When he took his place beside her, she tensed. The length of his leg rested against hers and pinned down the folds of her skirt. Was she trapped or held securely? Perspective made all the difference, her mother had often told her. She determined to believe the latter.
With a light hand, he snapped the reins on the old mare’s backside, and the wagon jerked ahead, nearly pushing Mae Ann over backward. Her reflexive reach landed squarely on his leg, but she quickly regained her balance and modesty, folding her wayward hand into the other. Suspecting the odd tug of his mouth, she discounted the notion and blamed it on the lack of light.
“Do you know the horse’s name?”
She looked at him.
He returned her regard with eyes even darker than before. “Well?”
“No.” She refocused on the mare’s undulating rump as it reached forward with one back leg and then the other. The steady clop, clop hit every other beat of her running heart. At this rate she might faint before they reached their destination.
At least she wouldn’t fall out of the wagon.
He flicked the reins again, and the nag picked up her pace. Ahead, a light winked on, easing Mae Ann’s disdain for the dirt-street town. Too bad the lamplighter couldn’t run ahead of the wagon and light their way.
“Cold?”
His introduction of the possibility made her shiver. “No.”
He chuckled under his breath and reached around her with his right arm, tugging her against him. A hitherto unspoken longing urged her to lay her head against his shoulder, but she suppressed the sensation. He would think her fast—a lightskirt—and that would never do. But she willed her body to loosen its grip on her nerves and soak up his offered warmth. Perhaps he was truly as kind as she had determined him to be in the bank.
That seemed a lifetime ago. Had it truly been mere hours since she waited for the completion of business Henry had found so pressing? If only he hadn’t.
A sigh escaped, and she relaxed somewhat against her companion, blaming the odd lulling of wagon and horse hooves. Every muscle in her body begged for rest, as did her eyes. The unexpected swirl of cedar and sage filling the night air did not help. The pure scent compared quite favorably to that of the cramped rooming house in St. Louis and the pinch of coal dust on the train. Breathing deeply, she nestled in the shelter of a strong and warm embrace. Sleep called like a siren.
A barking dog nipped at the edges of her dream. Percy? Could it be that he’d survived that pack of mongrels in the alley? Again and again the dog yapped, excitement drawing a near whine from its throat.
“Mae Ann.” Deep tones rumbled against her ear. A warm breath brushed her neck, but the dog persisted. She must find him. The strength that had encircled her receded, and once more the voice came. “We’re home.”
Memory shot her upright, and immediately she regretted the move. Her neck was as tight as her corset and she squinted, focusing on the man beside her. “How long did I sleep?”
His mouth tugged sideways, revealing even teeth. Almost a smile. Warm, not mocking, but edged with laughter. “All the way from Olin Springs. More than an hour.”
He stepped to the ground and turned to hand her down, or so she thought. Instead, he encircled her waist with strong hands, lifted her from the wagon, and set her lightly on her feet. His hands lingered just above her hips and he watched her closely, his protectiveness nearly tangible. And foreign. She would decide later whether she liked it or not. At the moment, she must attend the dog that whined around her skirts, sniffing the very color from her suit.
“Blue!”
The dog dropped back at Mr. Parker’s scolding and lifted pleading eyes his way.
“Go on now.”
That was exactly what Mae Ann wanted—to go on and lie in a soft bed. Preferably not her husband’s, though such accommodation was unlikely. She’d suggested this business proposition with her eyes wide open, yet had already denied his kiss, and in front of the minister and his wife. Shameless.
Common courtesy forced her attention to him. “Thank you for your help.”
“It’s been a long day, and it’s not over. Let’s get you inside and then I’ll see what I can do about supper.”
She stared, concentrating on keeping her mouth from gaping. Men did not talk like that. Rubbing her temples with both hands, she closed her eyes and reopened them, assuring herself it was not all a dream.
“I’ll get your trunk later. Come on.”
