“You might want to shovel out some of the mess before you start each morning,” he told her.
A few moments later, when the stall was clean, he pulled a small stool up beside the cow. He reached for a bucket and set it down with a clunk. Sarah, still standing by the door and feeling rather daft, swallowed when Briggs leaned out of the stall and looked at her, his golden hair falling forward onto his face. “Coming?”
She nodded, then moved toward him. “Where do you want me?”
He placed his large hand at the small of her back, guiding her to the stool. “Have a seat right there. Maddie, be still.”
Sarah sat down, now at eye level with the cow’s broad side.
Briggs knelt down beside her. “You’re going to have to spread your knees apart to lean forward.”
Sarah tried to suppress her blush as she slowly spread her legs.
“Now grab hold of her teats and squeeze.”
Sarah reached forward, but as soon as her fingers wrapped around the warm teats, Maddie took an anxious step sideways and knocked Sarah off the stool, onto her behind. Her head hit the wall and immediately began to throb.
“Maddie!” Briggs called out. “Be still!” He set the stool on its legs again. “You okay?” he asked, as he helped Sarah up. She nodded, trying to hide her shakiness, but also trying not to melt into the warmth of his strong hand. “She knows you’re a stranger,” he said. “She’ll be better this time. Try again. Show her who’s boss.”
Sarah nervously reached forward, steadying herself for another fall, her heart thumping away inside her chest. Why did she have to do this? Couldn’t Briggs continue with it? Obviously, Maddie preferred him. But when she wrapped her hands around the warm teats, she discovered Briggs was right. Maddie stood still long enough for her to get a tight grip.
“That’s it. Now squeeze the milk out.”
Sarah squeezed with all the strength she possessed, but nothing happened. She’d never felt so incompetent in all her life.
“Keep trying,” Briggs told her. “You have to get a feel for it.”
Sarah squeezed and squeezed until her knuckles turned white, but still, no milk. “It’s not working. What’s wrong?”
Briggs stared down at Maddie’s full udder. “She won’t let the milk down. Stand up. Let me try.”
Sarah moved aside and Briggs sat down. He wrapped his hands around Maddie’s teats, and without any effort at all, he drew milk into the pail like a song. “You have to pull and squeeze at the same time,” he said. “See?”
And Sarah did see. She saw a pair of big, sun-bronzed hands, capable and strong, yet gentle at the same time, massaging the milk out of Maddie’s udder. Coaxing it with a natural rhythm. She wondered ridiculously if Maddie was enjoying herself. When Sarah remembered how Briggs had caressed her on their wedding night, she wasn’t surprised Maddie had kicked her aside.
“Now, you try,” Briggs suggested.
Sarah squatted down on the stool again, this time making an effort to imitate her husband’s style. Nothing happened at first. Then a drip fell. “There! It’s working!” It wasn’t long before Sarah, too, was coaxing the milk into the bucket in steady, forceful streams. She was doing it!
“Well done,” Briggs said.
She glanced up to find him smiling. That smile was so rare, it was captivating. It made her body tingle and her bones turn to jelly.
The milk stopped coming and the barn grew quiet. Sarah tried clumsily to fix her grip, wishing she could understand the nature of these feelings that kept rising up within her. She didn’t understand why she was so desperate to please a man who had treated her so appallingly that first day and seemed determined to resent her forever.
Sarah dropped her hands to her knees to rest them for a minute. Glancing up at Briggs, she searched his expression for some sign of warmth or affection. Or desire. He stared down at her for a long moment in the lamplight, then he looked away as if he had something else pressing to do.
Feeling rejected, Sarah returned her attention to the milking while she wondered if Briggs had seen the emotion in her eyes, or felt her desire to mend what was broken between them.
If he had seen or felt it, it was obvious he had preferred to ignore it.
He gave Maddie a pat on the back. “It shouldn’t take you much longer. Just keep going until the milk stops coming.” Then Briggs quickly turned away and walked out of the barn.
