by Carol Arens
“Tell your brothers that Boone Walker’s in town—they are dethroned.” He wasn’t sure whether his name meant anything to Lump King or not. His expression was as blank as his emotions probably were. “Giddy up!”
At his shout, the horse bolted. Couldn’t tell where the animal might run to, but the further the better. Eventually the disgusting King would end up back home. Even if he didn’t remember the message, the rope and the missing gun would speak loud enough.
Only one thing mattered at this moment: getting his own to the safety of the homestead before the storm hit. The one in the sky and the one he’d just created.
Chapter Five
The first storm, the one with raindrops pelting his shoulders, hit when they were pulling into the yard of the homestead.
Looking at the house from a hundred feet away it appeared to be a sturdy place; the walls solid and the glass windows unbroken. Even the barn seemed to be in decent repair.
There was a tree in the paddock, but just the one, and it was a scraggly looking thing with only a few withered leaves to witness that it was October.
The terrain surrounding the homestead consisted of low rolling hills, dried and brown. Seeing an approaching enemy might be difficult.
Tomorrow, come rain or high water, he would look for ways to make the property more secure.
It might need to be a fortress after he’d dumped Mathers’s well-devised scheme onto the dirt of Main Street.
Life sure had an inconvenient way of derailing plans.
But after seeing the Kings firsthand, after witnessing the true depravity of their natures, it had become clear that a passive farmer would not attract their attention as quickly as a renowned outlaw would.
Given the threats they had hurled at the doctor, there was no time for playacting. The sooner their attention was focused away from the healer and toward Boone, the better.
The trip from Jasper Springs to the homestead was not a long one, an hour and that with a heavily loaded wagon. An easy ride by horse might take half an hour, an all-out run a good bit less.
According to Mathers’s notes, the homestead was located equal distance between town and the outlaw ranch, the property lines abutting on the northern boundary.
Raindrops dribbled off his Stetson to rat-a-tat-tat on his coat.
Beside him, Melinda had fallen asleep wrapped in an oilcloth. He knew the exact moment that her head fell against his arm because the scent of damp flowers wafted up. How did she manage that? To smell like flowers even under unlikely conditions?
“Looks like a primitive sort of place,” Stanley said when they pulled up to the front door. “Not like what Melinda will be used to.”
“A shack is primitive.” Four solid walls to keep out the rain and the wind was sanctuary. A site more than what he was accustomed to. “This’ll do fine.”
It bothered him some, that the lawyer thought his wife would look down on a place that to him was a step away from paradise.
No reason that should bother him, though. She was only his wife in name and that for a short time. What she thought or didn’t think was only a passing concern.
The only obligation he had to Melinda Winston-Walker was to take her home alive and unharmed.
And to get her in out of the rain.
Tucking the tarp more securely around her, he gathered her in his arms and stood. The wagon creaked. Melinda stirred, blinked her eyes open.
“I’ll—” she yawned “—walk.” She could only be half awake the way her words came out slurred.
“You’ll fall. Rest your head, Mrs. Walker.”
She sighed. Her eyes fluttered closed. He reckoned she was asleep the way her weight went limp in his arms, her breath slowing to the shallow rise and fall of slumber.
“I’ll bring our goods inside before they get soaked,” Stanley said, dismounting his mule and scaling the back of the buckboard.
“Appreciate it.”
Carrying Melinda didn’t take more effort than hefting a sack of potatoes, even when he shifted her weight to one arm to climb down.
Stanley shot him a frown. Chances are he didn’t care for Boone laying hands on his charge.
Boone carried his wife up the porch steps and unlocked the door. He carried her over the threshold of the small house, oddly disappointed that she slept through what genuine newlyweds would consider romantic.
Hell’s curses, he’d better keep in mind that they were not genuine newlyweds.
It looked as if the place had been abandoned in a hurry. There was firewood stacked beside the hearth in the main room and a book lying open on the floor. A loaf of stale bread was on the table, only half of it sliced. A pot of rancid-smelling something or other set on a stove so new-looking that it could hardly have been broken in.
From what Mathers had written, the home hadn’t been abandoned for long when he’d rented it from the fleeing owners for the purpose of bringing the Kings to justice.
The only bedroom had a bed, a lady’s vanity and a big, overstuffed chair. On the wall was an off-kilter needlework that read Home Sweet Home.
The house looked more than adequate to him but according to Smythe, Melinda would find it lacking.
Even though Melinda was his wife, Smythe was better acquainted with her.
There were women who put on fancy airs along with satin and lace. He hoped that she was not one of them. For the short time that she was with him, she would need common sense and a stiff backbone.
Pretty manners and a winning smile wouldn’t keep her safe from what they would be facing. Those frilly clothes she usually wore would only get in the way.
But there was no denying that even wearing a plain brown dress, her only adornment the raindrops sprinkling her hair, dotting her face, Mrs. Walker was dazzling.
