Bittersweet Bride

by Denise Hunter

  And it wasn’t as if anyone else was beating down his door. Maybe Mara’s motives were pure. What did he really know about her, except that her family was rich? He felt a moment of guilt. Having money didn’t make a person bad. Still, she couldn’t be used to working.

  Mara turned back to him, her eyes still sparkling with exasperation. “I’m not going to beg, Mr. Stedman. I’d thought to do you a favor, but—”

  “I can’t pay much.” He named the amount he could afford, knowing such a paltry sum would seem like nothing to her.

  She blinked. Whether surprised at the low wage or that he was actually considering her offer, he didn’t know.

  “I’m hardly doing this for the money.”

  “You’d have to fix breakfast for fourteen men and pack up a lunch for all of ’em too. They eat supper at the Coopers’, but it’ll still be a lot of hard work and long hours—”

  “I’m perfectly capable.”

  Clay tried to look past her baby blue eyes and into her heart. Why was she doing this? Were her motives as pure as wanting to help out? Though she had used her wiles on him in their brief acquaintance, he didn’t cling to the notion that she was serious. No, women like Mara liked to see how many men they could collect. It was not a good quality, but it didn’t make her incompetent.

  Mara arched her brow, her face bathed in amusement.

  “All right,” he said, resigned. He hoped he wasn’t making a big mistake.

  “You needn’t seem so despondent,” she said with a pout. “You’ll see I’m remarkably resourceful.” With that, she turned and paraded over to his sister.

  He hoped she was right.

  That evening, as Mara glanced through her latest issue of Woman’s Home Journal, she wondered how she should handle her mother and father. Her mother wouldn’t like the idea of Mara’s hiring herself out, even for a couple of months. But if she could somehow convince her that she wanted to help out, perhaps her mother would go along with the idea.

  One thing was sure. Letitia Lawton would never abide the idea of Clay as a suitor. Mara must approach the matter carefully. And once her mother was in her corner, her father would not be far behind.

  A new gown from France arrived that afternoon, and Mara stood in the beautiful satin masterpiece, her mother fussing over the gathers and folds.

  “Perfect! Oh, I knew this buttery yellow would look perfect on you!”

  Mara agreed that the color brought out the gold highlights in her hair and complemented her skin tone beautifully.

  “Perhaps we should host a party this summer and invite Doctor Hathaway. His heart would give way if he saw you in this.” Her mother fluffed the hem.

  “At his age his heart may give way anyhow,” she mumbled.

  “What, Dear?”

  “Oh, Mother, don’t you think the doctor is altogether too old for me?”

  “Nonsense, my dear! Your father was no younger when we married. Really, Mara, you must give up this silly notion of love and romance. You must think about your station in life.”

  “I want both.”

  While her mother told of her own courtship and marriage, Mara allowed her mind to drift. She imagined being married to Clay. He would be owner of the Stedman spread one day and could certainly provide well for her. She shook her head. When did she begin thinking so seriously about the man? Why, she nearly had to beg him to let her work for him, much less get him to consider anything more serious.

  But changing his mind would come easily once he was in her presence every day. What man would be able to resist a woman who cooked, cleaned, cared for his sister, and did it all while looking like a princess? She studied her image in the mirror. The man didn’t stand a chance.

  “Mother,” she said when there was a break in conversation, “I’ve offered to help the Stedman family for a few weeks this summer while Martha Stedman travels out East.”

  “Help?” Letitia Lawton stood, her own blue eyes clouded in question. “Help how?”

  Mara pretended nonchalance, smoothing the collar of the gown. “Oh, you know, keeping an eye on her niece, tidying up, cooking—”

  “Why, Mara, you don’t even know how to cook.”

  She turned to her mother then. “I thought perhaps I might ask Sadie to help a bit. Do you think it would be all right?”

  “Taking over for Martha Stedman is going to be more work than you can imagine, Child! Why, your hands will get rough and callused, and you’ll perspire all day long! What would ever drive you to—?” She stopped, her painted brows drawing together. “It’s that nephew of hers, isn’t it?”

