The Brides of the Old West: Five Romantic Adventures from the American Frontier

by Peggy Darty, Darlene Franklin, Sally Laity, Nancy Lavo

The cool dimness of the cabin was a welcome change as she crossed the board floors to the kitchen. After oversleeping, she had bolted out to do chores, leaving the breakfast dishes unwashed. She stopped, staring now at those dishes, washed and draining on the rack. It was not Hank’s habit to wash dishes. On the rare occasions that he did, he simply piled everything haphazardly to drain. These dishes were neatly stacked. Was it possible Luke Thomason had cleaned up the kitchen?

  She removed her wide-brimmed hat, and stared at the frayed ends of the leather sweatband. The poor old hat, left by someone on a nail in the barn, had been a blessing to her fair skin, and she was glad someone had abandoned it. As her eyes drifted over the battered hat, she couldn’t help wondering what Luke Thomason thought of it.

  Recalling his nice black hat with the smooth leather sweatband, she merely shook her head in frustration and hooked the hat on its peg on the wall.

  She headed for the water bucket, wondering why she had been so defensive, moments before. Well, she knew the answer to that. All morning, as she had ridden over the pasture, she’d kept seeing those volatile blue eyes, angry, sad, worried, indifferent. She had kept wondering about him—what kind of life he had come from in Kansas, what he was going to in Colorado Springs.

  She dipped a gourd into the bucket of water, gulping greedily to drown the dust in her throat. Well, if the man was ready to leave, let him go. They didn’t need one more mouth to feed when they were facing starvation themselves.

  She found her eyes wandering to the small looking glass on the wall, and tilted her head for a better view of herself. An oval face held delicate features and a small mouth. The sunburn on her fair skin had finally deepened to a healthy glow, leaving only a peeling nose as a reminder. Golden ringlets of hair had turned white around her forehead, having escaped her hat and bleached out beneath the sun.

  She took a step closer, inspecting her image curiously. Her brows arched outward on the end, as though she were about to voice the questions always bubbling up in her inquisitive mind. Altogether it was a pleasant face, if not beautiful. Her chin was too long, her cheeks too hollow. Or so it seemed to her.

  The door banged behind her and she turned to see Luke, heading in her direction. He was looking at her with a serious expression on his face. She wondered what was on his mind.

  “Your father has convinced me I need to stay on another day. I was wondering if you’d mind if I helped out at the stable. There’s nothing I like better than working with animals. How many do you have?”

  “We’re down to four horses. We have one stud, Rocky, and three mares. One is about to foal. Incidentally, I put your stallion in a corral to himself. He and Rocky didn’t seem to like the looks of one another.”

  “Your pa told me you took care of him. I appreciate that.”

  She nodded. “Thanks for your offer to help, but we can manage.”

  “I know you can,” he snapped.

  She stared at him, shocked by his rude tone. She was ready to give him a piece of her mind, when he lifted his right hand and raked through his thick dark hair, slowly shaking his head.

  “Look,” he said more civilly, “I’ve worked hard all my life. I can’t lounge around on the porch, doing nothing, while you work like a man…”

  His remark had stung. “Well, I don’t know about the ladies where you come from, but out here, a woman has to work in order to survive.”

  He crammed his hands in his pants pockets and began to pace the kitchen floor. She realized then how tall he was, over six feet, yet he was lean and muscular. Yes, he did know something about work, she decided, so let him get on with his work, and leave them in peace. She had enough problems without dealing with another man. And why did men always want to argue?

  What kind of woman did he leave behind? she wondered suddenly. One who argued back, or sat with her hands folded demurely in her lap, while he sulked or argued? Automatically, her eyes dropped to his broad hands, and she had a fleeting vision of the wedding ring around his right finger. Why isn’t there a thin white line there, showing where the ring had been?

  “Please, let me help,” he said, leveling those blue eyes down into her upturned face. “Otherwise, I’ll be leaving.”

  “You shouldn’t ride until that wound heals,” she protested.

  Blue eyes bored into gray ones. From the front porch, Hank began to cough. At the sound of her father’s repeated coughing, Suzanne looked toward the window, the tension of the moment broken.