Maybe Smythe was wrong about her being too good for this house. It would be a shame to have such loveliness tainted by an overgrown ego.
Melinda sighed in her sleep. One corner of her mouth lifted in a smile. Pink and dewy, her skin looked like a flower petal.
He didn’t get the sense that she was proud. Wrong-headed in her sense of adventure, yes. Also, she seemed skilled at getting her way. In this, his young bride made him uneasy.
He sat in the chair, settled her weight in his arms. The lady sure could sleep.
Outside, the wind increased, drumming rain against the window. Cold air rushed into the room from the open front door. No doubt Smythe was getting soaked. He ought to get up and help, but that would mean putting Melinda down. He’d never held an honorable lady in his arms before and might not get the chance to do it again.
Odd, how he wanted to tighten his grip and keep her safe from everything.
Besides, the bed was not yet made up. He could only admit to be glad of that because once he put her down he’d have to quit studying her pretty face. He wasn’t quite finished doing that.
“Smythe,” he called softly when he heard something scraping the floor. “Make up the bed with those linens packed in the trunk, won’t you?”
The lawyer poked his head around the door, his hair dripping water down the scowl lines creasing his mouth.
“While you sit there holding Sleeping Beauty?”
Boone stroked a smattering of raindrops from her nose, then her cheeks with the pad of his thumb. Couldn’t help but smile.
“That about sums it up.”
When he glanced up, Smythe’s scowl had vanished, replaced by an indulgent smile. “She’s a sound sleeper.”
Boone nodded. The sleep of the innocent, he reckoned. That was something he had not experienced in many years.
Smythe rooted through the trunk, found the sheets and pronounced them dry.
When he finished making the bed he lit a fire in the small bedroom hearth.
“Lay her on the bed. I’ll see to her comfort,” the lawyer said.
“As much as I like you, Smythe, I’m her husband. No one will see to my wife’s comfort but me. Keep the door open if it makes you feel better.”
“As much as I appreciate that, Walker, I’m the one sworn to her well-being.”
“Not anymore.”
Smythe cast him a hard look from behind his rain-spotted glasses. “Melinda deserves your respect.”
“She’s got that and more. I’ll defend her with my life if it comes to it.”
Smythe nodded. “I expect nothing less. I’ll see to the animals then rustle us up some supper.”
The door closed and Boone nearly laughed. A couple of days ago the dedicated lawyer would have said he’d “prepare a meal” or something of the sort.
He had not been making that up about liking Smythe. How could one not admire a fellow so dedicated to dedication?
He’d also not been making it up about being the one to see to his wife’s needs. While he might not be a husband in the normal way of things, it did fall to him to care for her in the ways that he could.
From what he knew of her so far, Melinda Winston-Walker would need watching over.
He lay her down on the bed and removed her shoes. He unbuttoned the cuffs at her wrists then the pair of buttons at her collar.
It was hard not to stare at her face. She was uncommonly fair. She brought to mind a delicate porcelain doll. He pulled the quilt up under her chin. When he did, his knuckles brushed her throat. She didn’t feel like a porcelain doll, not by a mile.
That little bit of bare flesh was warm, as soft and as alluring as any woman’s he had ever touched.
No, that was not quite true. Melinda, even while sleeping, was more arousing than a skilled temptress.
He picked up her hand to put it under the quilt but held it for a moment, gazing at the fair, unlined skin.
As tempting as it was at this moment in time to let his mind wander, there was no hope that this marriage could ever be more than what it was meant to be.
She was a lady, he an outcast. Their only bond a temporary arrangement.
But he’d never forget that for a time this rare and beautiful woman had been his wife.
* * *
Now that Melinda was no longer a homesteader’s wife, but an outlaw’s instead, it would be appropriate to bury the dull brown gown in the bottom of her trunk and dress the way she was accustomed to.
Then again, it was raining hard and had been all night long. Outside there was mud, mud and more mud. Anything she wore was bound to become dredged in it.
This plain garment would be more easily laundered than yards of lace.
At breakfast this morning Boone had instructed her to remain inside where it was warm, dry and comfortable.
What, she could only ask, was comfortable about watching through the parlor window while the pair of them went from the front window to the door to the back window, getting soaked to the skin while they devised a plan for securing the house?
Nothing is what. Especially after she had finished putting on a pot of soup to simmer after she’d mixed dough for biscuits.
Deciding what to wear when the choice was obvious was a tedious task, as was listening to the drum of the rain on the roof and the distant hammer of nails into wood.
Out in the barn, Boone and Stanley were now building shutters to fortify the windows. That didn’t seem like an overly difficult task, one that only a male could do.
Billbro whined and scratched at the door.
“You’d need a bath that would take days if I let you out there.”
She had never seen a beast such as this one allowed inside a house.
“Besides, Boone says you need to stay inside and protect me from every ill wind. Did you know that ill winds do not blow upon ladies on pedestals? You are right. It’s nonsense. We are going out. If the rain melts us, so be it.”
