An Improper Proposal

by Spencer, Davalynn

  Anger shot her to her feet, and Cougar darted away with a yelp. “For your convenience, you mean. What I see is that I am more trouble than you bargained for.” She raised her chin. “I shall be ready first thing tomorrow morning.”

  She spun to walk away, but his hard hand caught her arm. “Let me finish—”

  She pulled free and spoke over her shoulder, avoiding his stormy eyes that had power to weaken her knees. “You’ve more than finished.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Once the ranch house door closed behind her, Mae Ann fell against it, a dart piercing her soul with each ragged breath. The cold hearth and chairs mocked her, proving she was no better off than when she had arrived, empty of all but hope. Now bereft of even that small grace, she must leave. Had God not heard her prayers, or had she misread circumstances as His leading?

  And give you peace …

  A small huff escaped her lips and she pressed a hand against her aching chest where the once-comforting words now sliced her to the quick. She swiped at her stinging eyes and marched to the kitchen. At least she had a meal to prepare. Idleness was bread she could not afford to ingest.

  Nor would she be ingesting cornbread, for the men had eaten every last crumb for dinner. She was weary of beans, but with Cade insisting they leave so early today, she’d had no time to fix anything else. Even a vinegar pie would take too long now. They’d have to be content with syrup on fresh biscuits if they wanted something sweet.

  In no time, she had the meal ready, but when the front door opened, she jumped like a frightened child. Self-reproach tightened her grip on the coffeepot, and she filled the three cups that waited on the table.

  Deacon clomped into the kitchen and stopped. “Thought Cade would already be here.”

  Mae Ann shrugged, feeling all of twelve. “I wouldn’t know.”

  The old cowboy looked at her sideways as he passed to the sink, and she was certain he knew what had happened. How could he not, with her stomping away from Cade like an ingrate? Deacon, she was certain, missed very little, though he might not know the extent of the marriage arrangement.

  At the table she sat with her hands in her lap while he sipped his coffee in obvious pleasure. She’d done one thing right, one of many, she’d thought, after Cade’s praise of her riding and resurrection of the garden. She linked her fingers and squeezed until the joints ached more than her heart.

  “Should we wait for his sorry hide or go ahead?” Deacon’s eyes twinkled in his leathery face, forcing a grudging murmur from her.

  “Go ahead. We don’t know how long he’ll be, and I can heat a plate for him when he comes.” Or let him eat his supper cold and alone, which would serve him right.

  Deacon picked up his fork. “Thank you, Lord.” Apparently satisfied that his brief thanks sufficed as a blessing, he dug in.

  Mae Ann supposed it did, considering the mood.

  Darkness inched from the corners of the kitchen, and she rose to light the lamps, uneasiness pushing words onto her lips. “Maybe you should check on him. He’s never been this late.” At least not since she’d been at the ranch. Perhaps he had fallen into his former ways before her arrival. Or he was avoiding her.

  Deacon grumped and shoved the remainder of his biscuit in his mouth, then thud-clinked his way out the front door. The familiar sound that she’d first noticed in her groom threatened to spur her wound anew.

  She pulled the beans to the front of the stove, wiped the counter, and washed her cup and clean plate for something to do. Food held no appeal, whether Cade showed up for dinner or not. Her mind was a mess of knots and loose ends with no hope of sorting it all out.

  The door crashed open and heavy steps pounded into the front room. She hurried around the wall to find Deacon ashen-faced above his bushy mustache, his arms holding a limp, unconscious man. Cade.

  ~

  Mae Ann ran to him and pressed her hands against his temple, his chest, searching for the strong beat of his heart. His arm hung at an odd angle, tightening her voice to an unfamiliar pitch. “What happened?”

  “I found him in the barn, out cold. My guess is he fell off the rungs that climb the back wall to the hayloft. A couple of them were busted through.”

  “He may have broken his arm. Let’s get him upstairs.”

  Pausing at her bedroom door, she pushed it farther open and stood aside as Deacon laid Cade on the wide feather tick. She lit the lamp on the dresser and another that she moved to the small bedside table.