Chapter Ten
A few days later, Sarah leaned over the butter churn, pumping vigorously and massaging her sore back, when she heard the wagon pull into the yard. She quickly abandoned her work to prepare the fried salt pork with gravy, corn bread and coffee—Briggs’s usual mid-day meal.
She was slicing the bread when the door swung open. “How is the work going?” she asked, realizing she asked the same question every time he entered the house for lunch.
He always gave the same answer as he descended the steps and hung his white Stetson on the hook. “Fine. It’s coming along.”
When he approached the stove and went for the coffee pot, Sarah noticed a rip on his sleeve.
“What happened to your shirt?” She served up his food and set the plate on the table.
He tipped the coffeepot over a cup. “Gem tried to nip me.”
She walked toward him to examine the rip. “The horse did this?”
“Yes, but I deserved it. I nearly knocked her tooth out setting the bridle in place. Clumsy, I guess.”
The torn fabric hung down to reveal his bare, muscled arm. Sarah folded the sleeve back in place to see if it was a clean tear. “I can fix this while you eat. Why don’t you take it off?”
He paused with the coffee pot still in one hand, the battered tin cup in the other. Their gazes locked on each other’s, and Sarah became aware that she still held the torn fabric in place to cover his skin.
“It can wait until tonight,” Briggs said.
Sarah steeled herself, fighting the oncoming blush. “But what if you hook it on something? I’ll have twice as much sewing to do. Take it off now and I’ll be done before you finish your lunch.”
He hesitated, then set down his cup and turned away from her. The muscles in his back tensed and relaxed as his arms came up to pull the shirt off over his head.
Sarah stood behind him as the shirt fell into her waiting hands. It still held heat from his body and moisture from his hard work. She had to fight the urge to press it to her face and smell the outdoors mixed with his rugged, and intoxicating, male scent.
“I’ll be quick,” she assured him, turning to find her needle and thread. Her hands trembled as she dug through her belongings, all too aware of his shirtless presence at the table. When she finally found what she was looking for, she headed for the door without looking up.
“Where are you going?” he asked, his mouth full of food.
She paused at the bottom step. “It’s too dark in here. I need better light.”
She hurried up the stairs with the shirt draped over her arm, wondering how Briggs had the power to reduce her to this—to make her melt like butter at the sight of his shirtless male form.
But that smooth muscular chest and broad shoulders, sun-bronzed and covered in a fine sheen of glistening sweat… Good God.
With a huff, she flopped onto the chair outside and began to stitch the torn sleeve.
When she was nearly finished, she heard Briggs’s boots tapping slowly up the steps. She quickened her stitching, wanting to be done before he reached her, and in the panic, pricked her middle finger. “Ouch!”
She immediately slipped it into her mouth, sucked hard for a second, then pulled it out with a pop before returning her attention to the task of mending his shirt. Before she could complete it, his shadow fell across her lap.
“Stick yourself?” he asked.
Sarah nodded.
“Don’t rush it. I’m not ready to face the haying just yet. I think I ate too much.” He sat down on the ground beside her with his back against
the wall of the dugout.
All was silent as she stitched his shirt at record speed, refusing to look up, even for the space of a single heartbeat. Yet she knew exactly where—and how—he was sitting, still distractingly bare-chested. He had one leg bent and a forearm draped across his knee, his white Stetson tipped forward over his eyes. And those hard, rippled muscles at his core…
She was beginning to perspire heavily.
When she tied a knot in the thread, he sat up. “All done?”
“Yes. Good as new.” She examined her handiwork, then flapped the shirt in the wind.
They both stood up. With the pretext of smoothing out her skirt, Sarah handed the shirt to Briggs, while keeping her gaze lowered the entire time.
He slipped it back on and cleared his throat. “Back to work, I guess.”
Sarah also cleared her throat, nervously. “Yes, back to work.”
