An Improper Proposal

by Spencer, Davalynn

  “He asked if you would prefer Henry be buried on his farm, since that farm could now be yours.”

  The idea fired through her veins, bittersweet. “Mine?”

  He pulled his feet in and leaned on his knees. “Do you know what business Henry had at the bank when—” He averted his gaze.

  Mae Ann refused to dance around the subject. She was not a fainting flower … well, not with a dry biscuit in her belly and her mind made up about facing things head-on. “When he was shot, you mean.”

  Cade flinched at the word. Quite a different man than the one who had come so bravely to her rescue. Her heart softened toward him, and she could imagine drawing him close and offering a wife’s comfort.

  She doused the tender image, unnerved that it should appear at all, considering the situation. “He did not discuss it with me. He merely insisted he file some papers with the clerk, make a payment on something, and withdraw a modest amount for household things I might need.” The admission planted a barb of sadness in her heart.

  “Do you know what happened to those papers?”

  “I never saw them.” She rubbed her forehead, attempting to draw a clear picture from her memory. “They were not in his hand. They may have been in his coat.”

  At that, Cade leaned back in the chair, expelling a long sigh. He was as weary as she, but he had not yet mentioned their sleeping situation. If she looked at her state of affairs from a practical standpoint, she was in a new home with a stranger for a husband. As far as her original plans and expectations went, nothing had really changed other than the husband.

  “Well, what do you want to do?”

  She hiccupped.

  “About the burial.”

  “Oh.” Heat flooded her neck, and she pushed at her hair. She must look disgraceful. “I, um—let me think a moment.”

  He watched her, the fingers of his left hand tapping his chair arm.

  Serious decisions must not be rushed. Where would Henry prefer to be laid to rest? His letters had never mentioned such a topic.

  The tapping quickened. Cade continued to regard her, willing her to speak, it seemed.

  “The farm.” There. She’d decided. “Henry wrote often of his farm, as if it meant more to him than anything.”

  Cade huffed. “That it did. More than once he’d been offered a nice sum for the place, but he wouldn’t sell.”

  “Why? Is it rich and productive land with fertile soil and good possibilities?” She’d often imagined a warm home with chintz curtains at the windows and hearty meals on a large kitchen table.

  “The only possibility on that place is the spring snowmelt that floods the west edge of the property. The ground is rocky and poor in most places, but Reiker was determined to farm it rather than run cattle in the drainage where there’s good grass.” He snorted. “Range wars have started over less.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “I tried to buy it from him myself.”

  She waited for the telltale ripple indicating humor but it never came. “I see.”

  He slapped both hands on the arms of his chair and pushed to his feet. “It’s settled, then. I’ll drive in tomorrow with the buckboard and bring him out to the farm. It’s a few miles farther north from here, a wedge-shaped piece that cuts between this ranch and the next.”

  She stood. “I will go with you.”

  This time, his mouth ticked and his tired eyes sparked. “I figured you would.”

  He went to the open staircase that cut up against the wall to the second floor, and stopped with his hand on the railing. “I’ll get your trunk, but I need to fix a few things in your room first.” Without waiting for her reply, he mounted the stairs.

  Her room? Did he already find her unappealing? Her hand strayed to her collar, but she jerked it down. In accordance with her earlier wish for her own bed, relief washed against one side of her heart. Shame against the other.

  Emotional fatigue clenched her stomach the same way she clenched the folds of her skirt. A new town. A holdup. A murder, a wedding. She sank to the chair. It was almost too much—running the gamut of emotions from expectation to horror to hope of refuge, all in a single afternoon. She leaned her head back, discovered her slipping hair combs, and attempted to reassemble the mass.

  Idleness was not part of the arrangement. Clinging to her word of making a pleasant home, she laid her jacket over the chair arm, gathered the tinware, and took it to the kitchen.

  A pump perched by the sink—a blessing indeed. Running water was one thing she’d specifically prayed for. She’d heard stories of families in the West who still hauled water. At least she’d have one less chore in that regard.

