A Cowboy for Keeps

by Jody Hedlund

  “Nope. She can talk a donkey’s hind leg off. But she’s a sweet girl, and I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.”

  “But . . .”

  His fingers pressed hard against the match, snapping it in two. “I don’t want you to be stuck here if this ain’t what you wanted.”

  Or maybe he didn’t want to be stuck with her, if she ended up not being what he wanted.

  He released a breath that was full of frustration. “Always figured I’d marry a woman I knew and liked. But since that didn’t happen, I’m fixin’ to wait—you know—until we get to liking each other.”

  Get to liking each other. “What if that doesn’t happen?” The question popped out before she could stop it.

  He fiddled with the two pieces of the broken match.

  “It doesn’t matter—”

  “Let’s give it three months. Come November, if you don’t like me or like living here, I’ll buy your passage out to wherever you wanna go.”

  She tried to ease the tension that had built in her shoulders. It was a fair deal. She had the rest of August and the autumn to prove herself and make him like her. If she couldn’t do it by then, she’d figure out something else.

  “Alright,” she said softly.

  He straightened and moved from the table. “I’ll go get Astrid and carry her inside.”

  She nodded but couldn’t make herself move from her spot after he went out to the wagon. Instead, she stared through the doorway to the bedroom, to the bed. She ought to feel relieved, even happy. Wyatt wasn’t pressuring her into intimacies yet. In fact, she should be grateful he was giving her time to get used to her new home and to him. Not many men would be so noble.

  Why, then, did she feel afraid?

  She shook away the fear and doubled her resolve. She would work hard and prove he hadn’t made a mistake in marrying her. She’d show him she was worthwhile. And she’d make sure she and Astrid weren’t a burden. That was the last thing she wanted to be to anyone ever again.

  Chapter 8

  Wyatt splashed cold river water against his face, trying to wake himself after a restless night. He let the icy drops course down before he sat back on his heels and dried his skin with the sleeve of his union suit.

  The eastern sky above the Kenosha Mountains was tinted with the first pink of sunrise, more beautiful at dawn than any other time of day. It was the time when he could pray the best. The solitude, peace, and magnificence brought him in tune with his Maker so that for a few minutes, he could forget about his worries and the pressing work of the day ahead.

  But not so this morning. From the second he’d pushed himself up from his bed of hay in the barn loft, he’d done nothing but chew on the conversation he’d had with Greta the previous evening after they’d arrived home. And he got all riled up when he thought about Judd’s reaction later.

  “Steele ain’t gonna be happy,” Judd had remarked in his quiet but deep voice. “If he learns you’re beddin’ down in the barn instead of with your wife, he’ll be airin’ his lungs.”

  “It ain’t his business.” Wyatt closed the barn door for the night, shutting the two of them in with the livestock, along with the new steers.

  “When you made the confounded deal with him, you made it his business.”

  All night, Wyatt had tossed and turned, wondering if he’d done the right thing in accepting Steele’s bargain, marrying Greta but then keeping things friend-like between them.

  He’d thought Greta would be relieved he wasn’t pressuring her into a real marriage—at least not right away. But she seemed confused and perhaps worried.

  Maybe he’d been wrong to offer her freedom in three months if she decided she didn’t like living on his homestead. It’s just that he’d seen the wariness in her expression when she looked at the place, as if she expected something better.

  Although he had big plans for his ranch, he couldn’t shake the nagging voice reminding him of the ways he’d already failed. The voice sounded a lot like Rusty’s and the words pretty near the same as what Rusty had told him.

  It had been after the first time Wyatt had come in from the fields to find the bruise on Ma’s face. She hadn’t wanted to talk about it. But Ivy hadn’t held back anything, telling him how Rusty had slapped Ma for not having his noon meal ready when he’d walked in the house.

