by Jody Hedlund
He was silent while a wagon rattled past. “Where have you been?”
“Only two places so far.”
“Hotel Windsor?”
She shook her head.
Wyatt grabbed her basket and started down the street. Mortified she raced after him. “Don’t worry about me, Wyatt. I promise I’ll sell them all and repay you for the supplies I used up.”
“I told you I ain’t worried about the supplies.” His boots thudded against the planks. As he reached Hotel Windsor, she tried to retrieve the basket and stop him before he entered, but he was too fast. He lifted it out of her reach and opened the front door.
With one of his disarming smiles, he stood back and waved her ahead of him. “After you.”
At the cease of conversation within the dining area, Greta forced a smile and made herself walk inside with grace and poise, even though she wanted to run out and hide.
“There they are,” Mr. Steele said, sitting at one of the center tables, a cigar in one hand and a newspaper in the other. “The newlyweds.”
Greta was tempted to glance around and discover who the newlyweds were but then realized Mr. Steele was referring to her and Wyatt. They’d been married all of five days. She supposed he was right. They were still newlyweds.
Several of the men standing around offered Wyatt rowdy congratulations and backslaps. She took a measure of satisfaction at the sight of Wyatt flustered and tugging at his neckerchief. She wasn’t alone in her discomfort.
“How are you holding up, Mrs. McQuaid?” Mr. Steele rose from his chair and politely bowed at her. “I hope your husband is treating you well.”
“He’s been as sweet as can be.”
“McQuaid? Sweet?” One of the other men elbowed Wyatt. “Sure would like to see that.”
“He has a soft spot for Astrid,” she said in a rush, not wanting to cause Wyatt any further embarrassment. “He’s kind to her.”
Astrid was still weak and tired and coughing but soaking in the attention of both Judd and Wyatt. Upon arriving home from the berry-picking expedition, she’d found Astrid resting outside, stitching combed-out horsehair through the strands of a burlap bag and making her very own saddle blanket. Judd had promised to teach Astrid to ride a horse just as soon as she finished the blanket. And while Greta wasn’t sure that riding was suitable for a sick child like Astrid, she’d been relieved to see some life back in Astrid’s face.
Mr. Steele took a puff on his cigar and then released a cloud laden with a tangy tobacco scent. “I was just telling these fellows they ought to write back East for their own mail-order brides.”
“If I could have me one as pretty as this gal, I’d give it a try,” said a middle-aged man wearing an apron over his bulging midsection. He eyed Greta with too much interest, and she scooted closer to Wyatt.
The men teased the middle-aged man for a minute before they turned their attention back on Wyatt and Greta. Should she bring up the hand pies now? Maybe Mr. Steele would be willing to try one.
“Go on and show everyone what they’re missing, McQuaid.” Mr. Steele stepped back to his chair and narrowed his eyes at Wyatt.
“Come again?”
“Give them a taste of what they have to look forward to if they send away for wives.”
Taste? Taste of what? One of her hand pies? Maybe selling them here in Hotel Windsor would be easier than she’d thought.
As the other men called out assent, Wyatt shook his head. “For crying-in-the-rain, Steele.”
Mr. Steele’s gaze didn’t budge from Wyatt’s. And somehow, Greta got the impression he was testing Wyatt, though for what, she didn’t know.
“Go on!” someone shouted.
“You ought to be getting pretty good at this by now.” Mr. Steele still held Wyatt’s gaze.
Wyatt released an exasperated breath, then turned toward her, his beautiful brown eyes apologizing. She didn’t have time to ask him what was wrong, because in the next second he bent down and touched his lips to hers, silencing her and taking her breath away in a single instant.
His kiss was as warm and gentle as it had been after their wedding. And although she’d relived that kiss more times than she wanted to admit, somehow this one was even better. Maybe because she’d gotten to know Wyatt a little bit. Maybe because in her secret thoughts she’d been wondering what it would be like to kiss him again. Maybe because he was so heart-stoppingly handsome that she couldn’t keep from being attracted to him.
