as if intent on washing off some horrible filth she couldn’t see. He kept his back to them, mostly, only looking over occasionally and laughing at the little things Mae and Jem were saying.

  “Did Ben make pie too?” Jem asked, grabbing Annie’s attention.

  “No, Ben made words.” Mae circled her fingers in the flour, making random shapes.

  “So...he didn’t roll out the dough?”

  “Nope.”

  “He didn’t set it in a pan?”

  “Nope.” Mae gave a little hop, standing on her chair.

  “He didn’t...bake it in the oven?”

  She giggled and shook her head.

  “He didn’t?” He drew a line down Mae’s nose with flour, and tapped the tip of her nose, making a little white dot there too.

  “Daddy!” She squealed, grabbed up as much flour as she could, and flung it in his face.

  He straightened and blew a puff of white flour out of his mouth, making Mae giggle some more.

  “Oh, that’s how you want to play, is it?” He scooped up a large handful of flour and sprinkled it over her hair and dress. Clouds of white filtered across the room, caught up in a beam of light from the window and turning it white too. Tiny specks floated about like dust motes, and gradually began to fall back down—as they must—coating the wood floor and table with yet more flour. Some even floated Annie’s way.

  She made a small sound of protest, not truly wanting to draw their attention to her, but she was working hard to clean up, and the two of them were getting flour everywhere.

  Ray looked over and growled, almost playfully, “Now what are you up to? I thought you were cleaning up?”

  Jem wiped in vain at his beard, making flour streaks in the black hair.

  Annie laughed, hiding her face in the crook of her elbow.

  He looked over at her, his eyes alight with laughter.

  “We’ll help clean it up. Won’t we, Mae?”

  She pouted at him and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Mae?” he prompted. “We’ll help clean it up, won’t we? But only if Annie teaches me to make a pie.”

  Annie jerked at the sound of her name, startled.

  Mae nodded enthusiastically at this idea. She slapped her hands against the table in what appeared to be a state of sheer happiness. How could Annie say no to that little face?

  “Never asked me how to make a pie,” Ray grumbled to himself as he dried his hands.

  “You’re not nearly so pretty,” Jem told him.

  Annie blushed clear to the roots of her hair. He couldn’t mean she was pretty. He couldn’t mean that. Could he?

  “So,” Jem said, looking right at her, as if, yes, he did indeed think she was pretty. “Will you teach me to make a pie?” He nodded at her bowl of remaining dough. “Looks like you got plenty of dough left.”

  She’d set some aside for a chicken pie tomorrow, but she nodded, shy all of a sudden.

  His gaze warmed.

  Oh my, his eyes.

  His eyes did things to her insides, turning her into melted honey. She was entirely too aware of him in that moment, nearly forgetting Ray and little Mae.

  But they weren’t alone, she forcibly reminded herself.

  Jem wasn’t going to—to kiss her. Or try to hold her.

  The thought made her go weak in the knees—all over a pair of attractive blue eyes. Smoky blue eyes flecked with gold. Eyes that made her think behind that beard was quite a nice face.

  It seemed Annie had a weakness for Jem Wheeler—and those blue eyes of his. And she doubted there was a cure.

  Ray left them just as she realized this, muttering some comment about not wanting to “ruin the moment.” Mae plopped down on her seat to watch, her chin drooping into her cupped hand. She’d likely want a nap soon.

  “Pie?” Jem prompted.

  Annie composed herself enough to demonstrate what he needed to do to make his pie crust. He rolled the ball of dough into a circle like she showed him, and then placed it neatly in a greased pie pan. He watched her carefully as she showed him how to pinch the sides into a ropey pattern and spoon preserves in. It wasn’t so hard a task that he needed to watch her so closely. It may have been her imagination, but he seemed to enjoy watching her.

  Was it because he liked the way she looked with her hair like this? Annie wondered, her heart fluttering with nerves. Or did he mean nothing by it at all?

