Secondhand Bride

by Linda Lael Miller

  Jeb swallowed, fumbled with the carafe on his bedside table, poured a one-handed slug of water. Angus, in typical fashion, didn’t try to help, just sat there, resting his arms on his thighs, fingers loosely entwined. Even an hour ago, Jeb would have interpreted this as pure cussedness, but now—well—he’d have to do some reflecting to line it all up proper in his mind.

  “I want you to come back home to the Triple M,” Angus said forthrightly. “When you can ride again, and make yourself useful, we’ll talk about your wages.”

  Something inside Jeb yearned to accept, but he resisted the pull. He had things to prove, though he wasn’t exactly sure what they were, and he knew he’d never come to terms with himself if he took to walking backward.

  “I’ve got a job, Pa. At the Circle C.”

  “You’re not going to be much use to Holt or anybody else with your arm tied up in a dish towel,” Angus pointed out. No sense slapping a coat of varnish on a perfectly good truth. Just lay the matter right out there, whether anybody liked it or not, that was the old man’s way.

  Jeb swallowed again, though this time, it was more of a gulp. The things he felt were tangled and spiky as barbwire, rusting in his throat.

  “Holt wants me to look out for Lizzie until he can come up with a better arrangement,” he managed, after some struggle. “By the time he ropes in a housekeeper, I’ll be good as new.”

  Angus studied him. “You’re going to be a babysitter.”

  Jeb considered flinging the glass at his father’s head, but decided against it. He’d only duck, and he was still quick enough to get out of the way, for all his age. “Call it whatever you like, Pa. Holt can’t be with Lizzie and on the range, and he’s got a ranch to run.”

  “You’ve developed quite an affection for your brother, it seems.”

  “I’m fond of Lizzie,” Jeb insisted. “Just like you are.”

  The big shoulders moved in a shrug. “That’s as it should be. She’s a child, a baby, really, and she’s a McKettrick.”

  “Not according to Holt, she isn’t. He says her name is Cavanagh.”

  “Holt’s just pissed off at me,” Angus said, and he sounded weary. “Can’t say I blame him, but damned if I know how to make it up.”

  Jeb reached for the glass again, took a steadying sip. Where the devil was Doc with that shot? “What do you figure he wants from you? Holt, I mean?”

  Angus got to his feet. “My blessing,” he said. “I reckon that’s what all of you want.” He shifted his weight, hooked his thumbs under his belt. His holster was empty, one of Becky’s house rules. “Well, for what it’s worth, you’ve got it,” he finished, and headed for the door.

  Jeb didn’t want the old man to go just yet, but he was damned if he’d say so. “Even if I never come back to the Triple M?” he challenged, addressing his father’s broad back.

  “Even then,” Angus said, without turning around. And then he went out.

  “I’ll be a ring-tailed waste of skin,” Jeb muttered, grinning. The fly landed on his chest, but he didn’t try to whack it.

  36

  Chloe assessed her students, one by one, now that their heads were bent over their slates, and they wouldn’t see her looking.

  There was Harry Sussex, her favorite, at the left end of the first long table, facing her desk. He wanted, above all else, to be like Kade McKettrick. Not a bad objective, she supposed, though her goal for him was a little different. She wanted Harry to be Harry, in all his individual glory.

  Next to him was Lucas, his brother, and next to Lucas was Benjamin. To his right sat Clarence and George, respectively, and the five of them made a set of stair steps. The baby of the family, a girl named Hortense, was too small to attend school. According to Harry, she’d “pitched a fine fit” that morning when she realized she was being left behind.

  At the next table were the banker’s two daughters, nine-year-old Marietta and seven-year-old Eloise, well-shod and ringleted, wearing ready-made dresses, hair ribbons, and shiny shoes. They sat close together, primly intent on their slates. Chloe felt a rush of warmth for them; for all their confident appearance, they were as worried about fitting in as any of the others.

