Unclaimed Bride

by Lauri Robinson

  “I wasn’t sneaking.” She lowered her voice, whispering again, “Well, I was, but with good reason.”

  “Oh? And what’s the reason?”

  “I need to mix up a batch of bread or there won’t be any for breakfast.”

  “Why didn’t you do that earlier?”

  “Shhh. I don’t want any of the guests to hear.”

  “Why not?” He whispered this time.

  “Because they believe Angel did all the cooking. I don’t want to encourage them.”

  His fingers easily found her elbow in the darkness, and leading her from the small room, he assured, “Whether you can cook or not won’t hold a lot of bearing on their pursuit.”

  “It won’t?”

  Her disappointment was so heartfelt he had to smile. “No, it won’t.” He retrieved another match and used it to light the lamp on the table. After the wick caught, he replaced the globe. His breath tried to catch in his lungs as her face, twisted in a frown, came into view. “Those men have been cooking their own meals for years. That’s not the reason they’re looking for a wife.”

  She set a tin of flour on the table and then tucked her long hair behind her ears. “Well, nonetheless, we need bread for morning.”

  “You stayed up until everyone else was sleeping just so you could make bread?” He’d heard it, but had to repeat it to make sure he had it right.

  She nodded. “Angel already helped so much today, I didn’t have the heart to ask more of her. It won’t take me long to mix it up and set it in the pantry so it won’t rise too high before morning.”

  Her soft whispers were messing with his insides. Though their actions were completely innocent, whispering in the dim-lit kitchen felt clandestine and somewhat exciting. It was crazy for him—a man just shy of the ripe old age of forty—to become excited over such things, but there was a youthfulness swirling in his insides he hadn’t felt in years.

  “I’m sorry I woke you,” she continued.

  “I wasn’t sleeping,” he admitted. Then, quite remarkably and unusually, he made a snap decision. “Tell me what you need. I’ll help.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary.” She turned about and glided back to the pantry.

  He followed, whispering, “You need someone to guard the door. We don’t want them learning the truth now, do we?”

  Even in the shadowy corner of the room, sparks danced in her blue eyes.

  “Do we?” he repeated.

  Nibbling on her bottom lip, she cocked her head. “Mr. Clayton, I have a feeling you’re enjoying this.”

  “So are you, Constance.” Her name slipped out before he had a chance to stop it, and he was amazed at how easily it rolled off his tongue.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever considered making bread fun.”

  Feeling twenty years younger, he moved past her, slipping into the pantry. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll show you how fun it can be.” The space was tight, and twisting sideways as she reached around his bulk had tiny jolts zipping beneath his skin.

  When his arms were full, she picked up a large bowl and led the way to the table. “Have you ever made bread before?”

  “No,” he admitted as she unloaded his arms. “Have you ever made bread at midnight before?”

  “Midnight? Is it really that late?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then no, I’ve never made bread at midnight before.” She tugged her hair aside so it fell evenly down her back and then reached over and lifted the lid off the flour tin.

  He grabbed the cup nestled in the powder. “Then it’s a first for both of us.” Meeting her eyes, he offered an olive branch. If he was ever going to learn more about her, he was going to have to give her reason to trust him. He held the cup up. “How many?”

  She stared at it, as if contemplating a great decision. Her long, thick lashes lowered for a moment, fluttering against her cheeks. When they lifted, she smiled. “Twelve.”

  “Twelve?” he repeated, wondering what she referred to.

  “Yes, twelve cups. We need to make a double batch.” She padded across the room in her stockinged feet to retrieve the flour sack she’d had around her waist earlier in the day. “We don’t need the flour, yet, though. I have to get warm water from the reservoir for the yeast and heat the milk first.”

  She was slender, almost too slender. Then again, the amount of traveling she’d done to get from New York to Wyoming was taxing; anyone could lose a few pounds along the way. It would do her good to eat a couple of loaves of bread herself.

  He’d told the truth. Never, not once in thirty-six years had he made bread. And, he decided, he looked forward to the experience. “What else do we need?”

  “It’s all right there,” she said. “Oh, and we’ll need a touch of sugar and salt.”

