Surrender A Dream

by Jill Barnett

  "Go get some blankets and as many roasting pans as you have. We have to warm them up or we'll lose them." He set the basket near the big black range and tried to mentally block out the howling that echoed from the back of the house.

  She shuffled back a few minutes later, her wails preceding her, her arms piled with a bobbing stack of woolen blankets. She dropped them on the floor beside him, sniffing, then brought out the roasters. There were only three of them.'

  Montana lined one of the graniteware pans with a blanket and gently placed the weakest chicks inside. "Open the warming oven for me."

  She hurried over, sniffing, and using her apron to protect her hand, she opened the shallow door above the oven.

  Montana eased the pan inside. "Leave the door open."

  She nodded and stepped back, her crying now down to a pitiful blubber. He filled the next blanket-lined pan, and she began to help and, thank God, cease her wailing. They worked together, putting all the chicks in the warm confines of the oven.

  Montana bent and slid the last panful inside. Something brushed his shoulder. It was her hand, barely touching him. He glanced up at her small, pale face, her eyes rimmed bloodred and her cheeks all raw-looking. Her lips were puffy from biting them while she sniffed. It was the most helpless, pathetic little face he'd ever seen, and something deep inside him twisted. It scared the hell out of him.

  "Thank you." Her eyes began to fill again.

  He shot upright. "Don't cry."

  She sniffed, swallowed, and took a deep, shuddering breath. It was almost harder for him to watch her try to hold back her tears. Feeling awkward and confused as hell, he looked around the room, knowing he couldn't look at her much longer or he'd do something really stupid. His gaze locked on the table, set for one.

  "Would you like something to eat?" she offered a moment later.

  She must have been about ready to eat dinner, and he suddenly noticed that it smelled damn good. "Will you stop crying?"

  She nodded.

  "Okay." He walked over to the table while she set another plate and fork down. She dished up his meal and set a plate of fresh cornbread next to the butter crock. They ate in awkward silence. He had three helpings while she pushed her food around the plate, looking sorrowful, drained.

  He leaned back in the chair and she glanced up, staring at him for a long moment before she said, "You shaved."

  He only grunted in response.

  The silence dragged on; the only sounds in the room were the sickly peeps from the chickens in the oven. He waited a moment longer and then asked the question that had been hovering in his mind for over an hour. "What the hell were you doing with all those chickens?"

  She raised her bowed head. "I'm starting a chicken business."

  "You?"

  Her chin shot up. "Yes. I can raise chickens."

  "What do you know about raising chickens?"

  "The book said it wasn't difficult," she said defensively.

  The book? "What book?"

  "The one by Mr. Wendell T. Gates. He said raising chickens is a profitable enterprise."

  "Not if you kill them the first week."

  Her face crumpled.

  "Don't cry!" His hands flew up. "You had too many chickens anyway."

  She sniffed loudly. "I did?"

  He nodded, assured that this woman could never raise chickens, although her crying might raise the dead.

  She frowned. "That's not what the book said."

  "Just what did that book say?"

  She stood. "I'll get it."

  He watched her scurry from the room. She came back with a big brown leather book and set it down on the table.

  It was something about making millions. He hoped they meant dollars, otherwise she might have bought a million chickens.

  She opened it to a page, removing a tin bookmark, and pointed. "See, Mr. Wendell T. Gates explains the way to make a fortune with chickens."

  Montana skimmed the page and shook his head in disgust. "Did this Mr. Gates mention that chicks under three weeks should be placed in a brooder?"

  "A brooder?"

  "To keep them warm. They're too weak and susceptible to disease when they're this young."

  "Oh. He must have forgotten." Her face appeared thoughtful and she asked, "Can I buy one of those brooders?"

  "You can make one out of a wooden box and gas lanterns. I spotted some old ones out behind the barn."

  She was quiet for a moment, staring at his empty plate.

  He needed to leave. After all, he reminded himself, it wouldn't do to get too friendly. He still wanted her gone.

  He put his napkin on the table and started to rise.