Whatever the case, she rose into the kiss, letting her mouth fuse with his in an exquisite moment of pure pleasure.
At the raucous chortles and laughter around them, she pulled away at the same moment he did, fighting down a wave of mortification.
She didn’t realize she was twisting a loose strand of hair until Wyatt slipped his arm around her waist and drew her to his side. The pressure was reassuring, even as she fought the confusion that was making her forget rhyme or reason.
“Speaking of sweetness.” Wyatt’s grin was much too charming. “Greta’s been baking up some sweet pastries that can tide you fellas over.”
“I’d like to give one to Mr. Steele.” She reached into the basket. “A small thank-you for all his help the other day.”
At Wyatt’s nod, she took out a hand pie and offered it to Mr. Steele. He made quick work of disposing his cigar, rubbing the butt against an empty plate, before taking an eager bite out of the square-shaped pastry.
Everyone in the room grew silent as they watched Mr. Steele chew. Greta’s limbs stiffened in anticipation. Had she made a mistake letting him try it? What if he didn’t like it? Then she’d have even more trouble selling the goodies.
He swallowed the first bite and took a second that was larger and full of the sugary mixture of huckleberries and chokecherries. This time as he chewed, his gaze met Greta’s across the distance, glowing with the same fatherly warmth she’d seen the day they’d traveled together in the stagecoach. “Very tasty, Mrs. McQuaid. I don’t think I’ve had anything as delicious in a long time.”
Wyatt gently squeezed her arm, as though to tell her everything would be alright.
She released a pent-up breath. “Thank you.”
Before she could say anything more, Wyatt was laying on more charm and convincing the men they were getting a good deal by paying a whole silver dollar. She tried to whisper to Wyatt that back in Illinois at the state fair, she’d bought a hand pie for ten cents. But he only shook his head and continued to gather the silver dollar pieces from the men, who seemed all too eager to hand over their hard-earned money.
By the time they exited the hotel a short while later, Wyatt had managed to sell a pie to every man present and then sold the rest to Mr. Fehling, the owner of the hotel, who planned to add them to his menu for the day, charging at least a dollar and twenty-five cents.
She wasn’t sure whether to feel guilty or excited. “It’s too much, Wyatt.” She walked alongside him, swinging her now-empty basket. “I just don’t feel right charging such a high price for them when they’re not worth it.”
“Everything costs more up here, especially something as special as the pies.”
“Even so, I’d feel better asking for a fair price.”
“A dollar’s a real fair price seeing how it’s all about the supply and demand. When there ain’t much of something to go around, folks’ll put out more cash for it.” He told her that’s what he had done already with his cattle when he sold off a couple last month. Since the miners were eager for fresh beef, they were willing to pay a high price for the luxuries they missed from back East.
When they halted in front of the general store, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a neckerchief full of coins. He reached for her hand and placed the bulging bundle in her palm. “Get all the supplies you need for making jam or more hand pies. And if you have any money left, buy yourself something special.”
The weight of the silver pieces was strange but exhilarating. She’d never had so much money all at o
nce, and she couldn’t imagine using a cent on something special for herself.
Wyatt left her standing speechless, watching after him as he continued down the street. She hadn’t been lying when she told Mr. Steele that Wyatt was a sweet man. And not just to Astrid. He was the kindest, most considerate man she’d ever met, even more so than Thomas.
Not only that, but she liked his lanky walk with his scuffling boots and muscular backside. With the jaunty tilt of his hat and the dark shadow of scruff on his jaw, her mind wandered back to his kiss and the tender pressure of his lips. Just the memory sent strange flutters around her belly, making her crave him and more of his touch.
As though sensing her admiration, he glanced over his shoulder at her, and his brow shot up.