  “He’s got a gash on the back of head.” Deacon’s voice was thicker than she’d ever heard it. “And you may be right about that arm. But I don’t know if anything’s busted up inside.” He stepped back. “I’ll go for Doc Weaver.”

  Alarm lit the old cowboy’s eyes, and Mae Ann resisted the temptation to allow it into her own soul. “Do you think he’ll come now, at night? It’s so late.”

  Deacon’s voice dropped to a low rasp as he turned through the door. “He’ll come.”

  She followed him down the stairs to fetch rags and warm water from the kitchen. Returning to the bedroom, she dragged the washstand from the corner to the footboard and filled the bowl with warm water. Then she pulled off Cade’s boots, set them by the armoire, and concentrated on cleaning him up as best she could.

  No frown or sign of pain marred his handsome face as she held the warm cloth against his brow. Gently, she cleaned the scrapes and cuts, but her touch brought no reaction. He lay as if dead, and fear knifed beneath her ribs. She dunked the cloth again and refolded it into a clean square to wipe bits of hay and dirt from his jawline. A strong jaw. Something she’d noticed in the bank that day, along with his dark, penetrating eyes that she longed to look into again.

  Pressing the cloth against his cheek, she recalled the kiss she had placed there earlier. Those brief moments of excitement and pleasure seemed now like the clouded past, a distant time shared between two different people. She smoothed his hair and gently slipped her hand beneath his head, where a sticky warmth met her tentative touch. Dark red stained her fingers as she drew them into the light. She dipped a fresh cloth and squeezed it out, then carefully slipped it like a hammock between his head and the feather pillow.

  His broad chest rose and fell with nearly imperceptible change, but he breathed, and she leaned close to feel the assurance on her cheek. She washed his hands, stroking his calloused palms and knuckles. His sleeve was ripped, and she checked the rest of his clothing for seeping bloodstains but found none.

  No fever touched his brow, but oh, he was deathly still. How angry she’d been with him a mere hour before. How he had broken her heart! She lowered herself to sit on the edge of the bed, and it tipped him so that she quickly stood. Retrieving the chair from his room across the hall, she pushed it against the tick and lifted his left hand to her lap.

  His strong fingers lay uncharacteristically idle but cool against her own, hardened by the demands of ranch life yet with such capacity for gentleness that it broke her heart anew.

  “Lord.” Her whisper seemed a shout in the quiet. “Please touch Cade and bring him back to us. To me.”

  Grief weighed upon her, and she rose against it to trim the lamps and check outside. The barnyard remained darkened and empty of life. Even the dogs had taken refuge in some hidden spot. Deacon would be gone for hours, but still she squinted into the shadows, hoping to see him ride into the yard ahead of the doctor. Resigned to waiting, she settled in the chair and again leaned close over Cade, allowing his slight puff to caress her cheek. She gathered his hand once more and closed her eyes.

  “I’ll go,” she whispered over his still form. “If that’s really what he wants, Lord, I’ll leave in peace if You’ll just spare him.”

  ~

  “Doc Weaver’s here.” Deacon’s hushed voice drew her from fitful dreams and a slumped position, the muscles in her back punishing as she dragged the chair away.

  The doctor set down his bag. “Mrs. Parker.”

  Not really. She
tucked her ringless hand behind her. “Thank you for coming at such a late hour.”

  He removed his coat and pulled the cloth from beneath Cade’s head. It was soaked with blood. “I’ll need to stitch that up, but you did right to let him lie still.”

  Another lesson from the rooming house when a tenant had been beaten and robbed on his way from work. Mae Ann, still a child, and her mother cared for the man who lay unconscious for days. Please, not Cade.

  Clutching her apron, she moved to the footboard.

  “First we need to get his shirt and trousers off so I can check him thoroughly.”

  We? She swallowed.

  At her pleading look, Deacon backed away. “I’ll leave you to it.” The door clicked shut behind him.

  She stared at the solid, dark wood. He didn’t know.

  “Mrs. Parker?”

  She hiccupped.

  “Mrs. Parker, are you all right?” The doctor studied her face as if reading her from the inside out.

  “Yes,” she lied. “Quite.”