He walked to the wagon, examining where the tear in his sleeve used to be. When he hoisted himself up into the seat and gathered up the reins, he paused, staring straight ahead. Sarah raised her hand to her forehead, shading her eyes from the blinding glare of the sun, watching and waiting for him to slap the reins and be off. Instead, he looked at her.
“Thank you for mending my shirt, Sarah.”
Her lips fell open. She gazed up at his perfectly angled face, his jaw shadowed with stubble. For the first time, she felt as if she’d been rewarded.
“You’re very welcome.”
He thumbed the brim of his hat, and then, with elbows to knees, he flicked the reins. The harness jingled as the wagon ambled forward and out onto the vast prairie. Sarah returned to the house, skipping once on her way to the door.
* * *
Later that day, with a shiver of disgust, Sarah flicked a grasshopper off the tablecloth. Before she could blink twice, another one leaped into its place. “Get away!” she cried, swiping him with the back of her hand. Gooseflesh erupted on her back and arms like a thousand wriggling spiders.
Rubbing her palms on her apron, she collected herself and turned back to the hot stove. Earlier that afternoon, she’d collected some wild greens Martha had told her to look for, mixed them with some salt pork, onions, and potatoes, chopped everything up, and made a stew. She bent forward and removed it from the oven, breathing in the aromatic tendrils of steam. She wondered what Briggs would think of it.
Sarah looked up at the open door when she heard the wagon roll in. It seemed a little early for Briggs to be returning. She went to see what had brought him home. As she emerged from the tiny dugout and into the sunny afternoon, a hot and drowsy stillness enveloped her. It seeped uncomfortably into her skin.
“What are you doing home so early?” she asked, trying to shake away the uneasy feeling.
Briggs hopped down from the wagon and landed with a thud. “There were too many grasshoppers.” He walked toward her, his brow furrowed.
“I noticed a couple of them, myself.”
He removed his hat and stared at the darkening horizon.
“Would you like some supper?” Sarah asked. “It’s just about done.”
“Not yet.”
He stared at the sky for another few minutes, pacing back and forth, then donned his hat and moved past her toward the house where Shadow was dozing. Briggs stopped outside the door. Shadow stood up, his long ears pressed back. Whimpering, he padded toward Briggs, who squatted down to scratch behind his ears. “What’s the matter, boy? Do you smell something?”
The dog looked around and began to bark. Sarah walked to the edge of the house to see if there was a wagon approaching on the road, but nothing moved, not even the grass. Nothing chirped or sang or squawked.
A single nervous breeze lifted Briggs’s hair off his shoulder, then quickly disappeared as if it had hurried to take shelter. Feeling anxious, Sarah hugged her arms around herself.
“Darn,” Briggs grunted, then marched angrily toward the geranium plant Sarah had set outside the front door. “What’s going on?”
He removed his hat and used it to slap at the petals, shaking his head the whole time. Only then, did Sarah notice the grasshoppers falling from the shivering leaves, flitting about in a panic.
“Do you usually get this many insects?” she asked.
“Never.” His tone was laden with concern.
Sarah stood in silence, not knowing what else to do.
Briggs replaced his hat again and looked at the dusty window. Grasshoppers were beating against it as if trying to gain entry to the house. “I think you better close the front door.” Briggs picked up the damaged geranium plant to give to Sarah to take inside. They stared at each other, both of them pale with worry. “The vegetable garden,” Sarah said.
He nodded once, as if that exact thing had been registering in his mind. He turned to run around the side of the dugout. “Go inside and get some blankets!”
Without another thought, Sarah bolted into the house and down the steps. She dropped the plant onto the table and ripped the red blanket from the tacks in the ceiling. Quickly, she tore the quilt and sheets from the bed and the flour sack from the table top. Snatching a fistful of her skirt and yanking it up to her knees, she ran up the stairs with the pile of blankets in her other arm, slamming the door behind her.