  "Wait!" she said, her little face hopeful. "If I make all your meals, will you build the brooder? And anything else I need for the chickens?"

  He paused. If he helped her, he'd never get rid of her. He glanced down and the empty plate stared back at him. The food was good, though, and he was tired of beans and bacon. He spotted the pile of blankets and remembered the changing weather.

  She sniffled and her lip began to quiver. "I know I don't deserve your help," she wailed. "I'm a chicken killer!" Then she started crying all over again.

  Montana shot upward, his chair banging against the kitchen wall. "You said you wouldn't cry."

  He stood there feeling ridiculous while she laid her head in her hands and went at it.

  "Please." He finally reached out and touched her shoulder.

  She stood, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "I'm sorry." She looked up at him, all teary and pitiful and looking as if she didn't have a soul in the world.

  He stared down at the pale little face, drained of all its fight, all its gumption, and he felt odd, a little sad and a little protective. She blinked back the rest of her tears, sniffed, and licked her lips. He suddenly felt something else—the same twisting sensation that signaled his need to taste a woman, this woman. Not her, he thought, please. He fought the urge to lower his head, fought like the very devil to keep from burying his lips on hers… moving his hands on her small body… losing himself deep inside her.

  "I'll do it," he agreed quickly, grabbing his hat and backing away, "if you throw in a couple of those blankets too."

  She nodded, her face thankful, her lips tilting slightly. At his pause, her tongue darted out, nervously licking those lips. He had to get out, now, before he did something stupid. He picked up the blankets, tucking them under one arm, and crossed to the door and opened it, pausing in the doorway, careful not to look back at her for fear of his own actions. "Keep the chicks warm tonight. I'll get the brooder done tomorrow."

  He left and moved across the yard, wondering what the hell was wrong with him. He called himself a fool for reacting to her tears. He hated that flaw in himself.

  The more he thought, the more he stomped, straight toward his camp beneath the tree. He threw the blankets down, angry at himself for giving in to his adversary, all because she cried. He jerked off his boots, hopping on one foot and swearing when he landed on a rock. How could he be so damn stupid? He'd almost fallen under the spell of her tears. He'd acted like he had Cupid's cramps. Throwing his boots down, he crawled into his bedroll, telling himself that he needed help and a better plan. He grabbed her blankets and shook them out, pulling the ends over his shoulders as he turned onto his side.

  "Goddammit!" he muttered. The blankets smelled all flowery, woman flowery.

  He was a fool, a fool who had wanted to kiss her, touch her, taste her… do more to her. He took a deep cleansing breath. He was a fool, all right, one who should have never left town when it had saloons and women—and he needed to find a woman, bad. And not that woman, because she was the one hitch in his plans. She could keep him from ever having the farm. He needed to get rid of her. He needed to drive her away. He didn't need that woman. He turned onto his back, crossing his arms behind his head and staring up at the night sky. His mind flashed with the sad image of that sorrowful whore. No, he thought dryl
y, as his hard body throbbed inside the bedroll. What he really needed right now was to find a bull and a wall.

  Thud! Thud! Thud! Addie shot upright, blinking. He wouldn't dare! she thought, peeling her puffy, burning eyes open and expecting to see that horrid horse. The room was empty and she was in the kitchen, not her bedroom. Letting the blanket drop, she sagged back against the pillows she'd propped against the wall, and rubbed her sore eyes. Lord but she was tired! She glanced at the stove. The oven doors were open and the birds' incessant chirping poured out into the room. She'd stayed up most of the night, watching the chicks, keeping the stove fire going just enough to warm her poor birds. Only five had passed on, and the rest appeared to be recovering fine, if their noise was any indication.

  Yawning, she wobbled to her feet and shuffled over to check on the chicks. With her left hand on her sore back she bent slowly and peered inside the top warming ovens.

  Thud! Thud! Thud!

  She looked toward the sound, frowning. What was that? She yawned another jaw-cracking yawn, went to the back door and opened it, squinting in the morning sun.