  He waited a moment—for her confession, she supposed—but she gathered herself and stepped to the opposite side of the bed. Cade was her husband, legally and in the sight of God. She could not afford to be prudish. Nor could she afford to let the whole town know they were not—well—If Doc Weaver figured it out, he might let the truth slip. Oh, Lord, send grace.

  She forced her thoughts to the battered man she’d helped her mother care for, but doing so did little to diminish her reaction at the sight of her husband’s masculine form. Without his shirt, his pale, muscled chest contrasted sharply with his face and hands, bronzed by years in the Colorado sun. His right shoulder, however, was near black.

  Focusing on the doctor’s methodical inspection, she pinned her eyes to his balding head, but they wandered to caress Cade’s corded arms, his broad shoulders where she had laid her head.

  “It’s dislocated,” the doctor said, pressing into the bruise and making Mae Ann cringe. “I’ll need your help to set it. Trade sides with me.”

  He motioned her toward the headboard. “Wrap your arms around him, high up under his arms, and throw your weight into pulling him toward you.”

  Urgency helped her disregard the intimacy of embracing Cade so, and she forced her right arm beneath his back and laid the other across his chest, locking her hands. “Ready.”

  “All right, pull.”

  As she tugged, the doctor wrenched Cade’s arm and the joint snapped into place with an audible pop. Mae Ann released her hold and studied her husband’s expressionless features. He’d felt nothing.

  Dr. Weaver continued with deft fingers, poking Cade’s flat stomach. Mae Ann’s clenched, anticipating pain, but Cade made no response, which worried her even more.

  “He appears to be in good condition, considering.” The doctor rolled up his sleeves. “If you’ll get me some hot water, we’ll turn him over and have a look at the gash on his head.”

  Moments later she returned with the kettle and stacked clean rags on the washstand. She emptied the basin’s bloody tepid water into the pitcher and replaced it with hot.

  “All right, Mrs. Parker, take your position across from me and catch him as I roll him toward you.” The doctor bunched the edge of the coverlet into his hands, scrunching it until he reached Cade’s arm. “Now.”

  He turned Cade as easily as she turned bread dough out of a bowl and rolled him facedown on the bed.

  “Push out a hollow beneath his nose and mouth so he doesn’t smother while I sew him up.”

  The doctor cut away Cade’s dark, matted hair, revealing a jagged gash that angled across the back of his skull. With a tailor’s skill he closed the wound, and as they turned Cade to his back, they pulled free the quilt and sheet and covered him. Relieved that the deed was done but also that she’d no longer be tempted by what was not hers, she let out a tight breath, drawing the doctor’s scrutiny once again.

  “It’s difficult to see our loved ones in pain. Speaking of which …” He dug through his bag and pulled out a small corked bottle of laudanum. “He’s not suffering at the moment, but I imagine when he comes to, he’ll appreciate a spoonful of this.”

  Dr. Weaver pressed the small bottle into her hand and held on to catch her eye. “While you’re taking care of him, don’t forget to take care of yourself.” He patted her hand. “Rest is the best medicine for both of you.”

  “How long before he wakes?”

  As methodically as he had stitched Cade’s gash, the doctor unrolled his sleeves, drew on his coat, and gathered his bag before answering. “Only the Lord knows the answer to that question. But with his wife’s prayers and attention to his needs, I’m sure he’ll soon be fine. I’ll return in three days to check on him.”

  His wife. She felt like an imposter.

  Dr. Weaver opened the door and looked over his shoulder. “If he rouses before then, don’t let him get up. We wouldn’t want him tumbling down the stairs, now, would we?” His chuckle cushioned the warning, but the seriousness of the situation was not lost upon her. Evidently, the good doctor knew Cade’s determined nature.

  “Thank you again for coming.” Forgotten manners pushed her forward. “We have an extra room if you’d care to stay until morning.” She knotted her apron in her hands. “And your fee. I—”

  Raising a palm in refusal, he looked beyond her and she followed his gaze to the window that was brightening by degree. “I’d say morning’s just about here, Mrs. Parker, but thank you just the same.” He gave her a slight smile, compassion warming his eyes. “Next time you’re in town, stop by my office and we’ll take care of the bill.”

