An Improper Proposal

by Spencer, Davalynn

  “Old beats new any day if you’re askin’ my opinion.”

  Cade cut Deacon a glare that said he wasn’t.

  “Won’t rub blisters on your feet.” Oblivious, the old man shoveled in a heaping bite of potatoes and leaned heavily on the table with his other arm.

  Mae Ann refilled her coffee cup and lifted the pot toward Cade with the silent question in her eyes.

  He picked up his cup. “Still have some.” Deacon was right. Belly-wash weak, but Cade wasn’t about to tell her that. Not at her first meal. She’d figure it out.

  She added a spoon of sugar to her cup and stirred without clinking the sides of the china. Evidently, she wasn’t one to make a racket about what she wanted, instead taking the gentler, more deadly approach. Like getting Deacon to wash before dinner.

  Cade needed to remember the power of her quiet assault.

  ~

  Mae Ann sipped her cooling coffee, keeping her elbow close to her side and her focus fixed on the daisy bouquets she had stitched so carefully into the white linen cloth. These men had gone far too long without a woman to sharpen their social skills.

  Cade scooted back from the table. “Thank you for the fine meal.”

  She squelched a huff. It was anything but fine, but perhaps he’d not had fine in quite a while. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” She also stood and gathered his plate to set atop hers.

  “Come to the barn when you’re finished and I’ll give you a tour of the outbuildings.”

  She met his eyes and tipped her head in the affirmative, relieved that she’d have opportunity for a bit of privacy to find the necessary and empty the chamber pot from her room.

  “Good grub, ma’am.” Deacon’s mustache flicked sideways and his pale eyes sparkled. The man might as well wear a mask. “If’n you need someone to grind them beans for you, I’d be happy to.”

  Surprised by his offer and still bruised by his judgment of her coffee, she suspected his gesture had more to do with the peppermint stick in the Arbuckle’s bag than with making amends. “Thank you, Deacon. If you have time right now, you can grind up a bag and pour it into the canister there on the counter. We’ll use it this evening.”

  She retrieved a new unopened bag of beans from the pantry for him, then filled the dishpan with hot water from the stove and shaved in soap. With nothing left from their midday meal, she toweled out the cast-iron skillet and returned it to the stovetop.

  The sharp aroma of freshly ground coffee beans made her mouth water even though she’d just eaten. The smell conjured memories of dark mornings in the boardinghouse kitchen preparing food before other residents had stirred. Come to think of it, she recalled several men who’d wrinkled their noses at her coffee. Sometimes she had to stretch the brew to ensure that everyone got at least one cup. Perhaps she had been stingy with the beans today.

  Horned and barefoot, indeed. She snickered, dunked a plate in the rinse water, and set it on toweling on the counter.

  From the corner of her eye she watched Deacon carefully pour the grounds into the canister as if pouring gold dust onto a scale. Then he clamped the lid on and rolled the empty bean packaging into a tight stick, similar to the peppermint that lay on the counter.

  Mae Ann dunked another plate. “Why don’t you take that peppermint for your troubles, Deacon? Come Christmastime I’ll save them for cookies, but until then, consider it my thanks for your help.”

  He picked it up like a delicate flower. “Mighty kind of you, ma’am. I do have a sweet tooth.” Rather than saunter toward the front door, he shuffled his feet and rolled the peppermint in his fingers.

  Mae Ann dried her hands and faced him. “Is there something you’d like to say, Deacon?”

  He shot her a quick look under his white brows, and the bush above his lip pulled sideways. “You truly fixin’ to stay through Christmas?”

  His question jarred her. Why wouldn’t she? She had married Cade Parker in front of God and witnesses. Was there something she should know that he hadn’t told her? She watched Deacon closely. If a horrid secret lay hidden, she preferred to know it now, not later. “Why would I not?”

  The old cowboy shifted his weight and pulled at his whiskers, then glanced at the stove.

  Her coffee. She tossed the towel aside, reached for the canister, and tempered her voice. It was best not to let hurt feelings peek around the edges. “Before you return to work, would you mind showing me how much coffee you use when making a fresh pot?”