  He helped as he could, but mainly watched her flutter around the kitchen with the ease of a spring butterfly, stilling for such brief moments he couldn’t quite keep up with her. Cautious, not wanting to disrupt the harmony growing between them, he asked simple questions about her aunts in England, the things she’d cooked for them and such, and he told her about his grandmother back in the Carolinas and all the tasty pies, cakes and cookies she used to make. Funny thing, he hadn’t realized he missed the sweets as much as he did.

  “You act as if you’ve made a lot of bread,” he said, standing at the stove.

  “I guess I have.” She sprinkled a handful of flour on the table. “How’s the milk?”

  “Butter’s still not melted.” He had to grin at himself. Unbelievable—that’s what it was—him stirring a pot of milk and butter in the middle of the night. “Constance, will you promise me something?”

  “Well, I guess that depends on what it is.”

  He grinned at her honesty. “Just that you won’t tell anyone about this. If word got out that the owner of Heaven on Earth makes bread in the middle of the night…well, it might damage my reputation.”

  She giggled. “Your secret is safe with me, Mr. Clayton. Don’t worry.”

  When the milk was ready, he poured it in the bowl.

  “Now we start adding the flour,” she said.

  He set the pan aside and scooped up a cup of flour. “Twelve, right?”

  “Yes, but not all at once.” She continued to stir the mixture with a long spoon.

  “How much then?”

  “Dump in six or seven.”

  “Six or seven?” he asked, simply because he liked hearing her talk. The twinge of southern dialect mixed with her English accent was rather addictive to his big ears.

  “Six or seven, here they come.” She stirred while he dumped, slowly dragging the spoon around the circumference of the bowl. Keeping track of the number of cups he poured grew difficult. “Was that five or six?” he asked.

  “You don’t know?” Her amusement tickled the air.

  He chuckled, and honestly admitted, “No, do you?”

  “No.”

  Holding a cup of flour over the contents, he confessed, “I can’t start over.”

  She giggled while setting the spoon aside and gently shoved his hovering hand away from the bowl. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter.” In a quick, fluid movement, she dumped the bowl out on the floured table. Her fingers dove into the mixture. “Sprinkle another cup on, and keep dumping cupfuls until I say stop.”

  With skill and precision, she worked the flour into the dough, turning the lump and folding the edges in with quick yet smooth movements. Every once in a while she’d nod his way, and he’d sprinkle another cup over the mixture. His mind was tumbling again—for whatever reason it imagined how those hands would feel massaging his skin, smoothing the kinks and knots out of his back and shoulders as finely as they worked the flour into the dough.

  Almost magically the mass on the table went from sticky and stringy to smooth and pliable. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  He dropped the cup back in the flour tin. “I’ve eaten enough bread
to fill a boat, but I’ve never made it. Never even paid attention while someone else did.”

  “Who makes your bread now?”

  “You,” he said a bit too quickly.

  A flush covered her cheeks as she brushed her hair aside with the back of one hand. “Before me.”

  A smudge of flour sat right below her eye. He wiped it away with the pad of his thumb. Her skin was soft and smooth, and unable to stop his fingers, he tucked her hair more firmly behind her tiny ear. “Beans,” he said, before he forgot to answer. He pulled his hand away and not sure what to do next, he resettled the cup in the flour tin. “Beans bakes all the bread around here.”

  She plunked the dough back into the bowl. “There, that’s it. I’ll just put it in the pantry.”

  His heart hitched, not ready for their encounter to end. “I thought you had to put it in bread pans.”

  “I will in the morning.” She wiped her hands on the flour sack again. “And let it rise again before baking.”

  “Oh,” he said, disappointed the event was almost over. “Are you sure you don’t want to bake it right now?”

  “We can’t. It has to rise once over night, and then again in the morning before it’ll be ready to bake.” She’d already gathered an armload of the supplies as well as the bread bowl and was heading back to the pantry.

  He snatched up the other items and followed. “How often will you have to make bread?”

  “It depends on how much gets eaten on a daily basis. Why?” She took his items and placed them back on the shelves.