With the heat moving up from her midsection and splashing into her face, she spun and fumbled for the door to the general store. She couldn’t get into the store fast enough, and when she closed the door, she leaned against it and pressed her hands against her hot cheeks.
What was happening to her? Why was she reacting so oddly to Wyatt?
Breathing in deeply, she tried to calm her erratic pulse. Was it possible Wyatt wanted to have a real marriage after all? That maybe he’d changed his mind? Why else would he have kissed her again?
As she tried to make sense of what was happening between them, she made herself stay level-headed so she wouldn’t get carried away with fancy notions. Wyatt had just been showing off for the men in the store, clearly trying to prove something to Mr. Steele.
She set to work gathering more baking supplies. At the sight of her silver dollars, Captain Jim was much more accommodating than he’d been previously. And within no time, she had most of what she needed, not only to make more hand pies but also for her jam. While the jars and other containers for the jam were sparse, Captain Jim helped her find enough to get started and promised to order more. With the freighters coming through the passes from Denver, each wagon drawn by teams of six horses, she’d have everything she could want in no time.
As Captain Jim helped her carry the supplies out and set them on the sidewalk, she caught sight of Wyatt at the far end of town, squatting beside a pair of skinny oxen, running his hand over the hind legs of one of the creatures and questioning the two men who appeared to be the owners.
She started toward him, curiosity lengthening her steps. Was he planning to purchase more cattle to add to his herd? The two Judd had brought back to the ranch earlier in the week had been nothing but skin and bones, much the same as these.
During the stagecoach ride along the Oregon Trail, they’d passed many dead oxen on the side of the road. Some travelers claimed the cattle became too worn out pulling wagons up hills and through sand to go any farther. Others said they’d died from alkali poisoning. The livestock that made it were clearly not much better off.
As she approached, Wyatt stood and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Sure do want to take these Herefords off your hands, but it’ll take me a week or so to round up the cash.”
“We’re hoping to be moving on before that,” said the older of what appeared to be a father-son pair.
Wyatt kneaded the back of his neck, watching the oxen.
Greta stopped next to him and examined the bulls, trying to see in them what he did with his keen eyes and experience with cattle. He was obviously trying hard to build up his herd. But from what she’d been able to tell in the short time she’d been with him, the process was slow and hard and costly. At the rate he was going, it would be a long time before he’d have a self-sustaining ranch.
“How much are they asking?” she asked quietly.
“Only twelve dollars for the pair since they’re so sickly.” His reply was just as quiet.
She reached into her pocket and wrapped her fingers around the neckerchief and the leftover silver dollars. Though he’d instructed her to buy something special, she was too practical for that. She’d already decided she’d work on saving any extra earnings, just as she’d done with her jam money from back home, the money the stagecoach robbers had taken.
For an instant she let her fingers caress the solid pieces. Then she pulled out the neckerchief and held it out to Wyatt. “There’s ten dollars left.”
He took a rapid step back and held up his hands as if she’d pointed a gun at him. “I ain’t gonna take your money—”
“Our money. Whatever we have is ours.”
He paused, clearly recognizing her handing his words back to him.
“I’ve purchased all that I need.” She nodded at the sacks and crates in front of the store. “And I’ll make more next time we come to town.”
He hesitated.
She shoved the bundle into his hand, giving him no choice but to take it. He stared down at the outline of the coins a moment, then looked up at her. His eyes were warm and full of gratefulness. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“Thank you kindly.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Wyatt. We’re just doing what we need to.”
His lips lifted into another smile, this one throwing her off-kilter and making her slightly dizzy with happiness. As he ambled around the oxen and approached the father and son, she couldn’t contain a smile of her own.
Chapter 12
“When will they be back?” Astrid asked for the hundredth time as she sat in the open doorway and peered outside.
The August day was stifling without the slightest breeze. In front of the stove stirring the bubbling pot of fruit, Greta plucked at a strand of hair sticking to her face. “They’ll be back just as soon as they find the lost steer.”