  She took a drink of water, trying to calm her scattered thoughts. Why was she being so defensive? What was wrong with her? If he wanted to help, why couldn’t she accept his help and be grateful for it?

  “All right, you can help,” she said on a sigh. “I’m sure Pa would be relieved.”

  Luke turned and glanced toward the porch.

  “He told me he loves this ranch and begrudges every minute he’s not on the back of a horse,” he said more civilly.

  “Yes, he does,” Suzanne responded.

  A tightness clamped her throat as she fought against the sudden unexpected threat of tears. How could her father cope with losing this place, and their four pitiful horses? They didn’t have much, but Hank had pinned his hopes on making a go of it.

  Nervous and anxious, she leaned against the cabinet needing to talk. She looked at this stranger, who probably didn’t care one way or another, and decided to be honest with him. She was getting tired of wailing her problems at Nellie’s docile face.

  “He was a cowhand when he met my mother in Denver,” she said. “Ma’s family owned a mercantile business, and he was persuaded to hang up his spurs and become a merchant. He was never happy. Ma used to say”—she smiled, remembering—“that Pa loved horses more than he loved her. It wasn’t true, of course.”

  Luke was staring down at her, listening thoughtfully. “But he stayed in the mercantile business?” he asked.

  “Yes. He did.”

  “Then you should be thankful for that,” he said flatly. Bitterness edged his tone, an indifferent mask slipping over his face again.

  She sauntered to the stove and shook the battered coffeepot to see if there was anything left. A slosh answered her question.

  “We were thankful,” she said, heating the coffee. “But Ma wanted him to be happy. That’s why she let her brother take advantage of them.”

  “What do you mean? Or maybe I shouldn’t ask.”

  She shrugged. “My uncle was a dreamer, always chasing after get-rich-quick schemes. He never helped out in the family business. Finally Ma and Pa bought out his share after her parents died. Then, when he’d squandered everything, he came back to Denver with a real deal for them! He’d trade his horse ranch here for their share of the mercantile business. Pa jumped at the chance to have a small ranch, to go back to horses.” She sighed. “It was a sorry bargain, but we’ve made the best of it.”

  “Made the best of it?” he echoed. “Why didn’t your pa go back and thrash the daylights out of him?”

  Suzanne laughed. “I guess Pa felt like doing that, but…” Her eyes swept over the living room, seeing in her mind’s eye their nice living room in Denver: a room filled with Victorian furnishings, oil paintings, and Brussels carpets. That vision faded and she was looking at a horsehair couch, a straight-backed wooden chair, and a few plain end tables. A black iron stove and open shelves completed the kitchen. Only a few dishes and cooking utensils along with sparse cooking staples were visible on the shelves. Her gray eyes returned to the stranger in her kitchen. “My parents lived by Christian principles. They tried to believe that God had a reason for bringing them here.”

  “And what reason,” he asked coldly, “did God have for letting your mother die?”

  The harshness of his tone stunned her as much as the cruel question he had asked. She stared for a moment, shocked to the core. Before she could summon a reply, however, he had turned and stridden out of the room, back to the porch. Her eyes followed him through the door, as he bounded dow
n the steps, his right hand extended over his wounded shoulder, as if he thought to protect it. But there seemed no way to protect, or to heal, the terrible wound he carried in his heart. And she began to suspect that wound had nothing to do with a bullet.

  CHAPTER 6

  Luke had gone for a walk, ending up down behind the house near a stream. He propped his shoulder against a cottonwood trunk and allowed the spring breeze to soothe his frustration.

  He had no right to speak to her that way, he knew it. But he was getting sick of hearing them pour out all their goodness and mercy. They were living in another world, not the real one.

  Maybe they were just being nice to him, hoping he would stay on and work for them for free. Their price for saving his life. He lifted a broad hand and plowed through his thick hair. If only he had some money to give them, but he had nothing.