  When he was all through with spooning preserves, she led him over to the cook stove and propped open the door. The warmth of the oven rushed out to bathe her face. She was likely pink cheeked, as she stood there waiting until he slid the pie pan in next to hers and Mae’s.

  There they were—three pans side by side. Just sitting there, all neighborly. The heady scent of bubbling blackberry preserves, buttery crust, and baking cinnamon swirled in the air around her. She breathed in deep, almost able to taste it the smell was so intense. Cozy. Warm. Home. That’s what it smelled like.

  It was likely the most perfect moment Annie had ever had in her whole entire life.

  She closed the oven door, vowing never to forget it.

  Now if only tonight’s birthday celebration would be all she hoped it would be.

  * * *

  After the kitchen got squared away, Ray headed down the ox road toward Colorado Springs, accompanied by his unwelcome tag-along.

  “This doesn’t make us friends, you know,” Ray grumbled down at Sugar who was lying on the floor of the wagon at his feet, her bandaged back foot held at a protective angle.

  She looked up at him with trusting eyes and wagged her tail in a suspiciously grateful manner.

  “Don’t you look at me with those eyes.”

  If anything her eyes turned more liquid and her tail thumped more fiercely. It drummed against the floorboards.

  He turned his eyes to the steep drive that led downhill toward town.

  After a few moments, he looked down again. Sugar’s tail thumped once.

  “Oh, all right.” He reached into his vest pocket and brought forth a bit of bacon he had stashed there earlier. He dropped it into her waiting mouth. He had a canteen in the back for the ride home, should she need some cold water later.

  “But don’t think this means anything.”

  She laid her snout flat against her front paws. How could she manage to look so appealing like that?

  He didn’t even like dogs.

  Especially ones who made messes on his kitchen floor and pulled laundry off the line.

  Except...

  He reached down with one hand, and she immediately lifted her head so he could scratch behind her ear. She was surprisingly soft there, almost like rabbit fur.

  “You better rest now,” he scolded her, and she obediently laid her head back down. “You were a brave girl getting those stitches.”

  He gathered his reins, reminding the oxen that he was the one steering. Mostly they just went wherever the drive led, but occasionally there were bad ruts, like this deep one they needed to get around. It wouldn’t do for Sugar to be jarred too badly with her injured foot and all.

  “And no going off and telling Jem any of this, you hear?” he told her sternly.

  She raised one front paw and laid it over the top of her snout. Sort of dainty like.

  “You did not just do that,” Ray said, chuckling. “You’re a clever girl, aren’t you? Oh, yes you are.”

  She thumped her tail wildly.

  The rest of the journey to town was interspersed with other such treats and comments. Ray marveled at what a good listener Sugar had turned out to be—how nice it was to be in her company.

  Not anything Jem Wheeler needed to know about though. Ray shook his head.

  Bringing a dog into his house...

  * * *

  Later that evening after supper, after Annie served her pie, Mae reached for something under her chair. She stood beside her
father and presented him with a picture she’d drawn.

  “It’s a flower,” she said proudly, though it was difficult to tell. The page was covered in swirls, big circles, and scribbles.

  “I love it,” Jem said, kissing her forehead and tweaking her nose. “Thank you.”

  “I made it for you,” she said, beaming.

  Annie watched, smiling to herself. Mae’s drawing was done on a creamy white sheet of paper. Annie wondered if Ray had bought her some art supplies on his trip into town.

  “Well, this the best drawing I’ve ever had,” Jem said proudly.

  “Really?” Mae leaned against his bent leg, her hand on his knee.

  “Really. I’m going to put it up in my room.”

  “You are?” Mae’s eyes shone.

  Annie watched them. Jem was so good with Mae and more affectionate with her since the day she’d gone missing. It had shaken him, Annie knew. And every time she thought of it she felt a twinge of guilt.

  She was shocked when Mae returned to her chair, dug underneath it, and presented her with a sketch too.

  “It’s Sugar,” Mae announced, pushing a paper filled with circles across the tabletop toward her.

  Annie stared down at it in wonder.

  For me? She touched her forefinger to her chest.

