Sparked By Fire (Dorado, Texas Book 4)

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  “You’ve convinced me.” The rustling of layers of clothes preceded the scent of Ivey’s soap and her warmed skin. “Now I’ve got to experience what I’m missing.” First, the bonnet was removed, and she set it on a rock before unhooking the laces of her over-the-ankle boots and easing them off. Next came her stockings and then her dainty feet slipped into the water. “My, that’s chilly. But, you’re right, it’s an invigorating cold.”

  Berg liked hearing the lighthearted tone in her voice. Sometimes, he worried about how much effort was involved in providing the meals for so many people. He knew how much stamina was needed to keep working in a heated space during the hot summer months.

  Water swished and gurgled as they swung their feet against the current. Once, they accidentally touched the sides of each other’s foot—an intimate experience that he was sure brought color to his own cheeks.

  She kicked her feet and giggled at the spray that the breeze blew onto her face. “I haven’t felt this carefree in years. What a great suggestion this was.” Then she leaned down, scooped up handfuls of water, and tossed them high. Jumping up, she grabbed her skirts, held them out of the water, and waded a foot or so away.

  Berg knew he should avert his gaze, but what man didn’t enjoy the curve of a shapely calf and the turn of a slender ankle?

  “Uh, oh.” Ivey stood rigid, her eyelids widening to show the whites all around her blue eyes.

  “Is it a water snake? Tell me where, and I’ll get it.” Berg jumped to his feet, grabbed the closest overhanging branch, and yanked it from the tree.

  “Not a snake. But something is crawling up my leg, inside my…” She bit her lip and looked toward where the group was last seen. “Inside my unmentionables. Ow.”

  Her pained cry grabbed his chest and squeezed. “What?” He charged into the water, scanning the surface for a snake. If it was a cottonmouth, they needed to know right away. “Talk to me.”

  “It stings. I think I’ve been stung by a bee.”

  “Show me.”

  She gasped and jerked her head to the side. “I can’t do that. Call for my sister. But hurry, this hurts.” Her lower lip quivered.

  That does it. “I don’t know where they are.” Berg swung her up into his arms and strode for the dry bank. “Penn, MacInnes. Help at the creek side.” Concern made him shout. He settled her on a rock away from the water. “We have to remove the stinger, Ivey. Which leg?”

  The crashing of running bodies through the bushes grew louder.

  Huffing out a breath, Menendez swept the hat off his head. “Mister, what’s happening?”

  Penn dashed up to them from along the water’s edge then frowned. “Why are my sister’s feet and legs bare?”

  Glaring at the visiting cowboy, Berg moved to block the newcomer’s view. “We were dangling our feet, and Ivey’s been stung.”

  Ivey leaned forward. “Penn, where’s Maisie?”

  “She’s already walking back to the house with Dylan. I was almost to the back corral when I heard the yell.” He crouched at Ivey’s side and patted her hand. “What can I do? What would Granny use?”

  “You’re right. I’m not thinking straight. Look for either a plantain weed or wild garlic.” She went on to describe the details of the leaf shapes and colors.

  “Be back soon.” Penn headed up the bank, using exposed roots to pull himself upward.

  Narrowing his gaze, Berg pointed at Menendez. “You, sir, can leave. We’ve got the help we needed.” He watched as the man nodded and disappeared then he waved a hand toward Ivey’s leg. “I’ll turn my back, but you have to expose enough skin to expose the stinger.” He set his feet apart and angled his body so he was looking over the creek. “Scrape your nail across it and make sure to get out all of the stinger.”

  “Oh, this is so embarrassing.” A sigh sounded. “The sting’s on the back of my knee. I can’t see it.”

  “Are you asking for my help?” Berg held his breath, hoping she wouldn’t stand on being too proper.

  “Yes.”

  The note of resignation fueled his turn. He saw she’d scrunched her eyes closed, but her leg was angled to expose the back side. Just one quiet, breathless word, but his heart rate soared. He dropped to his knees and saw a pink circle with the dark stinger surrounded by her pearly white skin. With his left hand, he pinched the surrounding skin and using the nails on his right thumb and pointer, he yanked it out. Close inspection showed the stinger to be intact. Only after he’d completed his task did he register the smooth texture of her soft skin.

  “Here, I was sure about the garlic.” Penn jogged back and held out a thin green stalk with a whitish-brown bulb at the end. His narrowed gaze flipped between Ivey’s leg and Berg kneeling at her side. “Looks like you got out the stinger.”

  “Berg did.” She tossed her skirts over her exposed legs. “Crush a couple of cloves into a paste, and then I’ll put it on the sting.” A finger pointed toward the log. “Take one of my stockings and get it wet. Then I’ll tie it around my leg to hold the garlic in place.”

  The men worked as a team and followed her instructions. Then Berg hurried to pull on his socks and boots. He didn’t bother with unrolling his pant hems.

  After rinsing his hands in the creek, Penn stood and turned a frowning look on his sister. “Can you walk, Ivey?”