With his hand low on her back, she took in her surroundings, for she could see surprisingly well. Oil lamps hung on pegs at each side of a wide door set in the two-story log house, and a stone walkway led to a wide flagstone porch marking the entrance. The pressure of his fingers urged her forward, and she gathered her skirt and walked past the mare, lathered beneath the harness and flicking her ears at sights and smells no doubt as unfamiliar to her as they were to Mae Ann.
At the door, Mr. Parker reached ahead and pushed it open, then stepped back for her to enter. But the ground beneath her shifted. The threshold pitched beyond her vision. She touched her brow and closed her eyes, and her pounding pulse drowned out the deep voice that spoke her name.
~
Cade caught her as she tumbled backward, lifting her into his arms and through the doorway to one of the wingback chairs before the hearth. Her face was as pale as new canvas, and his heart threatened to break from his chest.
Was she ill? Hungry? When had she last eaten? He’d not asked, and he berated himself for his ignorance. After settling her against one high-backed wing, he pulled the footstool closer and lifted her feet to it, not at all happy with the slight rise and fall of her chest. Fear overrode propriety, and he fumbled with the small, tight buttons of her fitted jacket, tempted to tear them open. But if she woke during his frenzied efforts to help her breathe, she’d call him anything but kind and brave.
With his fingers against one of her wrists, he held his breath, waiting for life to beat beneath her white flesh. Faint but steady it came, and relief routed fear. At least she wouldn’t die in his home on her first night there.
He went to the kitchen to stoke the fire in the cookstove. Somewhere he had tea, old tea he’d not thrown out after his parents’ death. Women preferred tea, didn’t they? Rummaging through the stores on his shelves, he knocked a baking powder tin to the floor. It rang like gunfire in his ears. Just what she needed. He picked it up and peeked around the wall into the room where she lay in his chair as still as he’d left her.
What have I gotten myself into?
Maybe he should loosen those high-top shoes. He always felt better after taking off his boots. But Lord have mercy, he wouldn’t be taking them off in her presence. She’d likely pass out again once he revived her.
He pumped water into the kettle and set it on the stove, then returned to work on the shoes. More buttons. Even smaller than those on her jacket. His ma had something she’d used on her Sunday shoes. As quietly as he could, he scaled the stairs two at a time, then burst into his darkened room. He lit a lamp on the chest of drawers, opened the top one, and pulled out a small walnut box. The last he’d seen the long, hook-ended piece was five years before when he gathered all his ma’s things and stashed the smaller items with her other keepsakes.
Lifting the hand-carved lid, he stopped short—even though he knew it would be there, gleaming like yellow silk in the lamplight. He slid his mother’s gold wedding band aside and poked through the doodads and bobbles until he found what he sought.
At the top of the stairs, he paused to see if his guest had roused. The hiss of water popping off the stove sent him down, past her unconscious form, and into the kitchen, where he grabbed the kettle handle without benefit of a towel. The clatter of the dropped kettle and his bad judgment would wake the dead, not to mention Mae Ann.
What was he in such an all-fired hurry for? He stopped, realizing he still wore his hat, and hung it on a chair. Then he plowed his fingers across his scalp and filled his lungs. Tea. Hot w
ater. A cup. Surely he could handle those three little things.
And food. He spun around, taking in his kitchen and the remains of his last meal. Dirty dishes. Coffee. Day-old biscuits on the table. Cold beans and bacon in a pan.
He set the pan over the fire, gave it a stir, and put two biscuits on a tin plate with a mug of tea. Leafy, but he didn’t know the whereabouts of the silver ball his ma had used. He picked up the plate, took another deep breath, and walked into the main room. Mae Ann Remington—Parker—sat straight up in his leather chair, staring at the cold hearth.
She was beautiful.
She’d removed her hat, and a splotch of color marked her cheeks. As he approached, she turned her head, dark eyes watching him like a deer in a thicket sensing death. He swallowed and forced what he hoped was a smile that would hide his relief and ease the tension in her shoulders.
