by Kaki Warner
“Shoat?”
“Baby hog.” His gaze slid over her in a way that made Edwina’s skin quiver and her temper flare. “And since you don’t look much like a hog, maybe you’ve got another name we could use?”
Edwina was too provoked to respond. No one had ever criticized her name. Admittedly, it was a horrid name, but . . . a hog?
“No? Well, we could call you Ed, I guess. Short and simple. Ed.”
“My middle name is Pricilla,” she informed him coldly. A name she liked even less, since it had been her mother’s, but at least it was more feminine than Ed.
“Pricilla.” He said it thoughtfully, as if testing the name for suitability. “Prissy. Miss Priss. Yeah. That’ll work.”
Edwina stared silently ahead, ignoring Pru’s muffled snorts of laughter.
It wasn’t until the last rays of the setting sun backlit the western ridges like a distant fire and the air had grown so cold Edwina was shivering in her thin coat that she spoke again. Turning wearily to her husband—that scoundrel—she asked through numb lips, “How much longer?”
“Not long.” He nodded toward the jagged silhouette of a rise in the road ahead. “Soon as we top that ridge, we’ll stop for the night.”
Stop for the night? Surely that didn’t mean what Edwina suspected. Dreading the answer, she forced herself to ask, “Is your farm that near?”
“It’s not a farm. It’s a ranch. And no, it’s still a ways.”
She waited for him to offer further enlightenment.
He didn’t.
“Then exactly how much longer will it take to reach your . . . ranch?”
“With the late start”—he paused to send her an accusing look—“and the washout, it’ll take longer. If all goes well”—another pointed glance, this one more of a warning than an accusation—“we should get there by noon tomorrow.”
Tomorrow! She looked around for a hotel, boardinghouse, dwelling of some kind. There was nothing but woods, then more woods. “What about tonight? Where will we sleep?”
“You ladies will sleep in the wagon. I’ll sleep under it.”
He said it like that was the most reasonable statement in the world. As if sleeping outdoors, in the woods, in the cold, in their clothes and in the presence of a strange man was as natural for two gently reared southern ladies as taking the next breath.
Edwina clapped her hands over her mouth but couldn’t stop the laughter from coming. And coming.
Declan didn’t consider himself a humorless man. He liked a joke now and again and had even participated in a prank or two in his time. Granted, things had been a bit dire of late, with cattle prices dropping and water holes drying up and four rambunctious children to raise, but he hadn’t forgotten how to smile, no matter what his friend Thomas Redstone said. He’d even managed to maintain his good humor and not let his dismay show when he first saw his bride that morning on the boardwalk outside the Heartbreak Creek Hotel.
Definitely not the sturdy farm woman he’d envisioned, but a bedraggled, rail-thin beauty in a ridiculous hat, who appeared every bit as shocked and disappointed in him as he was in her.
It had been an awkward meeting. The entire day had been awkward. And now, after it was too late to back out of this proxy marriage short of a time-and-money-wasting annulment that would leave some slick-haired lawyer richer and him poorer, he was finding that in addition to being nothing like the woman he had bargained for, his new wife was also clearly unstable. Nobody with good sense ever laughed this long for no reason on purpose.
“Mr. Brodie,” the mulatto woman, Prudence Lincoln, said at his shoulder. “I think we’d better stop.”
He eyed his bride, who was muttering behind her hands and rocking to and fro on the seat beside him. “What’s wrong with her?”
“I think she . . . ah, swallowed a bug.”
Hell. Transferring the leathers to his left hand, he reached back with his right to pound her back.
Prudence Lincoln grabbed his arm. “I don’t think you should do that, sir,” she said, her eyes round in her light brown face. “That is to say, I think she’s coughed it out already.”
Relieved, he withdrew his arm and faced forward again.
His wife continued to rock and mutter.
“But I still think we should stop. Sir.”
Hiding his impatience, Declan looked around. Seeing that they had pulled alongside a small clearing with a tiny creek running through it, he reined in the team. He glanced at his wife and was relieved to see she was no longer hiding her face and had recovered somewhat. “How’s this?”