  “Of course not, Mother—”

  “Now I know he’s handsome, in a roguish, dark sort of way, but you mustn’t be smitten by his looks. He’s a simple rancher, not fit for—”

  “I know—I know, Mother. That’s not why I’m doing this—”

  “Why, your poor aunt Millicent made the same mistake! Don’t forget how she followed that cowboy all the way to North Dakota only to be burned alive in that shack of hers. Those savages!” Her mother pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed at the corner of her eyes. “Mark my words, Daughter—if you let your heart rule your choices you’ll live to regret it.”

  “I know, Mother. It’s not Mr. Stedman I’m concerned with; it’s his sister. She was at the spring yesterday, and I found her to be a delightful little girl. But she needs refinement. I want to take her under my wing.”

  “Well, there’s no finer woman to teach her, my dear. But are you sure you want to put yourself out like this?”

  “I want to do it. Can I ask Sadie to help me?”

  Her mother puffed up the sleeves and adjusted the collar. “We’ll have to pay her extra. Your father’s been watching the funds very closely lately.” Her brow wrinkled in thought.

  “Father?” She’d never found him to be tight-fisted with their money. In fact, he was always willing to indulge his wife and daughter.

  Her mother shrugged. “Perhaps there’s a little financial glitch—I don’t know—but you let me worry about your father. Go ahead and let Sadie know what you need from her.”

  Mara kissed her mother on the cheek. “Thank you, Mother.”

  By the time Mara went to bed, everything was all worked out, on her end at least. She knew her mother could handle her father. Sadie had agreed to make a huge breakfast in her own kitchen each morning, and Mara would deliver it to the Stedman ranch in the buggy. The noon meal Mara would handle herself. Apples, cheese—something simple the men could take with them. Then for dinner Sadie would come early, fix it, and be gone before Clay arrived. It was all settled. In less than a week the adventure would begin.

  Five

  Mara sat down on the sofa, wiping her brow with her handkerchief. It was only nine o’clock in the morning, and it felt as if it were noon at least. She’d delivered the food Sadie had made—sausages, eggs, flapjacks, biscuits—but making the food had been the least of it! She was expected to serve the food, enduring the leers and comments of fourteen smelly cowboys. Then she had to pack lunches for them to eat on the range. She didn’t take a bite herself until the men were gone, and by then she was too famished to care that it was cold.

  And, for all her efforts, not one word of thanks.

  When she and Beth finished eating, Mara took her first good look at the mess the men had made. Why, she had seen neater hog pens! Cold, congealed lumps of yellow egg littered the table, floor, and chair seats. Greasy fingerprints covered the long, sawbuck table, which was also dotted with sticky honey. And the napkins she had laid out so nicely sat in filthy wads wherever the men had dropped them.

  In fact, she had been so busy serving that she’d scarcely said a word to Clay. When was she supposed to win him over if she had all this work to do?

  She looked in dismay at the note in her hand. Mrs. Stedman had left her a list of chores she would need to do each week. The list went on and on! Mara didn’t think she could get everything done in the two months she would
be here, much less every week!

  “Wanna play dolls, Miss Lawton?”

  Mara smiled faintly. “I wish I could, Beth, but I have heaps of work to do.” When she noticed the sad expression on the little girl’s face, she added, “Perhaps you can be my helper. Would you like that?”

  “I’ve already collected the eggs and fed the hogs. Can you teach me how to make bread?”

  As soon as I learn how to myself. Mara gestured to the note. “Your aunt Martha says we need to—”

  “You say that funny.”

  “It’s not polite to interrupt, Beth. One should wait until—say what funny?”

  “Aunt. You say it like ‘Aaahnt.’ ”

  “Yes, well, anyway, we mustn’t interrupt. It isn’t ladylike. Now we need to do the laundry straight away. Would you like to help with that?”

  “I suppose.”