  Wyatt had stormed out to the barn, found Rusty mucking a horse stall, and plowed into him with both fists swinging. Of course at the time, Wyatt had been half the size and weight of Rusty, and his new stepfather easily subdued him by pinning him to the ground and punching him in the gut.

  Even with Rusty sitting on top of him, Wyatt bucked and twisted like a wild bronco, trying to free himself so he could take another punch. Rusty just laughed.

  “Go on and leave!” Wyatt shouted, breathless and sore. “We don’t need you and can get by fine without the likes of you around.”

  “Get by fine?” Rusty’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what you call the failed crop last year and almost losing this here farm?”

  “We didn’t lose it!”

  “That’s because your ma realized you were running the farm into the ground, so she married me to bail her out of the trouble you got her in.”

  “I didn’t run the farm into the ground.” As Wyatt wrestled against Rusty, his voice lacked the same bluster as earlier.

  After Pa’s death, he’d taken over and tried to do everything the way his pa taught him. But the summer had been exceptionally hot and dry, almost to the point that many farmers had called it a drought. Their farm hadn’t been the only one in a bad way.

  “The problem with you young’uns”—Rusty jammed his finger into Wyatt’s chest—“is that you’re proud and think you know better than the rest of us.”

  Maybe Wyatt had been too cocky when he’d taken over after Pa died. Maybe he figured he could be like his pa, but better. And maybe because of that, he’d brought a whole passel of problems on the farm, giving Ma no choice but to marry Rusty when he’d come proposing and promising to turn things around.

  “The truth is,” Rusty continued with a harder jab, “you were a failure, and you’ll always be a failure.”

  Wyatt tried to push the bitter memories from his mind by leaning down and splashing more icy water against his face. But no matter how hard he tried to shut out the accusation, it reverberated louder than a shooting iron in a narrow canyon. He was a failure and would always be a failure.

  After his few years of driving cattle, he’d failed at his brief cow-raising venture in Iowa. Then once he’d had enough experience in the freighting business, he tried setting up his own transportation company. And that bit the dust too. When gold had been found in the Rockies, he’d decided to give mining a go, and he hadn’t had any luck with that either.

  At twenty-three, he’d tried and failed more times than many men did in a lifetime. Was he bound to fail again with his ranching plans?

  At the crunch of footsteps behind him, he pushed aside his melancholy, his senses on high alert and his fingers already fumbling for the handle of his revolver in his discarded holster. Last week, Judd had seen several Utes in the area. He hadn’t been sure whether they were hunting or just passing through. With the increasing tension as more and more miners came in and took over Ute land, it was just a matter of time before the conflict escalated.

  At Greta’s appearance on the path that sloped gently to the river, he let himself relax and released his gun. She was carrying buckets in each hand, swinging them in rhythm to her quick stride.

  He hadn’t expected her to be up at dawn the same way he was, especially on her first morning. But she was apparently an early riser. He didn’t want to frighten the living daylights out of her, so he stood and straightened, mighty thankful he hadn’t unshucked all the way as he often did before washing up.

  She made it halfway down the path before she stopped short at the sight of him. For several seconds, she stared with wide eyes, then dropped her attention to the tu
ft of tall yellowing grass in front of her.

  He glanced down at himself. Barefoot and wearing only his one-piece under-rigging, he was decent. With the cotton leggings and long sleeves, his union suit covered just about as much of him as his outerwear. As far as he could tell, they didn’t have anything to be embarrassed about, did they?

  “Morning. How’d you and Astrid sleep?”

  “Very well.” She kept her focus on the ground. “Astrid’s still asleep.”

  “Good.” He shifted and waited for her to continue to the river. But she seemed completely frozen in place. After another heartbeat, he decided to try to break the awkward moment.

  “Hope the mountain sickness ain’t too bad for either of you.”

  “I’m feeling well enough.”

  Wyatt had been woozy and tired his first few days in the higher elevation. The sickness had lasted a day or two before he felt like new. “Want some help fetching the water?”