She turned her head and gave him an odd, glassy-eyed smile. “Oh, this is delightful. Perfect. Everything I could have dreamed.” She started to say more, but her traveling companion gripped her shoulder, and not gently, he noted.
“This will be fine, Mr. Brodie,” Prudence Lincoln said. “This’ll be just fine.”
Declan couldn’t help but notice the mulatto was a beautiful woman. And judging by that lively sparkle in her brown eyes, a smart woman, too. But he saw kindness there, as well, and obvious concern for his odd little wife. So he nodded and turned the team. He was tired of sitting, too.
After pulling off the road, he unhitched the horses, rubbed them down with a scrap of burlap, then led them to the creek. Once they’d taken their fill, he staked them so they could graze and went back to the wagon.
The women, who were engaged in a tense, whispered conversation, abruptly fell quiet when he drew near and watched in silence as he moved boxes and sacks and kegs of sundry ranch supplies to the front of the wagon so they would have more room in back. Gathering the blankets he’d brought from home, he held them out.
They snatched them up and immediately set to work, fluffing hay so vigorously they were soon coughing on dust and speckled with chaff.
Shaking his head, Declan went to find firewood. The sun was almost down and the air was cooling fast. If he didn’t hurry, it would be too dark to hunt. Moving quickly, he gathered enough wood to last through the night, piled it in the middle of the clearing close to the wagon but well away from overhanging tree limbs, then arranged flat rocks in a crude fire ring. That completed, he returned to the wagon.
As he pulled his shotgun from beneath the seat and slipped a handful of shot shells into his pocket, he watched the women work on their cozy little nest, a bit aggravated that he was expected to do all the camp chores by himself when there were two able-bodied women on hand to help. If this was an indication of things to come, it didn’t bode well.
“Think you’ll need all five of those blankets?” he asked tersely, thinking of his own cold bed on the ground.
His wife turned to look at him. A moment later, a wad of coarse, straw-specked wool landed against his chest. “Will that be enough?” she asked through lips as tight as a tailor’s stitch.
Apparently, it would have to be. Ignoring the apologetic smile Prudence Lincoln sent his way, he tossed the blanket under the wagon and straightened to face his wife’s backside as she bent over to flick errant bits of straw from her blanket.
It was a nice butt, despite her thinness. Pear-shaped, with a gentle upward curve to a trim waist. And nice ankles showing beneath the hiked-up hem of her skirt, too, although the boots that encased them were far too flimsy. A snake could easily bite through that fine leather and—
Suddenly aware that Prudence Lincoln was looking at him, he averted his eyes. “I’ll be back soon.”
“What?” His wife bolted upright so fast her frilly bonnet slid down over her forehead. Shoving it back, she said in that high-pitched voice he was learning to dread, “And just where do you think you’re going?”
Irritation peaked, spreading along his frayed nerves in a warm rush, awakening old resentments of half-forgotten arguments with another woman in another time. Struggling to rein in his temper, he hooked a thumb toward the junipers and pinyons crowding the clearing. “I think I’m going into those woods. To get supper. That okay with you?”
“Supper?” Her gaze dropped to the gun in his hand, then back up to meet his. She had pretty eyes. Blue and full of life. They didn’t hide much. And what they were showing him now was that she was scared.
Hell. This just got worse and worse. A loon, a shrew, and now a coward. If she wasn’t so easy to look at, she’d be entirely useless. “You’ll be all right,” he assured her. “I won’t be far.”
“You promise?”
He nodded, both surprised by her sudden childlike trust and annoyed at her clinging. If she had been the sturdy farm woman he’d contracted for, instead of dwelling on her fears she would be getting the fire going and setting coffee on to boil. The thought of it made his stomach rumble. “There are sacks of cornmeal and coffee up front,” he offered, hopefully.
His wife blinked at him.
The mulatto filled the lengthening silence with a rush of words, “Thank you, sir. That’ll be just fine. We’ll come up with something, don’t you worry. The pans and utensils are up front, too?”
“In the leather pouch.”
“Thank you, sir.”