  She seemed less than enthusiastic. Mara couldn’t blame her. She hadn’t a clue where to begin. Oh, if only Sadie were here! Maybe Beth knew how. Still, she didn’t want to admit her incompetence to the girl. What if she told Clay?

  She would make it a game! Children liked games, didn’t they? Surely Beth was no different.

  Mara turned to Beth. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we see how much you know about chores? We’ll make a game of it. You tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Kind of like Simon Says.”

  Beth smiled, clearly liking the idea. “All right. First, you heat some water on the stove.”

  Well, that was easy enough. Especially since the stove was already hot. They got a large pot and pumped water into it, setting it on the stove.

  They gathered the soiled clothing; then Mara quizzed her pupil again.

  “Next, we fill the tub with water,” Beth said. She showed Mara where the tub was, and they took it outside and pumped it almost full of water. By the time that was done, the water had heated, and they dumped it into the tub.

  “Next, we shave off some soap.”

  Mara retrieved the soap and knife from the kitchen and awkwardly cut chunks. Beth stirred the water with her hands until the soap dissolved, while Mara brought the laundry outside.

  They continued along in the same manner. Mara scrubbed the clothing on the washboard while Beth ran clothes through the wringer and hung them on the line. By noon they were nearly finished, and the sun was beating down from high in the sky. Even in the shade the heat permeated Mara’s gown, and she felt trickles of perspiration running down her neck and back.

  Beth stood in the sun where the clothing line stretched across the yard.

  “No wonder your skin is so dark,” Mara said to her. “If you want fair skin like mine, you need to wear a bonnet.”

  Beth giggled. “Indian skin can’t be light, Silly.”

  Indian skin? She stopped scrubbing and watched Beth clip a shirt onto the line. Of course! Why hadn’t she seen it before? The dark skin, the black hair. It must’ve been Beth’s curly hair that had fooled her. “You and Clay are Indian?”

  “My ma was a full-blood Navajo.” She tipped her chin proudly. “My pa was white like you.”

  Mara pictured Clay in her mind. His hair was black as soot, but it was clipped so short, and his eyes were not dark at all. She blinked at the wonder of it. Somehow that made him seem all the more attractive. Wild. Dangerous.

  Her mother would be appalled.

  She continued with the wash, lost in thoughts at her discovery. Her arms ached dreadfully. She pulled the last garment from the water, drooped it over the side of the tub and looked at her hands. They were wrinkled and red from the lye soap, and she wondered if they would ever look smooth and creamy again.

  She barely had the energy to slice a chunk of cheese and some bread for a quick lunch. Beth, on the other hand, seemed full of energy. While the laundry dried on the line, they got out the butter churn, which Mara dropped on her toe. Pain shot up her leg, and it was all she could do not to howl in despair. She stifled a sob. She could do this, she told herself. She could.

  They made butter, following Beth’s instructions. Mara thought her little game was working beautifully until Beth looked at her halfway through the process.

  “You don’t know how to do any of this, do you?” The girl said it with such certainty that it caught Mara off-guard.

  “Why, whatever do you mean?”

  “The laundry, the butter—you’ve never done it before, have you?”

  Mara cleared her throat and dropped the butter churn handle. She could either ’fess up and hope Beth didn’t tell Clay or lie. She realized, too, that Beth could prove Mara was clueless by not giving her any instruction.

  “All right—it’s true.” Mara gave her a wry grin. “I didn’t think your brother would let me help if he knew the truth.”

  Beth stared at her for a moment. “It’s all right. I won’t tell.”

  Mara smiled warmly. “Really?”

  “Really. And I can teach you how to do ’most any chore.”

  Mara stuck out her hand. “If you let me teach you how to be a lady.”

  A broad smile spread over Beth’s face. “Deal!”

  Mara breathed a sigh of relief. Hard as all this work was, everything was working out splendidly.