  He recalled how he had been suckered in at the Godfrey ranch. William Godfrey had been a decent man, generous with his ranch hands, and kind to Luke. Then Amanda Godfrey, the old maid daughter, had set her eyes and her hopes on him, and all the trouble had started. She had been determined to have him, and she really thought it would be easy to hook him. She’d even told him so.

  He sighed and began to walk toward the corral where he spotted Smoky, prowling restlessly. He hadn’t figured Mr. Godfrey would go back on his word, but then blood was thicker than water, as Ma used to say.

  He looked back at the Waters’ cabin and wondered if they were setting that kind of trap for him. They seemed like kind, decent folks, but so had the Godfreys.

  No, he couldn’t take any chances. He’d help them out for a day or two, he owed them that. Then he’d find a job along the route to Colorado Springs. He could get a job; he’d been working since he was twelve years old.

  “Hey, boy,” he called to his horse.

  The big horse trotted to the fence, thrusting his head forward to nuzzle Luke.

  “Glad to see me, aren’t you?”

  He stroked the horse’s gleaming coat, looking him over. “Looks like someone’s taking care of you all right. We’ll be leaving soon. We don’t stay cramped up long, do we?”

  He drew a deep breath of fresh air into his lungs, enjoying the smell of evergreen that mingled on the breeze. He wouldn’t lose his temper again; he wouldn’t insult her. He had no right. But she got to him as no other woman had. He couldn’t stop looking at her, and now she was popping up in his thoughts when he should be thinking of more important things. Like remembering the reason he was headed to Colorado Springs.

  Sundays had always been special days for Suzanne and her parents. In Denver most of their Sundays had been the same: church services followed by large Sunday dinners where family and friends gathered to enjoy food and fellowship. While their surroundings had changed drastically when they had taken up ranch life, one thing had not changed. Sundays were days of worship.

  In the beginning, Suzanne’s mother had simply brought out the family Bible and read scripture. Sometimes they sang a hymn, other times they prayed quietly. Then, Iva Parkinson had come calling, inviting them to Trails End on Sunday for a service held on the front porch of their ranch home. Soon that had become the tradition for the community.

  At first it had been difficult for Hank and Suzanne to go to Trails End Ranch without Abigail. But after that first dreadful Sunday, when they’d spent the day mourning Abigail, Hank had informed Suzanne that her mother would expect them to go to worship. Missing Abigail more than ever the next Sunday, they had dressed and gone to Trails End to join in community worship and had not missed a Sunday since.

  “Will you be going over to the Parkinson’s ranch today?” Hank asked as Suzanne stood at the stove, stirring the breakfast gravy.

  She yawned. “Yes, but I think you could be excused.”

  “I think so, too,” he quickly agreed.

  Suzanne smiled. If she had suggested that he go, he would have joined her, but she thought it was best for him to stay home. “I’ll tell them you’ll be back next week,” she said.

  He glanced toward the closed door of the bedroom. “Luke is sleeping late.”

  Luke! Suzanne’s fingers stiffened as she popped open a biscuit and spread gravy over it. She had not told her father the vicious words the man had spoken yesterday. He had avoided her ever since, and she was glad for that. She knew how to apply alcohol and cotton and bandage to an outer wound. But this man had something festering in his soul. It would take a mightier power than she to heal that kind of wound, but Luke Thomason didn’t want to read their verses or hear anything about the love of God.

  She sat down at the table, nibbling on a small biscuit. She had left a larger one on the stove, in case their grumpy guest decided he was hungry. She glanced across the table at Pa. He is strangely quiet this morning, suspiciously quiet, she thought.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  He withdrew the gold watch Ma had given him and studied the numerals on its face.

  “Eight o’ clock.”

  “I’d better get dressed.”

  Later, as she hurried through the living room, grabbing up her Bible, she met Luke’s stare from the bedroom door.

  “Good morning,” he said, his tone cool, reserved.

  His hair was neatly combed and his face bore evidence of a recent shave. The mustache was gone. She liked his face even better without the mustache.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  He was looking her up and down, his eyes lingering on the front of her dress. Was something wrong, she wondered, glancing down to see if she had popped a button. No. The dress looked pretty enough, all cleaned and pressed. She loved the color—blue like a spring sky—and it complimented her gold hair and gray eyes.