  He left the door ajar, and silence settled in the room. Mae Ann returned to Cade’s side to check his breathing, as light as goose down against her skin, but reassuring just the same. Dare she take a moment’s rest before starting her day? She knelt on the braided rug beside the bed and lightly cupped his dear face with one hand. How drastically one incident had changed everything—every emotion, every need.

  The irony swirled through her. Death lurked at all times, even in unexpected places, but by God’s grace it had failed to steal Cade. Her conditional promise churned in her breast, and she would keep it once he recovered—if he still insisted on her departure. Until then, she’d not leave him unattended. Weariness escaped on a sigh, and she laid her head on the tick, pressing her arm against the warmth of him seeping through the coverlet. She moved closer, drawing comfort even as she sought to give it.

  It might be as close as she’d ever come to loving him.

  ~

  “Ma’am?”

  A strong hand squeezed her shoulder, and she sat up, keenly aware that she’d fallen asleep ill-positioned. Two booted feet appeared on the rug, and she looked up at Deacon’s worried face.

  “I come to spell you.” He helped her to her feet and kept a hand on her elbow until she stood steady.

  Pain shot through her legs and feet as the blood flowed freely again, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “The doctor said to make sure he doesn’t get up.” She rubbed her face and studied their patient. “He hasn’t stirred or even moaned. Nothing.”

  Deacon doffed his hat and folded his long self into the chair. “I’ll let you know if he does. But I’m sure there’s plenty o’ time for you to catch a few winks yourself.”

  How tempting his suggestion, but he was no doubt hungry. “Hot coffee seems a better idea.”

  His mustache twitched and he cast a look at Cade. “Jerked beef and a cold biscuit’ll do me fine. The chores are done, so I’ll just set here and keep this boy from leapin’ out o’ bed and down the stairs.”

  Against all propriety, Mae Ann leaned over and kissed the top of Deacon’s snowy head. “Thank you. You are a kind man.”

  He grumped and blustered as she left the room, and it did her good to hear the old cowboy short on words. She would miss him and his seasoned speech, so unlike Cade’s slightly more refined manner. But now was
not the time to go all maudlin. She had work to do.

  A bucket of milk sat on the counter—bless Deacon’s softhearted soul—and she strained it and poured it into clean jars. Then she set the coffee on, rolled out a pan of biscuits, and sliced salt pork into the cold skillet.

  She hurried outside to pick eggs but stopped short at the yellow ribbons lacing the eastern horizon, marveling at the beauty unseen by so many. No view of dawn’s waking had met her in the rooming house, and she’d felt blessed beyond belief to see it spread before her every morning at the ranch.

  Quail scrabbled outside the chicken pen, and sparrows and finches fussed in the slender trees—a symphony, were she to describe it to anyone.

  Cougar bounded up with his youthful glee, and Blue trotted along more sedately, as if demonstrating good manners for the youngster. “You boys—such good dogs you are.” She stooped between them and gave each a hearty hug, then entered the chicken pen. The setting hen pecked her way into the yard, imitated by four hovering hatchlings, and Mae Ann’s spirit lifted at the promise of a future generation.

  Bunching her apron, she filled it with warm eggs from the nesting boxes, sadly recalling Henry’s hens. She couldn’t very well ask Deacon for such a trivial favor when Cade’s recovery and all the regular chores would take their every waking moment. She’d ride to the farm herself and check on things once Cade was up and about.

  A bitter taste set her teeth on edge. The farm seemed more trouble than it was worth. If she sold it to MacGrath, then he wouldn’t be a threat and Cade wouldn’t send her away—at least not for that reason. Doubt wagged a worrisome finger. Maybe he just wanted out of their arrangement, and the farm was as good an excuse as any.

  Then why his fierce protectiveness, his kiss?

  CHAPTER 17

  Mae Ann turned the bacon strips and cracked three eggs into the hot grease, praying Cade would rouse at the smell of breakfast frying. She started a bone broth on the back of the stove, admitting that as much as she wanted to draw him to consciousness with the aroma of solid food, he would need nourishment when he woke, and broth was the better choice.