  ❧

  This isn’t working out at all. Clay had watched his hired hands get stirred up over Mara this morning. Not that he could blame them. She had been a sight to see, all gussied up and serving food that had melted in their mouths. Who’d have thought a woman who looked like that could whip up a breakfast of sausages and eggs with all the fixin’s? A woman shouldn’t be allowed to look that comely—that was all there was to it.

  He had held his tongue as his men tried their best to win Mara’s affections. It had put him in a foul mood all day. He didn’t even want to think about why.

  And if enduring breakfast wasn’t enough, he had to listen to his men talk about Mara all day—until he finally told ’em to shut their traps. They had looked at him sideways, and Clay knew he’d acted out of character. But at least they had changed the subject.

  With the other cowboys having their supper at the Coopers’ restaurant, he’d thought he was in for a peaceful night until he arrived home and found that Beth had invited Mara to stay for supper.

  He watched her now from his seat as she put the food on the table. Her fancy dress looked a little worse for the wear, with dirt smudged here and there. As she spun away to fetch another platter, he noted her hair had come loose from its knot. It hung haphazardly down her back. Her shoulders seemed to have drooped a bit over the course of the day. And was that a limp she was sporting?

  As she neared the table with a dish of green beans, he covertly studied her face. She looked different from this morning. Instead of her perfect hairdo, she now had little curly-cues framing her face. This morning’s flawless skin was now flushed from the heat of hard work. But somehow she looked even better now.

  She looked at him then, her hand pausing. Her lips parted, and her eyes seemed to ask a question. He was unused to this Mara. She seemed uncertain, vulnerable.

  She blinked, setting down the dish. Her hand reached for her hair in a futile attempt to straighten it. “I must be a sight.”

  A sight for sore eyes. Clay scowled. Where had that thought come from? He tore his gaze from her, determined not to give her any ideas.

  “What can you expect when you come to work all gussied up in a ball gown.”

  She stiffened, her lips tightening in a straight line. “I can work just fine regardless of what I’m wearing.”

  “It must be hot as blue blazes in that getup.”

  “As if it’s any of your concern—”

  “Your work is my concern—”

  “What I wear isn’t!”

  “Fine, then—suit yourself.”

  “I will!”

  Stubborn woman. If she wanted to fuss with a hot, heavy dress, who was he to care? Mara hurried back into the kitchen in a huff. Only then did Clay notice Beth watching from the door
way.

  “You don’t like her, do you?”

  He sighed. The problem was, he was afraid he liked her too much.

  “I think she’s nice,” Beth said.

  Mara returned, setting down a platter of fried chicken, and sat in the chair opposite him. Clay avoided her gaze as Beth took his hand for prayer. Growling internally, he reached out to Mara’s daintily extended one. Hers was warm and small, but firm as if she were still riled from their conversation.

  “Go ahead, Beth.”

  Clay wasn’t sure he’d be able to put two sensible words together. As Beth prayed, Clay determined to ignore the woman. If she was going to be around for two months, he’d have to keep to himself. He wasn’t going to get all moony over another Victoria.

  He ate the meal in silence, not even pausing to compliment Mara on the supper, which he had to admit tasted good. Instead, Beth ruled the conversation, eventually drawing Mara out.

  “You really saw electricity?” Beth asked.

  Mara finished chewing a bite of food. “Well, you can’t see electricity, but I saw what electricity does. Just as you can’t see the wind, but you can see it bending branches.”

  “Like God,” Beth said. “You can’t see Him, but you can see what He does.”

  “Uh, right. Father took us to New York when I was a little older than you to see the first neighborhood with electric lights.”

  “I don’t understand how it works.”

  “It’s very complicated but quite convenient. Electricity travels through a wire to your home and gives power to electric lights.”

  She proceeded to tell Beth the particulars of Ben Franklin’s power station and direct current.

  Clay was surprised at her knowledge of the subject. Not just her knowledge, but her ability to describe it in a way a child could understand. Victoria hadn’t been able to tell East from West, much less describe something as complicated as electricity.

  Moments later the subject had changed entirely.