  Mr. Creed was in her chicken yard, hammering. He must be building the brooder, she thought, tucking some loose strands of black hair out of her face. She planted a hand on her hip and stood there watching him for a while. He was down on one knee, looking at something on the side of the wooden box. His legs were so long and lean, even in his kneeling position. And when he stood, well, it did something to her, staring up at him. From her height, Addie was used to staring up at everyone. But somehow, when she looked at this man, it was different. She felt even smaller, and she always had this odd urge to prove she wasn't. Maybe small wasn't exactly what she felt. Weak would be a better word. She felt weaker in the presence of this man, which made him seem all that more intense and powerful. Then the need to fight that power would crackle all around her until she found something, some way, to best him.

  He'd look down at her and something inside triggered. She wondered if those strange-colored eyes of his were the catalyst. When he looked at her, she was sure he could read her every thought, and it made her so uneasy, antsy—until last night.

  She looked back at the chicken yard and realized that the dead chicks were no longer in the yard. He must have gotten rid of them for her. She crossed her arms and leaned back against her back porch rail. Last night there had been a change between them. It was an uneasy truce, never voiced by either of them, yet they both knew it existed.

  Just before supper, when she'd walked out to check the waterers and had seen all those dead chicks, she was so appalled that she'd instinctively run for help. He was the only person there. The truly amazing thing was that he'd helped her, after all their bickering and after she'd been pretty petty about the water pump and all. Part of her felt awful, especially as she watched him build that brooder.

  She bit back another yawn. She couldn't remember feeling so tired. Of course two hours' sleep wasn't much. Well, tired or not, she had a chance to maybe make up for her behavior by cooking for him. She was an exceptional cook, and as soon as he finished and they could get her chicks into the brooder box, she'd make him a breakfast to remember—farina with apples, biscuits and honey, fried potatoes with fresh green onions she'd found growing wild behind the orchard, a thick slab of ham and perfectly fried eggs. It would ease her guilt.

  He stood and for the first time noticed her. He pushed his hat back and looked at her. What had ever made her think that his scruffy beard had hidden a weak chin? The man had the strongest, squarest jaw she'd ever seen. It looked as if it was honed from granite. His cheekbones were Indian-high and his mouth was wide. It was a nice mouth, when it wasn't quirked into that obscene smirk, and without all that bushy brown hair he didn't look so wild. Even with his hair just tipping his shoulders he was pleasing to look at. More than pleasing, as much as she hated admitting it. He was downright handsome. Neat men had always appealed to her—men who had their hair trimmed short and who smelled of bay rum. The fact that she found this man attractive surprised her. Adelaide Amanda Pinkney finding a long-haired man attractive. Humph!

  There had been one time, though, when she'd been stunned by the illustration of a prince in a book. He'd had long hair, a noble nose, and a strong, square jaw. She looked at Mr. Creed's profile; it looked like that prince in Grimm's Fairy Tales, but that wasn't what amazed her. She thought of him, last night, as he sat across from her at the dinner table. She remembered looking at his cleanshaven face and thinking that his beard hadn't hid a gump chin; it had hidden a dimple. Imagine that! She shook her head. The toad had a dimple. She smiled at her thoughts. The toad prince.

  She heard the metally clink of the chicken gate latch, and she watched him walk toward her, long, lean, with power in his stride, command and confidence in his step. Confidence oozed from him like hot lava from Mount Etna. As he neared, she fought the urge to run from him, to keep from getting burned. Then she remembered the way he'd been last night. He'd been nice to her, and she wondered if maybe they really had achieved a truce. They might be able to work out something with the ownership of the farm. For the first time Addie felt as if that might be the case.

  "Good morning," she said, smiling.

  "What the hell's good about it?"

  Her mouth dropped.

  "It's damn near eight in the morning and I'm starved. I like my breakfast at six, Miss Pinky." Then he scowled at her, as if she had purposely reneged on their agreement.

  "Now see here—''

  "I don't want to see anything but breakfast."