She took the cup he offered and held it close as she breathed in the steam. Her eyes never left his face. Was she checking for liquor or laudanum?
He set the plate on a small table beside her. “You gave me a scare. How do you feel?”
She blinked twice, as she had when he asked if she could horseback. Possibly her tell when avoiding a direct answer. She’d lose at poker.
“What happened?” She sipped the tea and grimaced.
“I have sugar.” He fled the room, angry at himself for being so spineless when she had more starch than most men he’d met. At the back of a cupboard he found the silver bowl his ma had always left on the table. Hunger nipped at his innards, and he grabbed himself a biscuit, thought again, and put it on a plate. Poured himself some tea and found a spoon for the sugar.
She hadn’t moved a hair.
He set the sugar on the side table and his plate on the hearth, then laid a fire from wood stacked by the fireplace. Shielding the match, he nursed the feeble glow until yellow flames licked up into the split logs. He pulled the other chair near the hearth to face her and balanced the plate on his leg. Heat from his mug warmed the tin and seeped through his trousers.
Mae Ann relaxed, leaning toward the fire as she’d leaned into him on the ride home.
His chest burned with the memory of her pulled close against him, and he gulped the bitter tea. Another task for tomorrow while he was in town—more stores. More tea.
“What happened?” she asked the fire.
“You fainted at the door.”
Her cheeks flushed deeper and she pushed at a wave of hair tumbling toward her brow. If she were truly his wife, he’d set if free of its pins and let it fall across her shoulders.
Another gulp of the leafy brew.
“My apologies, Mr. Parker. I—”
“No.”
A startled look.
“Call me Cade.”
She stared at him.
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
She glanced at the hearth. “Very well. Cade. I suppose it is only right, since we are … married.”
“Yes. About that—”
The door burst open and the old man blustered in to hang his hat on the tree by the door, then stopped dead in his tracks. His mustache twitched. A sure sign he was conjuring up a smart remark.
Cade beat him to the draw and stood. “Mae Ann, I’d like you to meet the ranch foreman, Deacon Jewett.” He turned to his lifelong friend. “Deacon, Mae Ann Parker. My wife.”
Not much in Deacon’s many days had given him pause, but Cade’s introduction obviously did. He choked, no doubt on a chaw. It’d serve the old codger right if he swallowed it. He knew Cade didn’t allow spitting in the house.
Deacon gawked first at Cade and then at Mae Ann. She tugged at her unbuttoned jacket and tucked her feet beneath the chair.
Cade joined Deacon at the door and lowered his voice. “If you’ve got nothing peaceable to say, it can wait until morning.”
Deacon worked his tongue around the inside of his cheek, adjusting his chaw. He drew himself up and aimed around Cade’s shoulder. “Nice to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
To her credit, Mae Ann stood, but she remained by the fire. “And yours.” She dipped her head in a short nod.
Cade stepped closer. “I meant to thank you for lighting the lamps tonight.” He shoved both hands in his pockets and spread his stance, refusing to invite Deacon to stay. No telling how long he’d make himself at home, and Mae Ann was worn. So was Cade. The tension rubbed him rawer than any weeklong branding he could bring to mind.
“No need.” Deacon’s blue squint darted from Cade and Mae Ann to the crackling fire.
Cade knew that look. He also knew Deacon had his own pile of wood and a stove in his cabin.
“Well, seein’ as how you was late gettin’ back, I wanted to make sure you didn’t have trouble in town.” His ancient eyes snapped, and Cade could hear the wheels turning. “Someone’s cuttin’ wire on the Rei—”
Cade gripped his foreman by the arm and turned him toward the door. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” He handed Deacon his hat. “Thanks for checking.”
The old cowboy was suffering something terrible, holding back both his chaw and a joke. He plopped his hat on, gave Cade a wink, and nearly shouted, “Sleep tight. And don’t let them bed—”
Cade shoved the door closed and waited long enough for Mae Ann to finish blushing—certain that she was.
“I understood you to say that you were alone.”
So it began. “Not entirely.”