His wife continued to blink.
Prudence Lincoln smiled thinly.
“Well, I’ll be off then. Shout if you need me.” With a lingering glance at the unfilled coffeepot sitting on the front bench, he turned toward the woods.
When he returned forty-five minutes later, smoke coiled above the crackling fire, the smell of coffee drifted in the cool air, and Prudence Lincoln was turning johnnycakes on a skillet over the fire.
He quickened his step.
Hearing him approach, she looked up, smiling when she saw the grouse and two squirrels dangling from his hand.
He dropped the dressed carcasses on a rock near the fire. “It’s not much. But it’ll do.”
“It’ll be plenty, sir. Thank you.”
He glanced over at his wife, who sat huddled on a stump near the flames, using the end of a blanket to shield her eyes from the smoke. She didn’t speak or look his way.
Miss Lincoln pulled a rag from her skirt pocket and wiped her hands.
Only one was scarred, he saw. A pattern of paler skin spread over the back of her right hand and up her wrist. A burn scar. Maybe a scald.
“You want me to panfry those, Mr. Brodie? Or I could rustle up a spit and roast them over the fire if you’d prefer.”
He looked over at his wife, wondering why she wasn’t tending their meal, and found her studying him through eyes that were red-rimmed and teary. He turned back to Prudence. “Panfry, if it’s not too much trouble.”
With a nod, she set to work quartering the carcasses.
Declan put the shotgun back under the seat and went to check on the horses. When he returned, his wife had disappeared and the smell of frying meat and onions made his stomach rumble again.
“Hope you don’t mind,” Prudence said as he hunkered beside the fire to dig a tin cup out of the pouch. “I took an onion from the sack up front.”
“I don’t mind.” With his kerchief wrapped around the handle of the coffeepot, he poured, then returned the pot to the coals. Cradling the cup in both hands to warm his fingers, he breathed in the welcome scent of coffee and took a sip. Hot and strong. Like he liked it. He gave Prudence a nod.
She smiled and flipped over a squirrel hindquarter in the skillet.
A gentle breeze rustled through the piney boughs, adding to the musical babble of the creek and the occasional snort from the horses. Overhead, the first stars glittered like tiny pinpricks in the domed sky, and off to the east, backlighting tall spruce and firs, an early crescent moon struggled to clear the mountain peaks. It promised to be a cold night.
Declan took another swallow of coffee and looked around, wondering where his wife was. “She asleep or run off already?” He said it with a smile, but in truth, he wouldn’t have been that upset if she’d made her escape. She wouldn’t be the first woman to run out on him.
“She’s getting water.”
So she wasn’t completely useless. He watched Prudence Lincoln bustle around the fire, stirring this, turning that, and wondered again why his wife wasn’t doing it. He frowned at the shadows along the creek, thinking if she didn’t show up soon, he’d have to go after her before she got lost. Or scared up a bear. He smirked, picturing Miss Priss’s reaction to that.
“She called you her traveling companion,” he said after a moment. “That a new way of saying slave?”
The dark-skinned woman snapped upright, her brown eyes flashing with anger, the spoon clutched in her hand like a weapon. “I am not a slave, Mr. Brodie. Never have been, never will be.”
He met her anger with a wry smile. “Then why you doing for her like you are?”
They stared at each other for a moment. Then the anger faded from her eyes. Setting the spoon on a rock, she wiped her hands on that rag again and studied him. The glow of the fire highlighted the arc of her cheekbones and the fullness of her lips and put an orange sheen in her dark eyes.
He thought again how pretty she was and wondered why someone with her looks and brains would align herself with such an impractical, flighty woman as his wife.
A night owl called out, startling her. She glanced up at the trees, then at the creek, and finally back down at Declan. He could see she was picking her words with care. “You have to understand, Mr. Brodie. Edwina is . . . inexperienced.”
“At what?”
She waved a graceful hand in a gesture that encompassed him, the campsite, the dark shadows looming just beyond the firelight. “All this. She’s led a sheltered life. Until the war, anyway. But these last few years have been difficult. She’s worked very hard to keep us going.”
