An Improper Proposal

by Spencer, Davalynn

  Nor could he figure why Reiker let the place get so run down. Cade had always thought the man a decent sort. A greenhorn, but decent. Didn’t know a cow from a cabbage, so he didn’t realize his place was prime for grazing cattle. But it looked as though he’d put every dollar into the land payment rather than fix what needed repair. How could he bring a bride home to this tattered outfit?

  At the bite of Deacon’s blade through dirt, Cade returned to grave-digging, but kept Mae Ann in view, marking her slow, deliberate wandering. She disappeared into the house and must have shooed more chickens out, for they flapped and squawked through the door as if a fox were on ’em. The cow’s urgent pleas never let up, and while Cade considered telling Deacon to go milk her on the ground just to shut her up, Mae Ann charged out of the house with a bucket.

  He snorted. She’d likely never milked a cow. Could be interesting, though he sure enough didn’t want her to get kicked. He stuck his shovel in the piled-up dirt and wiped his sleeve across his forehead. He or Deacon could milk the beast and set Mae Ann to picking eggs.

  On second thought, a sudden recall of her earlier dolt comment changed his mind and he resumed his digging.

  The cow stopped hollerin’, and a smile crept across his face.

  An hour later, he and Deacon lowered Henry’s coffin with a rope and filled in the grave.

  He cleaned up as best he could with his neckerchief, and found Mae Ann with a grain can trying to herd the chickens into a stall. He snorted a laugh, and she whirled with frustration furrowing her pretty brow.

  A fist shoved against her hip. “You have a better idea?”

  Yeah, he did. She was awful pretty all fired up like that, but he had no right thinking such a thing when he’d just buried her intended. He took his hat off and slapped it against his leg. It was time to say words over Henry. “We’re finished.”

  “Oh.” She paled a bit and set down the can to smooth her skirt, looking everywhere but at him. “Thank you.”

  “We picked a high spot with a good view of the place.” Somehow that mattered.

  She followed him to the small rise behind the barn where Deacon stood mopping his face and neck. He shoved his hat on and squared himself as Mae Ann stopped next to the dark mound of fresh dirt and folded her hands. A breeze danced around her skirt and played with her hair that had worked loose.

  Cade removed his hat.

  Deacon held his against his chest. “The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He beds me down in green pastures with sweet water.”

  Cade cut a look at Mae Ann, but she showed no reaction to Deacon’s loose interpretation of Scripture.

  “He leads me on a good trail and stays with me in the tight places.”

  She raised her eyes to Deacon, taking in his cattleman’s words that weren’t exactly what the parson would say but sure enough painted a picture of these high mountain parks.

  “And the Lord’s spread will be my home forever.” Deacon jerked a nod to punctuate the end of his piece and shoved his hat on. “Amen.”

  Mae Ann bowed her head. A sudden gust kicked over the rise and snagged her skirt like a flag. Cade eyed a thick gray band edging the horizon. They’d have just enough time to get home before the rain hit.

  He stepped in close and touched her shoulder. “You all right?”

  “Yes.” She gave him a solemn but tearless look. “I appreciate you doing this.”

  He wanted to tell her she had a home for as long as she wanted and everything would be all right. Instead, he set his hat. “We should be going. Storm’s a-comin’.”

  On their way to the wagon, Mae Ann retrieved the grain can from the barn and gave it to Deacon. “Can you catch the chickens for me? There’s a coop in the barn that we can put in the wagon.”

  She wasn’t asking, she was telling him, and he shot Cade a panicked look.

  “We have chickens at the ranch.” Cade saw the concern on her face before she voiced it.

  “I know. But these will starve or be eaten by wolves.”

  Deacon said not a word, and Cade would pad this month’s pay for the way the old man took the grain can and marched into the barn.

  The resulting chase was a worthy theatrical performance, though unsuccessful. Deacon promised to return at the full moon and sneak up on the hens while they were roosting.

  Disappointed but accepting of the situation, Mae Ann led the cow from its stall and gave Cade the rope. He tied it to the back of the wagon and then handed her up and climbed in beside her.