  “Oh, just wondering,” he croaked as heat snuck up his neck. “We eat a lot of bread around here.” It was crazy, a grown man wound up about making bread of all things, but there was something about doing it with her that made him want to do it again.

  She was back at the table, wiping the flour residue off the surface. Walking across the room, he wondered about the way his body tingled from head to toe. It had been a long time since a woman had graced his house. Actually, a woman had never graced this house—not as it stood today. The thought caused him to pause for a moment in reflection, or maybe it was perception.

  “Constance, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” she answered.

  “What happened to your first husband?”

  Her face turned ashen, and he reacted, caught her elbow as she wobbled. Regret gripped his throat. “I’m sorry.”

  Chapter Five

  Constant couldn’t move. The wood beneath her fingers throbbed in tune with her pulse. Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump.

  “Constance?” Ellis’s grasp on her elbow tightened.

  This was her chance to tell him. She’d planned on doing it, but all of a sudden fear paralyzed her. “He died.”

  His fingers moved up her arm, tenderly, soothingly. “How?”

  “He was shot,” she answered, unable to look up. Not because Byron’s death was too painful to relive, but because if Ellis knew the truth, he might send her away. No one else had believed she hadn’t shot Byron, and there was no reason for him to, either.

  “I heard noises. Is something wrong?”

  Constance closed her eyes at the sound of Jeb’s voice across the room. She hadn’t heard the door open. Fear raced around in her stomach. How much had the young man heard? It wouldn’t do for the entire territory to hear about Byron. Though it wasn’t something she could keep hidden forever.

  “No, nothing’s wrong. Miss Jennings just needed some help in the kitchen.”

  She didn’t turn about, but opened her eyes at Ellis’s answer. He hadn’t moved, still stood in front of her, and his fingers continued to softly rub her upper arm. Pressing her toes harder against the floor, she willed her legs not to give out.

  “Is there something I can help with?” Jeb asked.

  “No.” Ellis shook his head. His gaze lowered and captured hers. “Everything’s done now. You can go back to bed, Jeb. Thanks for checking.”

  “Good night,” Jeb offered, somewhat reluctantly.

  “Good night,” Ellis repeated.

  The ability to drag her gaze from his couldn’t be found. It was back—that glimmer in his eyes that said he could see directly into her head, knew all there was to know. Yet there was that softness in his eyes she’d seen earlier today, while in the pantry discussing Angel, that once again made her want to press her head against his chest.

  Constance drew in a deep breath. He would never understand about Byron, or how or why she’d married the man. Half the time she didn’t understand it herself. Looking back at how quickly it all had came about, things grew blurry and convoluted. Which is precisely why she didn’t look back—no good could come of it. This escape to Wyoming, becoming Ashton’s bride, proved one thing: she couldn’t run from the past. Sooner or later, she’d have to face it.

  A frown had formed on Ellis’s brow. “Constance?”

  She had nowhere to go if he sent her away. All she needed was a little more time. To what? She couldn’t gather proof against Byron from Wyoming. Couldn’t gather proof against a dead man no matter where she was. The desire to ask Ellis for help was back. He’d know what to do. But she couldn’t. Things were too unsettled. Maybe in a few weeks, when they knew each other better, she could ask him for help.

  “Constance?” he repeated.

  “Well,” she attempted a lighthearted tone as she walked to the sink with stiff knees. “It’s late and morning will come quickly.” After rinsing the rag, she smoothed it to hang evenly over the edge of the built-in sink, waiting for him to leave. He didn’t. She could feel him. Hear him breathing.

  This was getting to be too much. Everything catching up to her at once. Her shoulders attempted to droop, but she tightened her neck muscles, refusing to be overwhelmed by the plague of history trying to overtake her like a storm of grasshoppers. Memories had the ability to take her down, and she wasn’t about to let that happen now. There was too much at stake.

  “Thank you, Mr. Clayton, for your assistance with the bread.” Taking a fortifying breath, she thrust her chin out and her shoulders back, and strolled across the room. Her footfalls were as unsure as a toddler’s just learning to walk, but she pushed on, not breathing until she set a foot on the bottom step of the staircase that went from the kitchen to the upstairs hall.