  Finally, at the last table, were Jesse Banner, a big boy of nearly fourteen, a rancher’s son who had traveled since dawn to be there, and Jennie Payle, whose mother was employed at the Bloody Basin Saloon, doing what Chloe did not exactly know, though of course she had her suspicions. Walter and Ellen Jessup, brother and sister, made up the last of the crew. New to Indian Rock, like Jennie, they were motherless and even poorer than the Sussex children, living out of a wagon parked back of the church. Chloe hadn’t been able to learn much about their situation, beyond the fact that their father worked on the Triple M and wanted them to “git” an education. To that end, he’d left them to fend for themselves through the week, promising to return on Friday nights, after he’d gotten his pay. She worried over the Jessups; surely, they were frightened, alone in their little camp, especially when it got dark. On the other hand, they were probably used to hardship; many children were. Down South, they picked cotton and worked long hours in textile mills, and in the Pennsylvania coal country, they labored in mines.

  Her misgivings aside, Chloe was deeply grateful for her students; without them, she’d spend far too much time thinking about Jeb. As it was, he crept into her mind whenever she left a space open.

  She reminded herself that they’d resolved nothing, she and Jeb. She lived from her mind, he from his body. She was bold, but innately cautious, too, while he stuck his chin out at everything, daring life to thwart him. This wasn’t just her own supposition, either; Doc had told her several chilling stories about his exploits. He’d patched Jeb up on a regular basis from the time he was ten years old, and declared himself a born bronc rider.

  Chloe sighed. It was God’s own miracle that the rascal wasn’t lying under six feet of dirt over at the cemetery instead of in a bed at the Arizona Hotel, complaining that he was bored.

  Of course he was bored. He probably wasn’t happy unless he was barreling through the world like a runaway freight train, looking for something to collide with. Chloe sat down at her desk, cupped her chin in one hand, and wished she’d never complicated her life by making his acquaintance.

  She had a lot to learn when it came to picking men.

  “Teacher?” the small, earnest voice startled her, and she turned to see little Jennie standing practically at her elbow. “Are you sad? You sure do look downhearted.”

  Chloe felt a pang. This ragged child, with her limp blond hair and shabby dress, was concerned about her. “I was merely thinking,” she said quietly, resisting an urge to put an arm around Jennie’s thin shoulders and draw her close for a moment. She didn’t want to risk hurting Jennie’s pride. “I can see where you’d get that impression, though. I can look very somber when I’m considering a matter.”

  Jennie’s smile was tentative, and there was relief in it. “I finished with my numbers,” she said.

  Chloe took the slate, examined the figures. “Excellent,” she said. The problems of addition were incorrect, the subtractions, perfect in every way. A commentary, Chloe thought, on Jennie’s life. Young as she was, she knew more about taking away than accumulating. “You’ve made a fine start.” She pointed out the errors as kindly and matter-of-factly as she could. “Try again,” she said.

  When lunchtime came, Marietta and Eloise went home for their meal. The Sussex children played in the yard, pretending not to care about food, Jennie nibbled at a biscuit and a chunk of cheese, probably purloined from the spread at the saloon, always on hand for the customers, and Jesse Banner opened a brown paper parcel, containing a sandwich and two hardboiled eggs. Walter and Ellen Jessup simply sat in their places, staring straight ahead and waiting for class to start again.

  Emmeline, who spent a lot of her time at the hotel, being part owner, appeared out of the blue, with a large pan in her hands, just as Chloe was about to fetch crackers
and fruit from the cottage and set them out for the taking. Mrs. Rafe McKettrick swept into the schoolhouse in a breeze of calico, closely followed by the Chinese cook from Becky’s kitchen, bearing plates and spoons. The Sussex children crowded in behind them, all eyes and twitching noses.

  “To celebrate the first day of school,” Emmeline announced, setting the pan in the middle of the front table with a flourish. “Everybody, help yourselves.”

  The Sussexes swarmed, while Walter Jessup peered at the contents of the pan, a noodle casserole with a creamy sauce and various vegetables mixed in, his small sister at his side.

  Walter’s expression was stoic. “Me and Ellen ain’t eatin’,” he said.

  The two women exchanged glances, both of them laughing silently.

  Bless you, Emmeline, Chloe thought. Not only had she been generous, providing badly needed food, she’d done so graciously, in a way that wouldn’t make the children feel like charity cases.

  The Chinese cook trotted out, and Emmeline dusted her hands together, as if to declare her business finished. There was a flurry of eating, and, at long last, the Jessups relented, joining in. The way they tucked away food made Chloe wonder when they’d last had a decent meal.