  Her eyes returned to him, and now he was staring at her hair. Suzanne lifted a hand, absently smoothing the hair net covering the chignon she wore today. Why was he looking at her that way? Then it came to her: this was the first time he had seen her in a dress, rather than pants and a shirt. Doing a man’s work! Hadn’t that been his expression?

  She felt her cheeks bum as he continued to stare at her, and a wave of indignation swept her. He had a wife somewhere; he had no right looking at her like that, making her feel self-conscious. It was time to put the man in his place.

  “Mr. Thomason, could I ask you something?”

  “What is it?”

  “Are you married?”

  His dark brows arched at her bold question. No doubt, he was wondering what had prompted her question. She held herself erect, her eyes never wavering from his face.

  “No.”

  A simple word that told her nothing.

  She opened her mouth to ask about the wedding band, then just as quickly she pressed her lips together. She couldn’t bring herself to mention the ring; perhaps it was pride. She didn’t want him to think she had been pilfering through his things. Actually, she had been looking for some identification, but there was no point in explaining that now.

  “I left breakfast on the stove,” she said, hurrying through the front door.

  The spring morning was warm, but not uncomfortable, as Suzanne cantered Nellie toward Trails End Ranch, as puzzled as ever about Luke Thomason. Then suddenly she solved the mystery of Luke and the wedding band. His wife had died! Of course. That was why he was so mad at the world, so angry and bitter. Her heart began to soften, and by the time she joined the small group assembled on the wide porch of the rambling ranch house and joined in singing “Rock of Ages,” she had forgotten her troubles.

  Arthur Parkinson Jr. a tall young man of twenty who still had not grown into his hands and feet, slipped into the chair beside Suzanne. He turned to grin at her, and she smiled politely, never missing a word of the hymn.

  Why couldn’t she feel something more than friendship for Art? she wondered as his pale blue eyes kept sneaking in her direction. He was nice, polite, well mannered. Single. And rich, Pa had reminded her. As the only son of the largest landowner in the area,
Art had something to offer.

  She sidled a glance at him. He sang in a clear tenor, but she didn’t like the way his Adam’s apple always bobbed against his collar. In fact, it was the largest Adam’s apple she’d ever seen.

  She turned her attention to Arthur Parkinson Sr., a tall, distinguished-looking man in his fifties. He stood with his Bible, ready to read scripture. She could see a vague resemblance between father and son; unfortunately, Art looked more like his mother. Suzanne scolded herself for the thought. Mrs. Parkinson was very nice—and she couldn’t help it if her eyes bulged just a bit.

  Suzanne had settled Nellie in the corral, rewarding her with a handful of oats from the dwindling supply, and headed to the house. She had spotted Pa and Luke on the porch as she turned up the path. From the way Pa’s mouth was moving, she figured he had filled Luke Thomason’s head this morning.

  Once she reached the house, she saw it was Luke who was doing the talking. Hank, for once, was doing the listening.

  “My grandfather bought land and cattle from the Mexicans in southeast Texas,” Luke was saying. “He was an immigrant who came west with only a few dollars in his pockets.”

  “So did he get rich?” Hank inquired.

  Again that pause that Suzanne had come to expect from Luke when questioned about a personal matter.

  “No, he went broke. And he drifted north to Kansas.”

  “What happened there?” Hank asked, conversationally.

  “He died a pauper.”

  An awkward silence followed. Then Hank turned to his daughter. “Did you pray for us, daughter?”

  “Of course,” she replied, allowing her smile to extend from her father to Luke for a brief moment. “Mrs. Parkinson was in true form this morning, missing all the high notes to ‘Rock of Ages’.”

  Hank laughed heartily, appreciating her humor, but Luke’s mouth merely twitched.

  “And did Art sneak a seat beside you?” Hank demanded good-naturedly, winking at Luke. “Parkinson’s son has a crush on Suzanne.”

  “Pa!” she reprimanded sharply, lifting her skirt to plant a kid leather slipper on the slab log step.