  He’d already informed her last night after he carried the last of her bags inside the cabin that the river water was as clean and fresh as any well.

  “I didn’t realize you were here.” She finally moved but only to spin around. “I’ll come back after you’ve finished your grooming and dressing.”

  “No, don’t go.”

  She paused.

  “I don’t mind none.” He waved at the river. “The river’s big enough for the both of us.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Her golden brown hair wasn’t tied up in a knot as it had been yesterday. Instead, she wore it loose, and it shimmered around her shoulders and down her arms, almost all the way to her waist. It looked fine and soft and silkier than a chestnut’s mane.

  Averting her gaze, she hiked the final distance but veered downstream from him. He reached for the trousers he’d tossed over a rock and began to put them on. He’d wait to bathe till another morning.

  When she peeked at him sideways, he had one leg in and was tugging up the second. Her gaze darted back to the bucket she was dipping in the river. Although the faint light of dawn left her in the shadows, he guessed pink was infusing her cheeks as it had last night when he’d mentioned staying in the barn with Judd.

  Was she embarrassed to see him in his underclothes?

  He jerked his trousers up the rest of the way and then grabbed his shirt. He supposed he’d gotten so used to living among men, he’d forgotten the niceties a proper woman expected.

  He was buttoning his shirt by the time she finished filling the second bucket. As she stood, he could almost feel her relief that he was dressed. “I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

  “It’s alright.” He grabbed a boot and stuffed his foot inside without putting on his sock. Losing his balance, he hopped awkwardly.

  She diverted her attention, giving him a view of her profile and the shy smile playing at her lips.

  He reckoned he seemed like a madman in his race to put his clothes back on. He’d have to use good manners by the time he moved his family to the homestead, especially because Ma would expect him to behave in front of Ivy. Might as well start now.

  Greta was halfway up the hill by the time he shoved his foot all the way into his second boot, stuffed his socks in his pockets, and rushed after her.

  “Hold on.” He gripped the handle of one of the buckets. “Let me help.”

  She didn’t break her stride. “I can get it just fine. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work.”

  “You ain’t keeping me from nothin’.”

  She held the bucket a second longer before she relinquished it. “I suppose you and Judd will be wanting breakfast once you finish with your morning chores.”

  “Judd’s been taking care of the grub. I just leave it up to him.”

  “Now you can leave it up to me. Tell me when you want to eat, and I’ll have it ready.”

  Before he could respond, she halted and touched one of the shrubs that grew along the river. “What kind of berry is this?”

  He took a closer look at the dark red clumps amid tangled leaves. “Judd calls them chokecherries.”

  “Are they good to eat or poisonous?”

  “They ain’t poisonous. But Judd said they earned their name ’cause they’re so tart they can choke a man.”

  She set her bucket on the ground and reached into the foliage. She plucked off a cluster, the berries so heavy and dark they appeared almost purple. “They look like blueberries.”

  “Definitely not as sweet. The birds like them. So do the bears.”

  “Bears?” She took a rapid step back, as if a bear were about to hop out of the bush and tear her to pieces.

  He couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “You don’t have to worry about too many bears down here where it’s dry and open. They like to stay farther up in the mountains.”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “Then I don’t suppose they’d mind if I took some of the chokecherries, would they?”

  “Nope, I don’t reckon they would.”

  She began to pick more clusters, making a basket out of her apron. “I don’t know how hard it is to get sugar up here. Or honey? It would be most beneficial if I could start my own bee colony eventually.”

  Honey? Bee colony?

  “I sold jam back home from the berries—mostly blackberries and raspberries that grew in the wild around the farm.” She was rapidly filling her apron with the chokecherries. “A few years ago, I planted several apple and peach trees. Last summer, my harvest was big enough to make apple and peach jam too.”

  Many women on farms put up jam every autumn. Even so, she seemed to have made a hobby of it. What other hobbies did she have? He knew so little about her.