During the few days since the trip to town, Wyatt had branded the new oxen and set them out to pasture with the other cattle. But one of them had strayed. And today, Wyatt and Judd had decided to track it down.
Of course, today Astrid had managed to have enough energy to finish the horsehair saddle blanket that Judd had set her working on. And now, she was determined to take him up on his promise to teach her to ride in spite of her persistent cough.
Greta had already made one batch of jam with the supplies she’d purchased. And she had enough jars and wax to make one more set.
She lifted the wooden spoon and blew on the mixture of huckleberries and chokecherries, hoping she’d gotten the consistency right. For yesterday’s batch she’d added under-ripe chokecherries to help thicken and set the jam. And while she’d done the same today, she’d run short of huckleberries and added more sugar to the bubbling mixture to keep it from being too tart.
“Please thicken,” she whispered to the liquid on the spoon. If she could keep contributing to the ranch in this small way, then perhaps Wyatt wouldn’t regret marrying her.
Not that he appeared to have any regrets . . . In fact, he seemed to like talking with her. He was plenty busy, which didn’t give them much time together, but whenever he and Judd came in for the morning and evening meals, he shared about all the things they were up to, everything from the poisonous plant one of the steers had nibbled to the porcupine quills in the nose of another. She and Astrid had laughed over his retelling of the attempts to hold down the steer and extract the quills while it kicked and bawled.
On Sunday, Wyatt had offered to take her to church. Judd insisted on staying home with Astrid while they went. In addition to getting to spend time with Wyatt, Greta had been excited to meet a young German woman a little older than herself who’d ridden down from her cabin up in one of the remote mines with her children so she could attend Reverend Zieber’s services. Mrs. Mueller spoke limited English, but Greta learned her husband ran a sawmill that catered to the miners.
Only after they’d parted ways had Greta realized how much she missed female companionship, and the treeless grassland appeared all the more desolate and lonely as she and Wyatt had ridden back to the homestead.
Greta paused in stirring the jam and listened to the silence broken by the low buzz of insects—mostly locusts that flew up with a
whirring every time anyone walked near.
“Judd said he’d show me how to ride on Dolly.” Astrid reclined against the doorpost, her legs stretched out in front of her with the horsehair blanket at her side. She’d spent the greater part of the afternoon working on it, and now she was weary and ready for another nap. But she’d insisted on sitting up and waiting for Judd to return.
After the past week and a half, Greta was learning the rhythms of the ranch, and from the lengthening of the shadows, she guessed the men would be back soon. She’d already set grouse to roasting with vegetables from the garden. It had a similar taste and texture to chicken, and the scent of it wafted in the air, mingling with the sweetness of the fruit mixture.
“Maybe you ought to lie down and rest. Then by the time you wake up, he’ll be back.”
Astrid shrugged. “Do you really think he’ll teach me?”
“Judd strikes me as the kind of man who keeps his word. If he said he’ll teach you, then he will.”
Even with the sunlight streaming in through the open window and door, the cabin was dark and shadowed, much gloomier than the wide-open kitchen of her family farmhouse in Illinois. With the close confines and the heat of the stove, the small room was also much hotter, causing her bodice to stick to her back and her skirt to tangle in her legs.
It wasn’t an ideal setup, with little work space and few utensils and pans, but slowly she was getting used to it. Since most days were pleasant and sunny, she tried to be outside as much as possible, praying the sunshine and fresh air would heal Astrid.
Of course, Astrid hadn’t had any trouble adjusting to their new home. For as sick as she’d always been, Astrid’s ability to adapt always amazed Greta. During the many miles of journeying to the West, first by steamboat and then by stagecoach, Astrid had never once complained and had enjoyed each moment to the fullest, even on the bleakest of days.
Greta prayed Astrid would remain flexible and wouldn’t get so attached to the ranch and to Wyatt and Judd that she’d have trouble letting go.