  Having little or no appetite herself, Chloe sat on the front steps, with Emmeline perched beside her.

  “That was a very kind thing you did,” she said. “I appreciate it.”

  “We’re glad to have a school,” Emmeline replied, as though that settled the manner. “Not to mention a teacher. Becky’s going to ask the town council for a food allowance for the children. She says if they refuse, she’ll see to it herself.” She smiled. “That’ll shame them into doing it.”

  Chloe laughed, but the sound fell away in the air as she gazed toward the Arizona Hotel, where Jeb lay, recovering. He’d get over the wound, according to Doc, but he was bound to go looking for trouble as soon as he could ride. Chloe knew he half hoped Sam and his posse wouldn’t find his assailant—he wanted to do that himself.

  Emmeline must have read her mind, at least partially, for she patted her hand. “Jeb will be fine,” she said softly.

  Sudden tears stung Chloe’s eyes, and she tried to blink them away. “Will he?” she asked. “What about next time?”

  Emmeline frowned. “ ‘Next time’?”

  “He’s got no sense at all,” Chloe fretted, wringing her hands a little. “He’s such a—such a—”

  “McKettrick?” Emmeline supplied.

  “Yes,” Chloe said. “Do they all think they’re immortal?”

  “Pretty much,” was the quiet answer.

  “How do you stand it? Don’t you worry about Rafe?”

  Emmeline sighed. “Of course I do,” she said. “But if he wasn’t hell-bent-for-election, he wouldn’t be Rafe. And if he wasn’t Rafe, I wouldn’t love him so very much.”

  The children, crowded into the schoolhouse, were making a great deal of happy noise, and that lifted Chloe’s spirits a notch. They were life itself, those little ones, dancing, laughing, chasing each other on the very edge of the abyss. But they were children, and Jeb McKettrick would be thirty in a couple of years. What was his excuse for tempting Fate the way he did?

  Come and get me, he seemed to say, to man and cosmos alike. Catch me if you can.

  Respecting Chloe’s silence, probably well aware of the turmoil within her, Emmeline squeezed her hand once, then stood. “Don’t be afraid,” she said, musing. “That’s the first rule of the McKettrick clan. Better to die in a hail of gunfire than whimper behind a wall and survive.” She turned to look at Chloe, and her eyes were bright with conviction. “Much as I’d hate to lose any one of them, especially Rafe, I wouldn’t ask them to live any other way.”

  “You,” said Chloe, without particular admiration, “are a very brave woman.”

  Emmeline smiled. “I have to be,” she said, then she was gone.

  37

  To say Jeb was bad-tempered, Chloe reflected, later that day, when school was over and she had made her pilgrimage to his room at the hotel, would be like saying Genghis Khan was warlike. He was out of bed, though Doc had specifically told him, in her hearing, to stay down. Clad in a flannel bathrobe, he was making his determined way from one side of the room to the other and back again. Each time he reached a wall, he slapped it hard with the palm of his left hand.

  “I want to see those divorce papers,” he said, almost the moment she stepped over the threshold. “Not ours. The first ones.”

  Chloe tensed, as though he’d slapped her instead of the wall. “They’re gone,” she said. She’d written the judge in Tombstone for verification, but such things took time.

  “What do you mean, ‘gone’?” he snapped.

  “I mean someone took them,” Chloe said, with hard-won patience. “Probably Jack.”

  “Jack?”

  “You were shot in the arm, Jeb, not the head. Jack was my first husband, and you damn well know that. Stop taking your sorry mood out on me, or I’ll leave. I’ve got no reason to be here anyway.”

  He looked taken aback at her words, even though they had been quietly spoken. For one fanciful moment, she thought he’d apologize for his surly manners, but he set his jaw instead and resumed his pacing.

  “ ‘How was school today, Chloe’?” she prompted, and planted herself directly in his path, with her arms folded.

  He glared at her in stubborn silence.

  She laughed, surprising them both. “Poor Jeb,” she teased. “You’re used to doing what you want, when you want to do it. And now, here you are, trapped in a tiny room with nowhere to go. How do you like your own company, Mr. McKettrick?”