  The man’s eyes lit and he bolted to the stove and snatched up the pot quicker than she thought he was capable of moving. But she stayed his hand when he tried to pour out the dregs.

  “Don’t throw those away. I’ll use them in the garden.”

  His jaw unhinged, and she squelched a giggle as she took a small bowl from the cupboard.

  “Pour them in here, please.”

  He complied and she rinsed the pot and set it on the counter to watch. With a gentle hand, he tipped the coffee canister over the pot and tapped it lightly until a steady dark stream filled the bottom of the pot. Heavens! He poured in nearly a cup of ground beans, but she held her tongue. At that rate of consumption, they’d go through ten pounds of coffee in a week.

  With a peek inside and a tight nod, he replaced the lid on the canister and scooted it against the wall. “That’ll do.” He handed her the pot. “Just fill her up with water and set it on a hot stove.”

  His mustache made that little move again.

  “Thank you Deacon,” she answered with a smile.

  “My pleasure, ma’am.” And with that, he took himself and the peppermint stick out the front door.

  She found the necessary close behind the house, and on her way to the barn met Cade halfway there. He set his fists at his waist and looked her up and down as he had at the church, then stopped at her feet and frowned. She hid them beneath her skirt. Her heavy shoes were in her trunk. She hadn’t taken the time to put them on.

  “I’m sure I’ve got some boots that will fit you. A snake’d bite right through those shoes.” Without lifting his head, he raised his eyes and held her with them.

  His was a most penetrating look, but she refused to weaken beneath it and instead put iron into her words. “I have heavier work shoes.”

  “Good.” He continued to regard her, searching for her chinks, no doubt. “You’ll need ’em if you plan on a garden.” Without asking her to accompany him or indicating a change in direction, he strode off past the house toward a fenced-in area. She followed sedately, determined not to scuttle after him.

  Hog wire cordoned off a large plot, and two strands of barbed wire stretched above it, anchored on tall posts as further discouragement for foraging animals.

  Cade tugged at the lopsided gate. “It’s been a few years since we’ve had a garden.”

  “I can see that.” She walked into what she imagined had once been a fruitful area. Pieplant peeked through a thin layer of pea-sized hail not yet melted in one corner, and a few onion tops had sprouted. “I can work up the soil and plant what I bought at the mercantile.”

  When he made no remark, she caught him watching her. He yanked his attention away and pinned it on the gate, wrinkling his brow either in anger or in serious consideration. She didn’t know him well enough to discern which.

  “I take it you have a hoe and rake?”

  “In the barn.” He headed away from the garden and then stopped and pointed out the small wooden structure tucked discreetly into a cluster of stunted trees. “The privy’s over there in the junipers.”

  At least he’d thought to tell her, though a little late. Judging by the way he avoided looking at her, it embarrassed him to do so. Apparently, he felt as uncomfortable about such things as she did.

  She hitched her skirt and stepped gingerly through the weeds toward the gate, praying that none of those snakes he’d mentioned were sunning themselves after the storm. Few white patches remained, and the downpour had loosened the soil. Tomorrow she’d start o
n the garden.

  He showed her the root cellar, the smokehouse, and the barn with a chicken coop attached at the rear and a small room where he kept tools. She rummaged through a few cans on a sturdy shelf and found seed corn. Choosing an empty pail for a temporary egg basket, she entered the coop and gathered a half dozen eggs.

  A plump hen eyed her from atop a corner nesting box, and Mae Ann let her be, hoping for hatchlings beneath the glaring matron. On her way out, she latched the gate, much sturdier than the one at the garden.

  Not far from the barn, a hand-hewn bench waited invitingly in the shade of a several slender trees like those from the grove beyond the house. A lovely place to rest and take in the orderly buildings Cade seemed so proud of. His countenance had relaxed somewhat, and confidence warmed his expression as he’d shown her each log structure, whether big or small. Everything was well built by someone who took pride in the property—completely unlike what they had discovered at Henry’s farm. Did such pride come from the elder Parker or Cade? Perhaps he took after his father, for in all that she’d seen that afternoon, there was not one loose board or unpatched hole. Only one place lay in neglect and triggered a frown. The garden.