Grasshoppers were flitting about, banging into the wagon and tormenting the horses, who swung their long tails and shook their heads in a feeble retaliation. Her chest tight with fear, Sarah darted around the house. She felt a sting on her cheek as she collided with one, and then another, of the vexing insects.
Keeping her head down, she rounded the house and reached the little garden where Briggs was slapping his hat over the defenseless tomato plants. Shadow was pacing back and forth, growling.
Briggs looked up and gestured with his arm. “Bring the blankets. Cover what you can. I’ll get some tools to hold them down.”
Sarah dropped the pile onto the ground. Within seconds, four or five grasshoppers leaped onto the mound of bedding. “Shoo!” Sarah hollered, as she picked up the top blanket and flapped it hard into the air. The bugs were flung heedlessly about, disoriented, then they righted their course toward the garden.
She covered the plants, knowing she was trapping dozens of the hungry insects beneath. Briggs returned with some tools and waved his hat over the green leaves, slapping and fanning the trembling plants.
After a moment, she found herself frozen in space, staring in confusion at her husband. He stood in the center of the garden, ignoring the grasshoppers on his shoulders and sleeves.
What was wrong? Why was he just standing there?
The yellow sunshine of only moments ago was turning gray. There was a loud ringing in her ears, a violent pounding against her ribcage. Briggs looked pale.
Sarah gazed into his frowning eyes, then turned slowly toward the horizon that held her husband’s attention.
“Oh, no,” she said.
A peculiar cloud was moving in from the west, too dark in color to be a rain or dust storm. It advanced all too quickly, as if powered by some unearthly energy, floating higher until it blocked the sun.
Sarah moved closer to Briggs, who protectively closed his hand around her forearm. “This can’t be happening,” he said, shaking his head with disbelief.
“What is it?”
He quickly escorted her away from the garden. “I think you better go inside.”
Sarah stopped and pulled her arm from his grasp. “Why? Tell me what it is.”
Without taking his eyes off the darkening sky, he answered. “It’s a swarm of locusts.”
Chapter Eleven
Briggs stopped and watched the grasshoppers pass like a dense shadow over the wheat field. The stalks hushed, as if they were too frightened to even breathe. The dark cloud whirled about like snowflakes in the chaos of a winter storm.
Shadow barked while Sarah and Briggs stood astonished, hypnotized as they watched the seething, fluttering mass in the distance. It roared like a prai
rie fire, rasping and ringing and crackling.
Briggs snapped himself out of his daze and continued to drag Sarah toward the house. “What about the crops?” she cried, the full meaning of this invasion settling into her brain.
“I’m going to cut what I can.”
Sarah forced him to stop. “You’re going to fight them?”
“Yes.”
“You have to let me help you.”
“No,” he replied. “You stay inside. Seal up the house.”
“I will, but then I’ll come and help.”
More pests came upon them, flying into their faces and lodging in their clothing. Sarah screeched, waving her arms.
“Sarah, I don’t think you—”
“You need my help!”
Surprised at her willingness, he looked around the yard. The horses, frightened and restless, were still hitched to the wagon, the pigs were snorting in the pen. “Okay,” he said. “Cut what you can from the vegetable garden. Get the animals into the barn and close the doors. I’m going to get my corn knife. We’ll start there.”
“What about the wheat?”
“We can only be in one place at a time. Go!” He touched the small of her back and sent her off while he ran back to the wagon.
* * *
Crunching grasshoppers under her feet with every step, Sarah ran first to the barn to seal it before it became infested. She screamed at the pigs—“Yah! Yah!”—and herded them, squealing and snorting, inside. Sarah slammed and latched the door.
Next, she ran to the edge of the yard where Maddie stood at the water trough, lowing and stomping about.
“Come on, Maddie!”
Sarah led the cow to the barn and slapped her rump. Slam, the door was shut—click, it was latched. She swung around. What next?
Mail Order Prairie Bride: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Book 1) Page 9