  “I liked it better than yours,” he said, but a grin was teasing the corners of his mouth.

  “Too bad,” she said, taking the one chair. “I’ve decided, quite against my better judgment, to stay a while.”

  He said nothing. He was pacing again. Slapping walls. And every slap was louder than the last one.

  She picked up the thick book on his bedside table. “The History of Rome,” she read. “My, my. You must be pretty smart.”

  “For a cowboy?” Jeb gibed.

  “For anybody,” Chloe said blithely. He’d ruffled her feathers but good, but she wasn’t going to let him know it. She opened the tome at the place he’d marked with a cigarette paper. “Page three,” she marveled. “Whipping right along, I see.”

  Whack. He’d reached another wall. “If you came here to annoy me,” he huffed, “it’s working. Count it as a victory, why don’t you, and go away.”

  She closed the book with a delicate authority and set it back in its place, where it would most likely remain until it sprouted arms and legs. “Why don’t you lie down?” she asked, without looking at him. “You’re going to wear yourself out.”

  “Did those papers ever exist?”

  Chloe’s spine stiffened, but she kept her voice light. “Yes,” she said. “And what do you care, anyway?”

  “I’d just like to know that I’m not a bigamist, that’s all.”

  “I guess you’ll have to take my word.”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” he retorted, “but eat, sleep, and ride horses. Why didn’t you say anything about him, Chloe? Before we went through with that charade of a wedding, I mean?”

  The “charade” had been quite real, but she’d given up trying to convince him of that, so she didn’t comment. “Why did you tell me that you were from Stockton?” she countered.

  He was silent a while, except for the shuffling and the wall-slapping. His answer, when it finally came, left Chloe shaken. “I guess I wanted to think you were marrying me, not the Triple M and my pa’s money.”

  She turned in her chair, met his gaze, less ferocious than before, but still full of obstinate challenge. “How could I have married you for that blasted ranch when I didn’t even know it existed?”

  That one stumped him, judging by his expression. “I asked first,” he pointed out, with a shak
e of his index finger. The motion must have hurt, for he flinched and cupped his right elbow in his hand, but the pain didn’t distract him from his cross-examination. “Why didn’t you tell me about Jack?” he insisted.

  “I was ashamed,” she said, and flushed.

  He stopped his restless travels, at long last, and came to sit on the edge of the bed, facing her, his eyes bleak. He waited.

  “I don’t seem to have any luck when it comes to men,” she admitted. I will not cry, she vowed silently. I will not.

  “Gosh,” he said, with grudging amusement. “Thanks.”

  “He lied to me, just like you did, and I believed him.”

  “What happened?”

  She sighed. “I met Jack in Sacramento. He was nicely dressed, and he had very polished manners. He began courting me—I think now that he only wanted my stepfather’s money, but at the time, I believed he—he loved me. I wanted to believe him, get away from home, start my life. Jack went back to Tombstone, and when he sent for me, I joined him there.” She paused, frowning, marveling at the naive little fool she’d been back then. Mr. Wakefield had allowed her to attend normal school and obtain her teaching credentials, but neither he nor her mother had seriously expected her to work for a living. They’d wanted her to marry within their social circle, but, given her tendency to speak her mind, the prospects hadn’t been good. She’d just about resigned herself to a lifetime of such spinsterly pursuits as throwing tea parties and tatting doilies, when Jack Barrett came along.

  Jeb waited passively for her to go on. Perhaps he found her account entertaining. To Chloe, the story was purest humiliation, which was why she’d kept it to herself for so long.

  She swallowed. In for a penny, in for a pound. Might as well get it over with. “When I reached Tombstone, I expected Jack to meet the stage, but he didn’t. I sat at the depot for two hours, waiting for him.” Shame seared her insides at the memory, and she couldn’t meet Jeb’s gaze, though she felt it as surely as if he’d been touching her with his hands. “Finally, he turned up, gave me some excuse about being delayed in his office at the bank. We were married by a justice of the peace, that very afternoon, and we were on our way to the rooming house where he was staying when a man approached us in the street, and accused my brand-new husband of gunning down his brother for pay. Of course I thought it was a lie, I was so stupid—”