He added two logs to the fire before taking his seat. “Deacon has a cabin next to the barn. He’s been on this spread since before I was born. As to your question about a family, I clearly replied, ‘None here.’”
Her chin came up, and he smiled to himself. Her challenge somehow set him at ease.
“So am I to assume you have a wife, children, or siblings elsewhere?”
She could drop and gut an elk with that look, and he shoved the biscuit in his mouth to keep from laughing. He knew little to nothing about womenfolk other than he did not want a mad one in his house so near to the fire poker.
She waited while he chewed and chased the dry bread with the rest of his unforgiveable brew.
He leaned forward, arms on his knees. “It means that you can take me at my word.” To drive his intent home, he met her eyes straight-on. “You are the first and only woman I have ever married. I have no children or brothers. A sister lives in Denver. Our parents lie at the top of the hill beneath a ponderosa pine, the result of a buggy accident.” That I could have prevented.
His aim found its mark. Mute for the moment, she gripped her hands tightly on her lap. The rise and fall of her blouse went beyond what he’d seen in her unconscious state.
A log snapped through, and she jumped. “I see.”
“Good.”
Sparks fled up the chimney.
“Well then.” She flicked a glance his way, then back to the fire.
He drew a breath through his nose. Things had been going fine until Deacon blew in. Cade had been about to tell her their sleeping arrangements and mention Henry’s burial tomorrow and ask where she thought it should be.
Should he apologize? He shifted in his chair. For what?
Confounded woman.
She turned toward him with a frown and sniffed. “Are you cooking something?”
He shot from his chair to the kitchen, where the beans had charred in the pot. This time he grabbed a towel and pulled the pan to the side. If she was hungry, he’d give her canned peaches. If he had any.
She appeared at the doorway. “Let me help you. I did say I would cook and clean and such.”
Her face pleaded more than her voice, and he sensed her need to clear the air between them and not just from the smell of scorched food.
“Well, I imagine you’re better at all this than I am anyway.” He stepped back as she approached the stove.
She picked up the towel he’d used, doubled it around the handle, and took the pot to the sink, where she pumped in water until the hissing stopped, set the pot a
side, and laid the towel on the counter.
Then she faced him. “Thank you for the biscuits and tea.” Looking down at her jacket, she fingered the cloth-covered buttons. “And for … making me more comfortable.”
“When you fainted, I was afraid you couldn’t breathe.” What kind of fool thing was that to say? He didn’t need to make excuses. But he did need to make plans. “I was about to discuss something with you before Deacon arrived.”
“Yes?” She laced her fingers together.
Indicating the fire and chairs, he let her precede him while he stared at the floorboards rather than the gentle sway of her skirt.
He scrubbed one hand hard down his face to clear his vision and thoughts. This arrangement might be more difficult than he had anticipated. He must not think of her as his wife.
They each took a chair and studied the hearth for a full minute before he found words to say what needed saying. “Where do you want to bury Henry?”
CHAPTER 4
Mae Ann heard the air leave her body, and for a moment she forgot how to get it back. She gripped the chair arm, and the smooth leather gave beneath her fingers. Breathe. How did one breathe?
She closed her eyes and a band tightened around her brow. Cade touched her arm and she gasped. Ah yes. Inhale.
“Are you all right?” Concern tinted the question. His voice changed like the play of light across a lake. Dark and cold one moment, warm and caring the next.
“I am not usually given to such displays.” Frowning into the fire, she ordered her brain to function, reminding herself that a kindhearted man sat before her with worry darkening his features. “You were saying?”
Cade Parker let a groan escape, stretched his long legs out, and combed both hands through his thick hair. Fatigue pulled at his eyes. How well she knew the feeling.
“I told the barber—er, undertaker—to bury Henry in the town cemetery. Parson Bittman said that would happen tomorrow since he had no kin.” He slid her a scant glance. “Except you, that is.”
But she was not. “I hardly qualify as kin.” She was only almost his bride, now married to another man.
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