  “For you! Do you like it?” Mae climber onto her chair and stood. Jem tugged on the back of her skirt until she sat down, her gaze fixed expectantly on Annie’s face.

  Annie wished she could say how beautiful the picture was. How much it meant to her.

  But she couldn’t say any of that.

  She held the picture to her heart, taking care not to crease it. Then she gathered her other hand into a light fist and placed it on top.

  Mae cocked her head to one side and glanced at her father for help.

  “She says ‘thank you’ and that she loves it.” Jem looked at Annie for verification, and she nodded, relieved and happy that he’d understood.

  Mae sat back in her chair, seemingly satisfied to have completed her gift-giving in such a successful way.

  “And I loved that pie you made,” Jem said, giving Annie a nod. “Blackberry’s my favorite.”

  You’re welcome. She dipped her head, pleased.

  “But I thought I said you couldn’t make your own cake,” he added in mock reproof.

  She just shook her head and pointed to the empty pie plate.

  “Ah, so it wasn’t cake—is that what you mean?” He chuckled.

  Annie nodded. As she placed the picture on the table before her and smoothed out any imaginary wrinkles, Ray presented Jem with a knife and leather sheath, decorated in pale blue and white beads.

  “Is this Cheyenne?” Jem asked appreciatively, turning it over in his hands. He took the knife out, examined the blade, and fitted it back in the sheath. This he did several times, with a look of appreciation for the craftsmanship crossing his features. The handle was engraved with what looked like a small silver moth—two skinny triangles meeting at their tips. He turned the sheath over, front to back, admiring the tiny beadwork and buttery yellow leather. Simple but pretty.

  “None other. Traded for it myself. They’ve got a place set up outside of town.”

  “I’ll treasure it,” Jem said sincerely. He narrowed his eyes at Ray. “Did you really go to the mill today?”

  Ray scratched the bridge of his nose and looked away. “I’m not saying nothing.”

  Annie took note that Ben didn’t give Jem anything, in a rather particular way, if that were possible.

  Ray scowled at Ben and leaned forward as if to stand, reaching for Jem’s empty pie plate.

  Jem stopped him, saying, “Hang on a minute, everyone,” and then he left the table.

  Annie waited with the rest—Ben, Ray, and Mae—listening to the sounds of Jem’s footsteps going upstairs and coming back down.

  Jem returned and set a grand wooden box on the table, right in front of Annie.

  She looked up at him in surprise. What’s this? She raised her brows, inquiring without words.

  “That’s for you,” he said, taking his seat again. “Open it.”

  What is it? she wanted to ask.

  “Open it. Open it.” Mae crawled up onto Annie’s seat, crowding in to see.

  “Give her room, Mae,” Jem said. A smile played at his lips.

  Annie couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sight.

  Mae nudged her. “Open it,” she whispered.

  Annie smiled uncertainly. Jem had gotten her something? She hadn’t gotten him anything. She’d had nothing to give, unless he counted the pie. He seemed to have liked it. He’d had two wide slices, after all, and made appreciative noises when he was eating it.

  She was glad Ray had let her make the pie after all. It had taken a good bit of work to communicate what she’d wanted to do. But he’d understood and it had put a rather secretive twinkle in his eyes.

  And now everyone was looking at her expectantly, even Ben and Ray. Jem had even brought Sugar in for the night, and she lay resting on the kitchen hearth, seemingly oblivious to the goings-on at the table.

  “Well?” Jem prodded, probably wondering what was wrong with her. “It’s your birthday too.”

  Annie blushed and sat forward.

  She touched the box lid, fitted with a hinge. The entire thing seemed designed for a rich person’s house. Polished blond wood, birch maybe, fitted with tiny brass tacks. There were brass roses engraved on top, something she suspected may have been handmade for Lorelei.

  Ben leaned forward in his chair, his expression darkening. “That’s Lorelei’s typewriter, isn’t it—the one Pa gave her?” He looked at Jem with accusing eyes.