  He hadn’t moved, and the way her back stung said his gaze followed her. Pressing a hand to the wall, she used it to assist her climb up the steps. When she reached the top, where moonlight filtered through the window at the end of the hall, the space at the bottom of the steps went dark. She leaned heavier against the wall.

  A soft thud echoed up the stairwell. The kitchen door, no doubt. She could almost hear him climbing the front steps. A rush of unease had her flying down the hall. Once inside her room, she let out a burning gust of air and leaned against the closed door. There wasn’t time for relief before a quiver raced her spine. Ellis was on the other side of the door. Would he knock? Would she answer?

  No sound entered her room, but her shoulders drooped to her elbows. He was gone. She trudged across the room, removing the makeshift apron and unbuttoning her dress.

  It was a terrible ending to what had been a remarkable experience. She’d known companionship in the kitchen before. There was a time where Aunt Theresa had been a pest when it came to sticking her fingers in the bowl for a lick when she thought Constance wasn’t looking. That of course had been before Aunt Julia had become ill. Aunt Theresa had grown frail as well, but she, being younger, hadn’t succumbed as quickly as Julia had.

  Poor dears. It was still hard to believe they were both gone, and making bread beside Ellis had brought back just how lonely life had been since they’d died. No matter how menial the task, it was always more fun to have someone at your side. She’d felt that all day, but Ellis’s kitchen help had touched her deeper. In a spot she hadn’t known existed.

  Constance pressed a hand to the tenderness swirling around her heart. It was apparent Ellis never spent much t
ime in a kitchen. His big hands made the teacups look like doll dishes. Hopefully the bread wouldn’t be tough from her zealous kneading. He’d seemed to be in awe of the process, and therefore, she’d been reluctant to stop.

  The chill of the night seeped through her thin underclothes, making her finish undressing and pull on a heavy flannel nightgown. The spacious room held fine, darkly stained furniture including a large bed with pinecones carved into the head and foot posts, as well as bedside tables and a short dressing table, which she moved to and peered into the mirror. What did Ellis see when he looked at her with those all-consuming eyes?

  Abruptly she spun around, forcing her thoughts to stop wandering. After she banked the glowing logs in the stone fireplace, she climbed into the big bed, all the while begging her mind to remain in the present.

  The crisp, clean sheets crinkled beneath her weight, and she shivered against their iciness. Twisting, she turned down the wick on the lamp beside the bed, watching until the flame extinguished, and wishing it was as easy to douse foreboding memories. Curled on her side, rubbing her feet together to warm the sheets beneath her toes, she recalled the warmth that had emitted from

  Ellis’s body. Downstairs it had flowed around her like a summer breeze. Snuggled beneath the covers, her lids grew heavy, and she gave into the cozy glow she’d felt back in the kitchen.

  An inner clock had her crawling from bed a few hours later. With the fire now nonexistent, the cold air encouraged her to dress and attend to morning necessities swiftly. In record time she slipped from her room and hurried down the back stairs.

  Kindling leaped to life in the cook stove with the touch of a match, and while it started to warm the thick cast iron, she gathered the bread dough and several pans. Her mind attempted to fill with visions from the previous night, but she squelched them before they could form. When the bread was set to rise, she prepared the coffeepot and, refusing to allow her mind to waver off the morning tasks, retrieved a large slab of bacon and started slicing thick strips.

  Pancakes, bacon and bread would fill the guests’ stomachs. The window over the sink said light had yet to break. Hoping the storm had calmed enough for the men to take their leave, she crossed the room to gather a pan and paused to peer over the large crescent of frost clinging to the glass on the back door. Beyond the porch, whiteness covered the ground, but the faint light of dawn revealed flakes no longer fell. The curtain slipped from her fingers, and she moved back to the bacon, cutting until the entire slab was reduced to a pile of slices. She would owe Ellis an enormous amount of money by the time this was over. It was her fault the house was full of men, and she couldn’t expect him to absorb even the food costs the episode caused.