She shimmied out of her petticoat and her warm stockings. Respectable underclothes be hanged when it came to laundering mud from them. With a shimmy and a wriggle she put on the brown dress then tugged on the scuffed boots.
After knotting her hair in a simple bun, she motioned to the dog.
“Come along, then, let’s see what’s happening.”
Together, they ran the hundred feet to the barn. They became soaked in an instant but burst through the barn door feeling invigorated.
Apparently the joy she felt at running through the crisp, clean rain was not shared by the men.
Standing behind a worktable they had constructed, they scowled at her, Boone holding three nails between his lips and Stanley with his hammer halfway to burying one in a piece of wood.
“I’ve come to help.”
Boone spit out the nails. Stanley’s aim missed the mark.
“Go back inside, Melinda,” Boone ordered. “There’s nothing you can do here.”
“I see a lot of wood needing to be nailed.” Yes, indeed, there were a number of boards that used to belong to the wagon lying on the floor alongside a bucket full of nails.
“Have you ever nailed anything?” Boone asked.
“I’ve not had the occasion to but, really, how hard can it be?”
“Harder than one might imagine,” Stanley said. He gave her his hammer and a nail. “Give it a try.”
“Stanley!” She took the tool but clung to his hand. “You’ve got blisters! They’re bleeding.”
The little man shrugged, nodded his head. He didn’t say so, but she guessed that he was proud of his wounds.
“They need cleaning and bandaging,” she said, setting the hammer down. “I’ve seen less than this fester and require amputation.”
That grim prediction didn’t make him look any unhappier.
“Go into the house and have some soup. I’ll be along shortly to tend to it.”
“It’s time to eat, anyway,” Boone said. “We’ll be up as soon as I see how easily my wife can hammer a nail.”
The challenge had been cast. How she wished she had some experience at driving a nail.
As soon as Stanley shut the door behind him, Boone said, “Let’s see you bury that nail.”
The glint of male superiority in his eye was annoying. Just because she had never done this did not mean that she could not. How hard could it be? Just aim the hammerhead and plunk, in would go the nail.
Billbro yawned then circled his damp, furry body down onto a pile of straw.
She picked up the hammer again. Boone stood at her back. He was close enough that she could smell his masculine scent, feel the heat of his chest pulsing against her back even though they were not touching.
His breath, warm and moist, huffed against her nape. All on their own, the fine hairs stood up. She almost wished that she had not worn a bun—almost, but not quite.
Quickly, before he could thoroughly distract her, she picked up a nail. She pinched the iron between her thumb and fingers then, with all her strength, she swung the hammerhead down.
Boone gripped her fist an instant before impact.
“You were about to smash your thumb.”
“I was about to show you how—” She glanced up and behind. He was looking at her hand, cradling it in his fingers and rubbing the spot she had been about to hit as though she had actually done it.
She dropped the hammer, mesmerized by the expression in his eyes—tender and angry all at the same time.
Her heart started to thump harder. The oddest sensation fluttered in her belly.
This man was not like any she had ever been acquainted with. He was not one that her mother would approve of. Not a gentleman with smooth hands and a bank account full of money. Gentlemanly sons-in-law were all-important to Mama. After the sc
andal of Papa’s death, she had devoted her life to seeing her girls married to pillars of society.
Clearly, Boone was not Mama’s vision of a good match.
Nor was he the hero she had pinned her childish dreams upon; that distant, misty man who was strong, adoring and admirable in every way.
Although, Boone did look like him; strikingly so.
No, this man was an outlaw, hard of expression with a dangerous glint in his eye, but not, it must be said, when he looked at her.
Still, this supposed dastardly criminal was her legally wed husband and his expression had just turned soft, perplexed-looking. His lips pressed together in puzzlement.
And...and yes, completely and without reservation, she wanted to kiss them.
He turned her slowly around, keeping hold of her nearly injured hand. She moistened her lips, ready and wanting his kiss most desperately in spite of the fact that it was not prudent. She rose up on her toes.
“You’ve seen an amputation?” he asked.
He might have dumped water on her, her confusion was that great. How could she possibly have misread the moment so miserably?
“Naturally.” She snatched up the nail then the hammer.
Once again she tried to pin the nail to the wood, but she hit wide. On her next try she managed to get the blamed thing into the lumber a full quarter of an inch.
She heard Boone chuckle.
With her next fell of the hammerhead she knocked the nail sideways. It came out of the wood and skittered across the table.
“Apparently,” she said with as much pride as she could fake, “this is more difficult than it seems.”
“But you witnessed an amputation? With or without fainting?”
“I could hardly faint when I was assisting the doctor—your brother.”
Boone leaned against the table, his thigh pressing the wood. My word, he was uncommonly tall. Even when she hoisted up to sit on the table she had to lift her gaze.
“You don’t look like—” He shook his head. “I would never have guessed.”
Really? “What do I look like?”
Fluff and feathers? Sugar and spice? A helpless, swoon-prone female?