  The window above the sink hung black with night, limp curtains framing four panes of glass that offered a view of what, she could not imagine. Mountains? Cattle? Horses? Cade had used the term ranch, and several cowhides covered the floor of the main room in the absence of carpet or braided rugs. Mounted horns hung above the rock fireplace, particularly long and curving up at the tips. Clearly a man’s abode.

  But the kitchen bore a woman’s forethought. Perhaps his mother had instructed in the building of this room, for it was a comfortable size with ample space for working. A solid table and four chairs anchored the open area, with walls of cupboards on two sides, and a baker’s cabinet with bird’s-eye maple doors at one end. Even a pie safe.

  She opened a door at the opposite end to find a closet-like space with a copper bathing tub that wooed her to soak away her weariness. Another nearby door offered a small-paned window that looked out onto a wide covered porch.

  Choosing busyness as respite from a painfully remarkable day, she set a kettle to boil.

  The pastor’s blessing hummed through her mind like a familiar tune as she rolled up her sleeves, found a length of toweling for an apron, and shaved soap into a large wash pan. In spite of nothing going according to plan, the Lord had blessed and kept her. He had rescued her from a dreadful situation at the bank, placed her in a comfortable home with a man she’d judged to be kind, and given her a room of her own. Her mother would have rejoiced at such riches, and Mae Ann’s mind stumbled over a stone of grief.

  After washing the dishes and stacking them on the board, she scrubbed the table, the stove top, and the area around the sink, grateful for the activity.

  She pulled the towel from her waist, folded it neatly to lay on the counter, and slowed at the distinct sense of being watched. Turning, she was tempted to ask how long he had been standing there.

  His mouth quirked. “It’s ready. First door on the right at the top of the stairs.”

  With that, he left her again. The latch on the heavy front door spoke of his exit.

  Mae Anne returned to the large chair for her jacket and climbed the stairs. Three doors greeted her at the top. One to her right, opened. One at the end of the brief hallway, closed, and another across from her, also closed. Which was his?

  Tentatively, she pushed the open door farther and stepped into a room warmed by a large braided rug beneath a bed with an intricately carved headboard. A lit lamp welcomed her from atop a chest of drawers, reflecting its light in the mirror of a handsome dressing table next to a long window. A washstand occupied the far corner.

  Behind her stood an armoire, also beautifully carved, and she ran one hand along its lovely finish. The size and beauty of the furnishings took her breath away. Not at all what she had anticipated in a cowboy’s home.

  Heavy steps sounded on the stairway, and she pulled the door back. Cade met her eyes momentarily, then entered the room and set her trunk beneath the window as easily as if it were a basket. Henry had needed her assistance lifting it to his wagon.

  She studied the man before her, lean but broad-shouldered with hands she knew to be calloused yet caring. The lamplight drew shadows across his face and into her heart.

  “The bed clothes are clean.”

  She glanced at the ornate headboard once more, noted the smoothed coverlet and the quilt fol
ded at its foot. “It’s beautiful. Everything in here is so beautiful.”

  “Yes, it is.” His eyes swept her brow and cheeks and mouth, much the same way he had assessed her outside the church.

  Fever burned up through her from her belly to the tingling tips of her fingers. The sensation was not at all what she had expected on her wedding night. But neither was the man she had married.

  “I’ll be across the hall if you need me.”

  He stood like an oak, unmoving, waiting for what? For her to dismiss him from his own room? She was certain this was where he normally slept. Or for her to voice the frightful longing that so closely resembled the need he mentioned?

  Yes, she needed him. She needed him to accept her. Approve of her. But she would never reveal such things. She folded her hands. “Thank you for bringing my trunk.”

  Almost imperceptibly, his shoulders fell a notch, anticipation slipping from them. He nodded curtly, turned on his boot heel, and gently shut the door behind him.

  She crossed to her trunk and knelt to release the bands and open the lock, but she had no key. Realization landed like the proverbial straw on the camel’s back, crushing her beneath one more blow of an inconceivable day. The key was in her reticule, which was in the thieving hands of the man who had murdered her first husband. Her almost husband.