  “We don’t have wolves.” He flicked the reins. “Just coyotes and lions.”

  She held him with widened coffee-colored eyes and breathed out the word. “Lions?”

  “Cougars. Mountain lions.” Her tension bled into Cade, and if the storm wasn’t coming, he’d round up those hens himself. “The chickens’ll get up on something. Don’t worry.” He didn’t tell her a cat could get up on something too. She’d had enough death in the last day.

  As they drove away, she turned to watch the ramshackle buildings slide past, and by the curve of her shoulders he knew she didn’t hold out much hope. “How long until the full moon?”

  “Not long,” he said, dipping his hat against a chilly gust. The sky had grayed over while Deacon was trying to herd hens.

  Mae Ann shivered and hugged her thin shawl closer, and Cade pulled her to him as he had the night before. Brittle beneath his arm at first, she soon enough relaxed. The woman had a lot to learn about life in this high country, like not leaving the house without a proper coat or cape regardless of how hot the sun was.

  But Cade had as much to learn about her. Holding her close and feeling her go soft against him shamed him for trying to shut her out as he had that morning. But what in this windblown valley was he supposed to do? She nearly had him snubbed to the post and halter broke already.

  ~

  If Cade hadn’t sheltered her from the bluster, Mae Ann surely would have blown off the wagon. The force of the wind stung her eyes and stole her breath, and tiny hail pellets hit like buckshot as she lit from the wagon. Cade trotted the cow to the barn, and Mae Ann dashed inside the house. For a moment she doubted the windows would hold as the skies opened above them, shooting ice against the glass and piling it upon the sills.

  Wasn’t it May?

  Chilled and hungry, she went to the kitchen and stoked the stove. Three crates sat on the table, the blue reticule gleaming atop the Arbuckle’s packages like a satin jewel. Again she marveled at Cade’s changing nature, as swift and unpredictable as Colorado’s weather.

  She laid the bag aside and stocked the open shelves in the kitchen, taking account of everything Cade already had, which was precious little. But she would make do, starting with a cake. If they had eggs.

  Mae Ann didn’t know whether to laugh or cry over Henry’s chickens. Deacon had looked for all the world like a flapping stork chasing those frightened hens. They might never lay again. But with no one to feed them or pen them at night, she feared they would not survive until the full moon.

  At least she’d remembered how to milk a cow and relieved the poor thing’s misery, though she’d poured out the milk.

  A small bare pantry off the kitchen offered ample room for her purchases. A can of molasses sat half-full on one shelf, as did a crock of jam, and a few potatoes huddled in a dark corner. The man had next to nothing, not counting a large sack of dried beans. Behind the door she found a slab of salt pork and a half bag of Arbuckle’s. She lined up the new packages and took the opened one to the stove.

  Fried potatoes, onions, and bacon didn’t seem like much for dinner, but the aroma would be a comfort, so she cut chunks of pork into a skillet and set it over the fire. She added an extra spoonful of grease from a can on the stove, and sliced in onions and potatoes to cook while she finished unpacking the stores.

  Opening the Arbuckle’s, Mae Ann breathed in the rich fragrance that combined with dinner to fill the kitchen with a homey smell. No tea for her, thank you, thou
gh she’d not fault Cade’s thoughtfulness the night before. Tea didn’t have what it took to keep her going at the boardinghouse, and she’d come to prefer coffee’s heavier flavor. She set out what she needed to make biscuits, picked up the reticule, and went upstairs for the aprons in her trunk.

  Stunned by the view from her window, she surveyed the yard below, blanketed in solid white. Did Cade have a garden? If so, he likely did not have one anymore. She had so much to learn about him and his ways, how the ranch was run, the expectations he held for her. Some she could easily assume as those she mentioned at the undertaker’s: cooking, baking, cleaning. But what did he like? What were his favorite desserts and meals? Did he have a preference in the way his shirts were laundered?

  She laid a hand against the cold window glass and then against her cheek to squelch the heat rising there. She would be doing his wash.