  She left him to his chores and returned to the house. The garden had been abandoned because the men had not tended it, the women had, and they were gone—his sister and mother. The kitchen had fared somewhat better because men must eat. But the absence of a woman’s touch was evident in the spare larder and the limp, dusty curtains.

  The window framed a perfect view of the neglected patch. Had Cade’s heart been left in similar condition after losing his mother, sister, and the—well, the woman Willa had mentioned?

  An idea sparked in Mae Ann’s breast. A tiny flare that hinted at purpose. Could God use her to break through Cade’s wintered soil and stir life there again? Perhaps that was why she was here and not with—

  No. God had not taken Henry’s life. She had to believe that.

  As soft as the parson’s blessing had whispered earlier that morning, words she’d learned at her mother’s side rippled through her like a silken thread. All things work together for good to them that love God.

  She did love God, but did she love Him enough? He’d allowed her mother to die penniless and abandoned by Mae Ann’s father, yet still the dear woman had insisted God was working all things together.

  And He’d allowed Henry to be gunned down in cold blood—an act she would never understand. How did God plan to work that together?

  Her fingers ached, and she looked down to see them clenched and white at the knuckles. Taking up her apron, she tied it on, then wiped the eggs clean and gathered other ingredients for the cake.

  She sifted flour into a large crockery bowl, and its fine dust rose before her—a stifling threat if given enough. As she stirred in sugar and dark cocoa, the thought struck her that perhaps this was how God did it—threw everything in and then worked it all together until the outcome looked nothing like the original ingredients.

  Cocoa without sugar was bitter and dry. Flour without eggs was merely dust. But together, they all made something beautiful and good.

  The Parker ranch stood as a solid example of hard labor and diligence and a family’s strength. Mae Ann was determined to do her part in continuing that heritage. This was her home now too, and with God’s help, her marriage could become beautiful and good as well.

  Even if love were not involved.

  CHAPTER 9

  The next morning, Cade studied Deacon across the table, determined to name what was different about the man. Mae Ann came near with a skillet of gravy, distracting him as she ladled it over the biscuits on his plate. Heat from the pan radiated through his work shirt, and the smell of sausage stirred his insides. But her presence unsettled him, waking a long-repressed need he thought he’d rooted out the same way he culled feeble stock from his herd.

  He couldn’t afford weakness.

  Deacon lifted his coffee cup and took a swallow, his eyes closed. A slow nod and what looked to be a smile curved his silvered lip. That was it—the old man had trimmed his mustache and beard.

  Cade reached for his coffee, and before it touched his lips the aroma told him Mae Ann had put iron in the pot. The strong hot brew hit his stomach with a jolt, and Deacon met his look across the table with a sly wink.

  Other changes drew his attention, mainly in Mae Ann’s appearance. She wore what must be her work shoes, and he held in a scoff. At least they were better than those fancy button-up things she’d had on yesterday. And her hair wasn’t piled on top of her head, but pulled back with a ribbon that allowed it to ripple down her back. Reluctantly, he turned his focus to his plate and the mental list of chores he had planned for the day.

  “Mighty fine coffee, ma’am,” Deacon said. “Mighty fine.”

  “Thank you, Deacon.” Her cheeks pinked and she kept her eyes down.

  Cade took another biscuit, forked it into his remaining gravy, and shot Deacon a look. “I need you to check on the late heifers today. We’ve got at least three or four at the north end.”

  Deacon nodded and finished chewing. “If’n I recall correctly, we’ve lost a few first-year mamas and their calves from that section.”

  Cade’s blood turned gravy-hot. That fence line bordered part of MacGrath’s land and Henry Reiker’s farm. Mae Ann’s farm now. All that much more reason to keep a close watch. If it hadn’t been for the storm, Deacon could have checked yesterday. And if the grass could bear it, Cade would move everything from up there onto another section. But he had to graze it off evenly.