  "Well, excuse me, master, but it's a little hard to cook with a stove full of chickens," she informed him in her most sarcastic tone.

  He stepped closer and tried to burn her with his eyes. "I wasn't the one who was fool enough to buy chickens when I knew nothing about them."

  "I did too know! I read that book. Mr. Gates must have forgotten the part about their age. I can learn to raise anything from a book, mister!"

  "Lady, the only thing you could raise is someone's temper."

  "You horrid toad! And to think—''

  "Don't think anything," he interrupted. "Just get that white butt of yours inside and bring me those chickens. The sooner I get them in the brooder, the sooner you can make my breakfast." With that royal pronouncement, he turned and went back to the chicken yard.

  And she had worried about being burned? He'd scorched her. They had no truce and never would. She had forgotten who she was dealing with—the toad. She stormed inside, slamming the door in her wake. The worst thing was, now she had to cook for him, three meals a day. She fumed, and then gently slid a pan of chicks out of the oven, setting them on the stove top. The little chickens chirped up at her and she watched them squirm inside the pan. She wouldn't have them if he hadn't helped, so she couldn't in good conscience renege on their agreement. No, she'd have to cook his meals, but if he started demanding them at certain times, well, then she'd show him! She removed the other pan of chickens, wondering how on God's green earth she would be able to stomach cooking for that man. Her mind searched for a way for her to tolerate her agreement yet give him a little trouble at the same time.

  The thought of sitting across from him and watching him gobble down the meals she worked so hard to prepare was more than she could handle. He'd probably eat three helpings of everything. Unless…

  Addie smiled, a wonderfully wicked little smile. She took a deep, prideful breath. Oh, she'd live up to their agreement—she'd cook his meals, yes sirree, but… the meals didn't necessarily have to be good.

  Chapter 8

  With two hands Addie lugged the heavy pail of chick mash to the brooder box. She wrapped her arm around the pail and carefully leaned over the box, letting the mash flow into the feed hoppers that lined three of the brooder's wooden walls. Even before she'd finished filling the hopper, the little golden-brown chicks were trampling and pecking at each other to get to the feeders. The empty pail dropped to her side as she straightened. Sh
e blew some loose strands of damp, black hair out of her face and arched her back, wiggling out the kinks of her shoulders while she watched the birds feed.

  Lord, those chicks could eat! Five times a day she filled the hoppers and the water jars, and both were empty again in less than ten minutes. It seemed to Addie that all she'd done for the last day and a half was fix and serve meals, to the chicks—which she enjoyed doing even though it was hard work—and to the toad.

  She grinned a wicked little smile. Unlike the chicks, he wasn't gorging himself. Of course, the meals she'd prepared were not the sort of dishes that would make one want to overeat.

  Yesterday morning after they'd silently loaded her chicks into the brooder—she too angry to speak to him, and he sulking because his breakfast was late—he'd explained the way the brooder worked. She didn't understand that man at all. He had been so helpful the evening before, saving the chicks and all. He'd lulled her into a sense of camaraderie. Then suddenly the next morning he was back to his toady old self.

  His belligerent tone still galled her. He had arrogantly rattled off the brooding instructions with the speed of a Gatling gun, then informed her that she had exactly fifteen minutes to get his breakfast, after which, he also demanded dinner at noon and supper at six, "and no later."

  So, Addie was exacting her revenge slowly, by completely ruining only one or two items per meal. She knew he'd figure out her plan if everything she served him was inedible, especially since she'd fed him one of her best prepared meals the night before. She'd thought this out and planned to use strategy. She'd even decided to make black-eyed peas and ham once more, and to make it perfectly. Then he'd think that was the only thing she could cook, and afterward she'd make sure never to fix it again.

  So far her plan was working. Yesterday she'd made his late breakfast—farina that was just cold enough to become gluelike. Since the eggs were too precious to ruin, she'd made them the regular way, except when she fried his she'd made sure the yolks were broken. The ham was cooked just a tad too long.