  Giving way to the mounting grief and tension, she leaned against the locked trunk, dropped her head to her arms, and wept.

  ~

  Cade stood in the hall, his pulse pounding in his ears. Under different circumstances, he would not be standing outside his own bedroom alone.

  He entered the room that would again be his, closed the door, sat on the edge of the narrow bed, and pulled off his boots with less ease than usual. One bootjack was downstairs and another across the hall where he usually did the deed. He’d fetch it tomorrow.

  As he hung his vest on a chair and pulled his shirttail free, a shy knock on the door shot his heart to his throat and stilled his hand before it reached for his belt.

  It sure enough wasn’t Deacon in the hall.

  He swallowed what tasted like fear and opened the door. Mae Ann stood as stiff as a board in her traveling clothes, the lamp in one hand, the other arm across her waist. Eyes moist, face damp in the kerosene glow.

  “I have no key.” Her voice was thick.

  He frowned. Key?

  “For my trunk. I cannot open it.”

  “Where’s your key?”

  “In my reticule.”

  “And where is that?”

  “The bank robber took it.”

  Could he not talk to her without bringing up her predicament every time? “I’ll get my gun.”

  A quick breath parted her lips, and her free hand shot to her throat.

  “I’m not going to shoot off the lock, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  He hurried downstairs to the gun rack and reached behind the Winchesters and shotgun for his holstered Colt. He popped the cylinder, emptied it of its shells, and returned to find Mae Ann waiting in the hall. She remained there after he entered the room and stopped at the trunk. Two ticks, and still she hadn’t joined him. Was she afraid of him?

  “I need the light.”

  “Oh. Yes.” She came to stand beside the trunk, the lamp held low.

  One good blow with the butt of his gun broke the lock, and he slipped it from the pad and handed it to her.

  Her fingers grazed his as she took it. “Thank you.”

  She was even more beautiful in the lamplight. Vulnerable, fragile-looking. The discovery knotted his gut and cinched his lungs. “All right then.”

  “Good night.”

  He closed her door behind him again and uttered a silent prayer for help.

  As quick as the words cut loose from his soul, a soft whimper slipped under the door. He leaned closer to listen. No rage, no despair. Just the quiet sobbing of a woman alone. A woman who, for some unexplained reason, he’d vowed to protect and cherish above all others.

  CHAPTER 5

  Feather tick swaddled Mae Ann, a downy cloud that eased her weariness. She burrowed deeper, relishing the soft warmth and clean scent of fresh linens.

  Turning toward the window, she panicked and threw back the quilt. Dawn pinked the horizon.

  He’d let her sleep. That would never do.

  No water at the basin. Her own fault. And her hair—what a sight! The dressing table mirror revealed what her new husband would surely define as unruly. Unattractive.

  Hastily she chose stockings, a petticoat, and the nicer of her two housedresses, a muted blue stripe, then brushed and coiled her hair into a knot at her neck, praying it would hold in its combs. With a whisk at her skirt and a deep breath, she peeked into the hall.

  The door facing her was ajar, the room’s furnishings in a softer light. Hers must front the east.

  Curiosity drew her closer to spy a side table and chair. A low, narrow bed hugged one wall, similar to her cot in the rooming house. She grimaced. He had relinquished his comfort for her.

  At voices from downstairs, she turned resolutely toward the landing. Another deep breath steeled her, and she drew on long-practiced composure to mask her misgivings.

  The sweet lure of pan-fried bacon met her halfway down the staircase, and her stomach surged to life, watering her mouth in turn. Such strong reactions this morning to such simple pleasures as a soft bed and good food.

  The great room welcomed her as she entered from above, noticing things she’d not seen the night before. A large desk occupied one corner, bookshelves spreading like wings along each wall—another surprise for a rancher’s home. Near the front door, a wide window offered a view of the barn and out buildings.