  Kneeling before her trunk, she leaned the lid against the wall and burrowed to the bottom for her kitchen linens. From her pocket she drew Henry’s will and the coins left over from her purchases. She slid the envelope along one end of the trunk and dropped the coins into her new reticule and closed the lid.

  As she’d planned, an enticing aroma filled the kitchen when she returned downstairs. She left her linens on the counter and tied on her apron, pulling the strings into an even bow at her back. A quick search located a baking pan, and in no time she slid it full of biscuits into a hot oven. The coffee was ready, the potatoes and bacon waited at the back of the stove, and she jumped when the front door blew open. She smoothed her apron and took three mugs from the cupboard to the table while feet stomped and hats and trousers collided in what she assumed to be a noisy dusting of snow and ice.

  “Smell’s mighty good in here, don’t it?” Deacon’s crusty voice tugged a smile from Mae Ann’s heart.

  “That it does.”

  “You done right by that little gal. Grub with a woman’s touch’ll do my old bones some good for a change.”

  Cade’s voice answered closer, and the crisp snap of wood indicated he was laying a fire. “You never complained before.”

  “Never had a choice before.”

  The room fell silent, and Mae Ann stepped near the opening to listen. If they padded around in their stocking feet, she’d never track their movements. Inching closer, she leaned forward—and into Cade.

  He caught her around one arm, a brow arched and his mouth cocked to match it. “Steady there, girl.”

  Girl? She squelched a sharp retort and waited until he released her, then brushed invisible crumbs from her apron. Humiliation was best countered with confidence, so she met his laughing tone with her most composed and completely-in-control expression. “I was just about to announce that dinner is nearly ready.”

  His smile bloomed full and he reached past her to the safe on the wall. “Need more matches. It’s a mite chilly in the house, wouldn’t you say?”

  No, she would not say. She couldn’t make any more words come out than she already had. They’d all tucked tail and run the way she wanted to, but she couldn’t do that either.

  He dropped a handful of matches into an old soda tin he must have had on the mantel, and his dark eyes danced with merriment. “About how long?”

  She turned away, hoping he’d do the same, but she couldn’t tell. “As soon as I set the table.” Picking up an embroidered tablecloth from her stack of linens, she snapped it out with a sharp crack and laid three place settings of blue transferware she’d found in a cupboard. Most of the plates were chipped, as were many of the cups. The lovely dishes had suffered greatly at the hands of two men over the past—what had Willa said? Five years?

  She sensed his absence and pressed the corner of her apron against her brow, not at all chilly with the warm stove and her blunder. This whole bride business was proving to be more awkward than she had imagined. For she had never imagined a strapping and handsome man like Cade Parker would be her husband.

  CHAPTER 8

  Cade turned his back to the fire and stretched his arms across his chest one at a time, pulling the cold-induced kinks out of his muscles. So much for the sign that Sheriff Wilson’s man was following.

  He looked down at his socks and wiggled his toes. For some inexplicable reason, he’d pulled his boots off on the jack by the door rather than traipse mud across the floor. His father used to do that for his ma, though he said it went against his grain to be without his feet covered and he’d gone to wearing moccasins.

  “Just in the weather,” his mother had said with a soft touch of her fingers to her husband’s cheek. Cade clamped off the memory. Mae Ann wasn’t Madeline Parker, and Cade wasn’t the colonel.

  Deacon dropped himself into one of the leather chairs near the hearth, his holey socks not a fetching sight.

  “I know you’ve got a needle in your war bag,” Cade groused. “You earn enough to either darn those socks or buy new ones.”

  “They’re fine by me.”

  Cade indicated the kitchen. Deacon caught his meaning and bent to turn his socks over, bottom-side-up, as if that would make a difference.

  Kitchen cupboards opened and closed. Pots scraped across the stovetop. Dishes clinked, and the aroma of a hearty meal dredged up images that Cade had shoved down for a long time. Restless, he bolted up the stairs two at a time and slid to a stop at Mae Ann’s door. Pushing it open with a finger, as if it wasn’t his own room, he slipped in and to the wardrobe.