  “I could get right to work making jam,” she said more tentatively. “And sell it, if you think people might buy it.”

  “Reckon so.” He picked a grouping of the berries and added them to her apron. “Men around here are always looking for something sweet to add to their usual fare of pork and beans. I know for a fact just how old the same grub gets day after day.”

  “We can see if the hotels in town want to buy the jam too. I’d just need to find jars along with wax for sealing them.”

  He paused, his hand deep into the chokecherry bush. Not only would she need sugar, but jars and wax? The cost would add up real fast. How would he afford it when he barely had enough to dicker for the basic necessities?

  Her fingers stilled, as if she’d sensed his questions. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure out a way to pay for everything without burdening you.”

  “Won’t be a burden. It’s just that I ain’t got a penny to spare right now with trying to build my herd and all.”

  A mere foot away, she tilted her head and peered off into the distance. With her lips pursed in thought and her expression etched with determination, a sense of kinship swelled in his chest. She was the sort of person who wasn’t afraid to take risks. And he could respect that, even if he didn’t have much more than a wish and a prayer to lend her.

  “I saw that you have some flour and sugar and lard,” she said, as though thinking out loud. “If you’ll let me borrow what you have, I’ll make hand pies with the first chokecherries, sell them in town, and use the profits to pay you back as well as purchase more supplies.”

  “Don’t care a lick about you paying me back—”

  “I will. I promise I’ll do this without costing you a cent except for a few initial ingredients I borrow.”

  “You ain’t borrowing—”

  Her brows furrowed.

  “What I mean is that you ain’t borrowing ’cause it’s already yours.”

  “No, it’s yours—”

  “It’s ours.” He motioned back and forth between them. “You’re my wife, and whatever we have is ours.”

  His wife. The realization was still strange. To think that yesterday when he’d woken up, he had no notion of getting married anytime in the near future. And today, he was hitched and had himself a wife.r />
  A very pretty wife. The growing daylight reflected off her loose hair, turning the light brown to gold. And it made the silver blue of her eyes brighter and clearer, like a mountain lake.

  “Thank you, Wyatt. I promise you won’t regret it. Astrid and I’ll come out later this morning and pick all the chokecherries we can find.”

  He didn’t rightly know if many men would have a hankering for the sour berry any more than he did. Maybe she’d work some kind of magic and make them tasty. Regardless, he didn’t want her to be disappointed if she went to all the hard work and people turned up their noses at her goods. “Could you use huckleberries instead?”

  “Huckleberries?”

  “They’re like blueberries. But smaller. And they grow on the forest floors.”

  “They’re sweeter?”

  “Yep. When they’re ripe, which is about right now.”

  “Okay. I’ll try huckleberries too, but you’ll have to tell me where to find them.”

  “I’ll take you.” The words were out before he thought about what he was saying. He didn’t have time to gallivant through the foothills searching for huckleberries. He had his new cattle to brand, more fences to mend, the irrigation ditch to repair, and game to catch and smoke for the coming winter. One of the horses was barefoot, and the barn roof had a leak.

  To top it all, his few acres of alfalfa would be ready for haying soon. He hadn’t plowed much last spring since the ground had been harder than a stale biscuit. But he figured it wouldn’t hurt to have the winter feed just in case the snow cover made grazing difficult for his livestock.

  As if sensing his hesitation, Greta shook her head. “I’ll be fine. You don’t need to come along—”

  “I’ll aim to take you later in the week.” While she and Astrid picked huckleberries, he’d do a little hunting. “And when you have your goods ready to sell, you let me know, and I’ll help you take them to town.”

  Her lips curved into a smile, one that moved into her eyes. “I like you, Wyatt.”

  Somehow her words were a balm he hadn’t known he needed. They settled deep inside and soothed him, giving him a strange sense of hope that maybe he hadn’t made a mistake in marrying her after all, that maybe, for once, things might work out.