  “You know it is.” Jem sent Ben a warning glance. “Seems like it’s time someone else used it. Someone who’ll appreciate it,” he said with an air of meaning. “And that someone is Annie.”

  Ben opened and closed his mouth, apparently silenced but not entirely pleased.

  Annie heard all this as she lifted the lid and peered in. The typewriter sat inside, perfectly fitted to the box. They seemed made for each other. A set. It was the sort of box you’d use for travel, with handles on either side. The inside was lined in red velvet. It was beautiful. More beautiful to her than anything she’d ever seen.

  Perhaps because Jem was giving it to her.

  Perhaps because she knew it had been Lorelei’s.

  It was special.

  Annie’s eyes smarted. What was he doing? She couldn’t accept this. Why, the typewriter was the reason she’d let Mae and Sugar go missing. She’d been snooping around where she shouldn’t have been. Jem knew that. What was he doing? Why?

  Annie sat back, pushing the beautiful box away.

  “What’s wrong? Don’t you want it?” Jem asked

  She shook her head. Her throat closing.

  “Annie?”

  Tears stung her eyes. She didn’t want them to see. Couldn’t cry in front of them.

  She lurched out of her chair and ran for the front porch, escaping into the cool of the evening.

  THIRTY

  Jem found Annie not on the front porch but down at the bottom of the steps, staring out at Pikes Peak and the Garden of the Gods.

  “Annie,” he said, coming to stand beside her on a patch of flattened grasses. In this early evening light, the small oval of her face looked like someone had painted it in pale tones of blue.

  She wasn’t crying, he was relieved to see, but her arms hung loosely down at her sides and there was no expression on her face. Nothing at all to read.

  The mountain range glowed gold from the sun that had already set behind it. Heavy shadows traced everything else, or so it seemed. The view was mesmerizing as usual. But based on what had gone on inside, that wasn’t what held Annie’s full attention.

  Why she was so upset? He’d thought she’d like the typewriter.

  “Annie,” he repeated more insistently, “what’s the matter? If you don’t like t
he typewriter, I can get you something else. I know you like shoes,” he quipped, attempting to make her smile.

  He was rewarded by the ever-so-slight lifting of the corner of her mouth.

  She glanced down at her going-to-church shoes. She’d cleaned them well, from what he could see, but the leather was shadowed on the toes where the black mud from the pond had coated them. Those stains would probably never come out.

  A constant reminder.

  For him.

  For her.

  She formed a box with her hands, made a motion of tapping keys, then folded her hands over her heart. Her expression was...wistful.

  I love the typewriter. She couldn’t have said it more clearly, and he was relieved to have understood her.

  This time.

  “Then why’d you run off?” he asked, raising and lowering his hands, perplexed.

  She looked down at her hands as if gathering her thoughts, trying to find the motions to explain.

  Finally, she held her palm hip high and pointed to the house, making her M sound.

  “Mae,” he supplied.

  She made floppy ears on the sides of her head. And Sugar.

  Then she made a motion: her fingers running into the distance. Ran away. She touched her chest, then made her typing motion again.

  Her shoulders sagged.

  He frowned, then her meaning became clear. “They ran away, and you typed? Yes, that helped.”

  She shook her head violently and struck her fist twice against her palm. No.

  Very clearly no.

  I was typing. She motioned. They ran away.

  Jem grew still as her meaning dawned on him. He lowered himself onto the bottom step and steepled his fingers under his chin, leaning his elbows heavily on his knees.

  She perched beside him, her feet lined up together. Prim and proper. Waiting for her judgment. What was fair.

  She obviously expected him to yell at her.

  All this he saw from the corner of his eye, for he couldn’t turn and look at her. He kept his eyes focused ahead, seeing only blurs of shapes.

  She’d been in his room. She hadn’t just been searching there for Mae as he’d first thought. When everyone else was away, that’s when she’d gone inside. Like a thief might. He brushed that thought quickly aside. She didn’t strike him as the sort of woman to steal, but she’d gone inside to look at his things. Maybe she was curious. It still felt like a violation, no matter what her intentions had been.