  Her suit and another dress hung inside. Several unmentionable items were folded neatly on the narrow shelves. A thin blue ribbon looped through the handwork on something white and soft-looking, and he quickly stooped and reached into the bottom shelf where he’d stashed his father’s “inside shoes.”

  The smooth sheepskin that greeted his fingertips poked a sore spot in his chest. His parents hadn’t been old when their buggy overturned in that blizzard. They’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like him.

  He trotted downstairs and caught the envious look in Deacon’s pale blue eyes. There was something to be said for keeping the peace with a woman and keeping your feet warm at the same time. He didn’t know if Mae Ann cared about dirt on the floor, but if she was anything like his mother, he figured she did. He wiggled his toes again. The old sheepskin didn’t feel half bad.

  She appeared briefly in the doorway. “Dinner’s ready.”

  Deacon gave Cade a once-over and huffed. “You’re goin’ soft and she ain’t even been here two days.”

  “Get your own moccasins,” he growled.

  A big skillet of potatoes, bacon, and fried onions sat in the middle of the table right next to a pan of fluffy biscuits and mercantile butter. Hot coffee filled three cups, and a fork, knife, and spoon sided each plate. The sight gave his stomach notice that good food was on its way.

  Mae Ann stood behind her chair. “I assume you men have washed?”

  At her unrelenting stare, Deacon exchanged a look with Cade, and Cade nodded him on.

  Cade didn’t take kindly to being told how to come to his own table. She wasn’t his mother. Though he did wonder how long it’d been since Deacon had bathed.

  Mae Ann folded her arms across her middle and pinned him with a schoolmarm’s glare. Was she staking out her territory? He picked up his coffee, took a sip, and held her challenge over the edge of the cup. Weak, but tolerable. The coffee—not her. She was anything but weak.

  She studied him in return, as if reading his judgment of her and her coffee and finding it—what? He couldn’t decipher what lay behind those dark, clear eyes.

  Deacon dried his hands on the towel she had waiting by the sink and then pulled out his chair. Cade washed and returned to the table just as the old codger gulped his coffee and grimaced.

  Mae Ann passed him the silver sugar bowl. “I have canned milk if you’d like.”

  “No, ma’am, thank you. I prefer my coffee horned and barefoot.”

  Her surprise was worth every dollar Cade had spent at the mercantil
e, but he swallowed his laughter and reminded himself that she was a city gal.

  “That’s what you get for not waitin’ for grace,” Cade told his foreman.

  “Is something wrong with the coffee?” Her gaze shifted from Deacon to Cade and back again.

  “A bit on the thin side is all, ma’am.” Deacon took another gulp to show his gratitude.

  “Thin? As in weak?” The way she said it made it sound like a forbidden word not to be uttered in polite company.

  Cade bowed his head. “Thank you, Lord, for the moisture in the storm. And this food and the hands that prepared it. Amen.” He glanced her way as he reached for the serving spoon, as surprised by the pink staining her cheeks as he was the fancy tablecloth and his ma’s dishes instead of tinware. He hadn’t calculated on such changes when he was at the undertaker’s calculating the brave front Mae Ann put on.

  He helped himself to a biscuit and butter. At least she wouldn’t be tellin’ him how to manage his herd.

  “I’d like to see the ranch after dinner.”

  Her request stopped the biscuit halfway to his mouth, and butter slid down his fingers.

  “I need to know where things are, like the root cellar. You do have a root cellar? And a smokehouse?”

  “Got a garden patch too, but it’s been weedin’ up every summer for quite a spell.” Deacon slabbed butter on a biscuit, shoved it in his mouth, and closed his eyes in delight.

  His manners didn’t ruffle Mae Ann’s feathers at all, and she continued with her dainty, lady-sized bites, taking her time to swallow between each one.

  “I bought seeds today,” she said. “Just in case.”

  Cade wiped the butter from his fingers rather than lick it off. “I’ll be happy to show you where things are. But it’ll be sloppy after the storm. Do you have boots?”

  She looked at him and blinked twice. He knew what that meant.

  “I think I can find an old pair that will work until the next trip to the mercantile.”