“Doing what?”
“Sewing.” She gave a bright smile Declan didn’t altogether trust.
“Sewing.”
Prudence nodded. “She’s an excellent seamstress.”
“She sews. While you do everything else.”
“Well . . . yes.”
Declan felt the beginning of a headache. “Can she at least cook?”
“Well . . .”
“Christ.”
“But I’ll teach her.”
Declan watched the rag twist in her fingers and felt his temper unravel. “Lady, I’ve already got enough kids. I don’t need another.”
“She’ll be fine, Mr. Brodie. It’s just that all this is very new to her. If you’ll just be patient—”
“Patient?” Declan shot to his feet. “I’ve got four children to corral, three thousand cattle to round up and cull and brand, a barn in need of a new roof, and more chores than I can tend in three lifetimes!” He flung the dregs of his cup into the flames, loosening a burst of sputtering, hissing steam. “I don’t have the time, or money, or patience for patience!”
She took a step back, her eyes round and fearful. “What do you plan on doing?”
“Why, I’ll . . . I’ll just . . . Damnit to hell!” What could he do? He still needed help around the ranch. He still needed a mother for his children. He’d already spent a small fortune getting the woman out here.
Christ. Redstone had the right of it. A man who bought a horse without riding it first shouldn’t be surprised when he’s thrown.
Yanking off his Stetson, Declan raked a hand through his hair, then slapped the hat back on. He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed, knowing he should be yelling at his wife rather than this woman. “How about we send her back and you stay on?” he offered.
She almost smiled. “You thinking to marry me now, Mr. Brodie?”
“Hell, no. I’ve already got one wife too many. But I’ll pay you.”
“To do what?”
“Cook. Clean. Ride herd on my kids. Tend a garden.”
“Pay me how? You just said you have no money.”
“Shares on the cattle.”
The smile broke into a chuckle. “I need cattle like you need another wife, Mr. Brodie. No, you strive for patience and give me time to train her.”
The headache spread, settling in his temples with an insistent throb. His damn wife had tricked him, made him think she was up to the job. Hell, his kids would probably run her off in a week. He thought of the grief that prankster Joe Bill would put her through and took some gratification in picturing that. “How long?” He was already past his thirty-third birthday. He didn’t have that many years left.
“Haven’t you agreed on a three-month trial period?”
Three? He thought it was two. Not that it mattered. The woman would never be what he expected and needed.
“If in three months she hasn’t come around,” Prudence went on when he didn’t answer, “then you can send her packing.”
“And you’ll stay?” he asked hopefully.
“It’ll go faster than you think,” she hedged. “Edwina is smart. Just give her a chance.”
She didn’t look smart, Declan thought, glancing past Prudence Lincoln’s shoulder to see his wife struggle up from the creek, her back bowed from the weight of the overfilled pail hanging from both hands. With every step, the bucket banged against her knees, sloshing water onto her hems and over those dainty leather boots. Pitiful. His youngest son could do better.
“Give her time, Mr. Brodie. She’ll figure it out.”
“She better.”
Supper was a silent affair, the tension thick enough to chew. The only redeeming thing about it was how tasty it was. If Prudence Lincoln could teach his wife to cook this good, things might work out, after all.
After wiping his plate clean with the last johnnycake, Declan set it on a rock by the fire, still hungry and wishing he’d bagged another grouse. He looked over at Miss Priss, perched on her stump and pecking at a drumstick like a baby bird, and resisted the urge to say something about wasting food.
At least she’d be an easy keeper, he thought glumly. And she was easy on the eyes . . . or would be, if she ever smiled. So far all she’d given him were smirks, grimaces, and looks of shock and disdain. Not that he particularly cared. A woman’s smile could be a dangerous thing, laden with enough deceit and cunning to mask the blackness in her heart. Yet, as he watched his wife listlessly shove food around on her plate, he had to wonder if she had the fortitude for subterfuge. She seemed a hot-tempered, emotional sort, and not disciplined enough to hide what she was thinking. Or maybe he was just more watchful now and not so easily fooled.