  He caught Deacon’s cold eye. “You recall correctly.”

  “I’ll take some tack with me and make a day of it. Check fence, unless you need me here.”

  “I can handle things for the time being.”

  Deacon cleared his throat and cut a look at Mae Ann, and his eyes grew soft. “Do you have any of that chocolate cake left from last night?”

  “I do.”

  At her reflexive answer, she blushed full out. He’d heard her say those words two days ago. The reminder fogged his brain, and that was another problem he couldn’t afford. He shoved back from the table. “Thanks.”

  Curt. Against his resolve to at least be kind. But she had too much of an effect on him and he had a ranch to run. His plate and cup clattered in the sink and he marched to the door.

  He strode across the yard, sidestepping Blue, who trotted up like the faithful companion he was. A man could count on a dog to be predictable. Dependable. A woman was anything but, and Alexandra had proven that by dallying with him until someone more to her liking came along.

  Since then, he’d cut a singular trail that didn’t involve any heart-tangling females, which was part of the reason he’d agreed to a simple business arrangement. No entanglement. Just a straightforward agreement. She’d do her part, he’d do his.

  But he hadn’t counted on Mae Ann unsettling his well-balanced, female-free life with her fine cooking and gentle ways. He’d figured they could live their separate lives. That things would go on the same way they always had.

  He’d figured wrong.

  At the barn he reached for the pitchfork and stomped into the first stall that needed cleaning. The work would do him good, as would the smell. He couldn’t clear his nostrils of her scent and the scents of her hands—chocolate cake, hot biscuits, sausage gravy. And her hair. She was filling him up in a way he hadn’t expected. Lord, what do I do now?

  The prayer gushed from his insides like a mountain spring set loose from winter’s ice. He’d prayed more in the last two days than in the last two years. Leaning against the pitchfork handle, he stared out the stall window. A woman had turned his head once before, and it cost him everything that was dear. He knuckled a dull pain in the middle of his chest, allowing that the Lord’s help was exactly what he needed. But he didn’t want to be the kind of man who ran to God only when he needed something. Like his pa.

  He must have stood a long wh
ile, for Mae Ann stepped into his view, heading his way with her determined stride. If he hurried, he could slip out the other end of the barn.

  Or he could see what she wanted.

  He stood his ground and waited.

  Blue eased up on her, sniffing her out, and she stooped to rumple his ears and coo something soft and senseless that made him plop down on his back, belly up. That was no way to treat a cow dog. Cade’s grip tightened on the fork handle. He forced his feet to stay put.

  After a few more laughing words that lilted back to him like a song, Mae Ann went to the small room where he kept his tools. She soon left with a shovel, hoe, and rake. No gloves. No hat. Not even a bonnet, confounded woman. She’d be burned and blistered before noon.

  He leaned the pitchfork against the wall and walked to the house. Betsy’s room had been closed off since she left. He didn’t like digging into old wounds, but a situation like this called for practicality. And if Cade was anything, he was practical.

  At the upstairs landing, her door stood like a barrier to his past. With a hand to the cold knob and a rock in his throat, he entered to find everything exactly as Betsy had left it the day of their parents’ funeral. He’d fought his head about going after her, but Deacon talked him out of it. Good thing. He didn’t know if he would have let that no-account she ran off with live long enough to apologize.

  He crossed to the small table in front of the window and ran his fingers through the thick dust. A drafty room with its north-facing wall, it took every storm head-on. He wiped his hand on his trousers and searched the chest of drawers for a split skirt and shirts. He fingered Betsy’s butter-soft, doeskin riding gloves. They’d be ruined in a day.

  In another drawer he found the heavy work gloves he wanted.

  He took Betsy’s hat from the bedpost and her boots from beneath the bed, then shut the door quietly behind him. He stopped at his room—Mae Ann’s room—but didn’t go in. She might not appreciate him trespassing on her private area. A growl worked up from his chest, and he headed downstairs and left everything but the hat on her chair by the hearth.