  Ashes lay cold in the hearth, a silent reminder of a most unusual evening.

  The aroma of a hearty breakfast drew her around the dividing wall and into the kitchen. Cade and Deacon sat at the table, bent over their tin plates of bacon and hotcakes. A coffeepot posed between them, and an extra plate and cup awaited.

  Deacon saw her first, and his oversized mustache tipped up on one side. “Mornin’, ma’am.”

  Cade rose and stared, his fork still in hand. Had she forgotten something? Her shoes? No. A wiggle of her toes confirmed their presence without looking down.

  He pulled out the chair to his left. “Mae Ann. Please join us.”

  He was clean-shaven, his face smoothed from its formerly shadowed appearance. He reclaimed his seat at the head, a fresh shirt pulling across his broad shoulders. The brown vest and silk scarf were the same.

  She tapped the coffeepot’s handle to find it not too hot, and lifted it toward Cade’s half-empty cup. “More coffee?”

  He dipped his head in a universal yes, his mouth full of meat.

  “Deacon?” She paused.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He met her halfway across the table with his cup and what she assumed was a smile. It was difficult to tell with his bush-covered mouth, but his blue eyes crinkled at their edges. She returned the pleasantry.

  A quick glance at the stove located a small pitcher and an iron griddle, and she rose to pour more cakes.

  “In the oven.”

  Cade’s tone was brusque, but how could she blame him? The morning half over and his wife just now making an appearance? With the folded towel from the evening before, she reached in for the tin plate stacked several cakes high and brought it to the table.

  Deacon gulped his coffee and stood as Mae Ann sat. “Best be gettin’ back to work. Thank you kindly.” He bobbed his white head and topped it with the old hat from the back of his chair. “See you this evenin’.”

  Cade raised his hand in a near salute and continued eating. Judging by his silence, he must be starved. Mae Ann was not far behind him.

  He pushed the syrup tin her way without looking up.

  She surveyed the counter and sideboard for butter but found none. Not surprising. She could picture neither Cade nor Deacon churning butter, and the qu
estion popped from her mouth without permission. “Have you a milk cow?”

  His attention sufficiently caught, Cade looked in her general direction but avoided her eyes. “No.”

  “So you have no butter, cream, or milk.”

  He frowned, and went back to his cakes. “I used the last of the milk for the hotcakes. Neighbors have a cow, and I buy what I need from them. Their boy should be riding over in a day or so.”

  Neighbor? Hope sprang, whether eternal she would decide later. But the possibility of another woman this side of Olin Springs encouraged her immensely.

  “And how far away are those neighbors?” She placed two cakes on her plate and topped them with syrup.

  “Three miles, give or take.” He mopped up the remains of his breakfast, gulped his coffee, and took his plate to the sink. “We need to leave soon. I’ll harness the horse and have the buckboard waiting out front.”

  Alone at the table, she flinched when the front door banged shut. Appetite fled, but she’d not spend another ride faint from hunger, so she forced herself to the food. A small bite. Chew. Swallow. Repeat. She might as well eat the towel for all the flavor she enjoyed. Her vision blurred and a tear plopped on the edge of her plate. Others joined it when she squeezed her eyes against the isolation.

  The new was already tarnished, and she’d not been in the house twenty-four hours. She swiped a hand across her face. So be it. Companionship was evidently not part of their arrangement.

  However, there was much to be said for a roof over one’s head and food in one’s stomach. She washed the breakfast dishes in cold water and hurried upstairs for her shawl and bonnet. It was bad enough she’d be going to town in her housedress, but Cade seemed upset about getting a late start. Or maybe he was simply upset about having a wife.

  Things often looked different by the light of day. Usually better. Perhaps for him, this time they looked worse.

  Cade stood by the buckboard, looking toward the mountains. At the door’s click, he turned to her with worried eyes that he quickly shuttered. He handed her up to a much broader bench and followed as she adjusted her skirts. A gray horse stood in the harness, heavier than Henry’s mare. With a slap and a jerk, they set off down an unfamiliar road.