  Berg wasn’t about to let her walk on an injured leg. “No need. I’ll carry her back.”

  “That’s not nec—” Ivey let out a squeal. “Whoops.”

  Scooping up Ivey, Berg adjusted his hold and cradled her high on his chest. The mixture of sweet flowers and warm woman entered his nose. “This is necessary. That poultice has to stay in place to work.”

  “Oh.” After a moment’s hesitation, she wrapped an arm around his neck and then pointed. “Penn, please grab my bonnet and shoes. Don’t forget the berry buckets, too.”

  “Right, Ivey.” Penn grinned and snapped a salute.

  “Well, that bee sting didn’t dampen your bossiness any.” Berg chuckled, relieved her injury hadn’t been any worse. Besides, he liked the notion of protecting her and keeping her safe. Feelings that only a few months ago he never thought he’d experience.

  Her posture stiffened for a moment, and then she relaxed with a hand resting on his shoulder.

  The heat from her body blended with his, and a sense of contentment settled deep inside. “You know, Ivey Treadwell, in some cultures, what just happened would mean we’re betrothed.”

  Chapter Four

  July 4, 1877 dawned sunny, as was typical for summer in central Texas. The air heated as the sun climbed into the sky. During the past two days, Ivey had fluttered between numerous tasks in the kitchen, with barely a spare moment to think about the incident at the creek.

  Although her mother had plenty to say about the spectacle of her daughter being carried through the streets of Dorado. With her bare feet exposed for all to see, no less.

  Ivey chose to remember that walk as being the most romantic act she’d ever experienced, and she’d hold its memory close to her heart forever. Besides, the swelling of the sting was almost gone. Unless she hit it against a chair as she sat, she barely noticed the sore spot.

  Today, she wore a new blouse—white muslin with embroidered vines along the neckline that skimmed her collarbones. Elbow-length sleeves would hopefully keep her cool in the afternoon heat. She glanced at the clock and shook her head. Never enough time. A pan of buttermilk-crispy chicken pieces had five more minutes of baking time. Fluffy cloverleaf rolls were wrapped in a cloth, and the potato salad filled the biggest ceramic bowl the household possessed. A jar of Mama’s renown peppered pickles sat in the corner of the big wicker basket.

  The back-door hinges squeaked.

  Suddenly, Berg was here, filling the doorway with his solid size. A tan shirt stretched over his chest, and the rolled-up sleeves exposed muscled forearms. Brown suspenders held up faded denims. The smile that erupted displayed her pleasure at seeing him for the firs
t time today. For whatever reason, he’d not joined the others at this morning’s breakfast table.

  “Good morning. Are you ready?”

  Since the berry-picking day, she could only think of him by his given name. “Almost, Berg. Thank you again for bringing your horse and cart.” A peek past him had confirmed a dappled-gray draft horse stood outside, hitched to the canopied buggy she’d seen him drive on occasion. “Penn’s wagon was filled to the brim when he left ten minutes ago.”

  “An escort comes prepared.” He reached to the side and lifted a tall, narrow box, framed on the long sides with metal strips. “Here’s a pie carrier.” He set it on the bin table, turned the brass latch, and opened the slatted door to reveal narrow shelves.

  Stepping closer, she counted six shelves. “Oh, my.” Ivey leaned forward to examine the carrier. The shelves consisted of thin strips of wood set into a wooden frame. Each one fit into slots molded along the sides of a four-posted metal upright. The construction allowed for sufficient air flow to prevent mold. She envisioned how she could use this carrier as storage in the kitchen and free up in-demand counter space. “I’ve never seen anything like this.” Another thoughtful gift to make her work easier. The realization made her pulse race.

  “I made it for today. Well, to be honest, Shipley provided the wooden pieces. But I gave him the specifications.” He gestured toward the sides where the outline of a pie had been burned into the pale wood. “These I added.” Small holes were inset in the steam curlicues above the upper crust and along the outline of the pie pan.

  Clasping her hands under her chin, she turned to meet his gaze, hoping her smile displayed her gratitude. “Thank you. Berg Spengler, you are a handy man to have around.”

  His huge body went rigid, and then a grin burst on his lips. “I like hearing that. Now, load up those pies, and let me see if this carrier is sized right.”

  “Did you steal one of my pie pans, too?” She pretended to be mad and narrowed her gaze as she crossed her arms over her middle.

  An eyebrow cocked high. “Remember, I like fiery things. Sassiness is another kind of fire.”

  His dark gaze stared into hers, and she felt the connection all the way to her toes. Her stomach tightened with the awareness they were alone in the house. Turning, she hurried to the counter where the pies sat, each covered with a cloth. “Two more are on the sideboard in the dining room.”

  “I’ll fetch them.” With long strides, Berg walked from the room, whistling.

  Ivey sagged against the counter and pressed both hands to her heated cheeks. In such a short time, Berg had gone from a taciturn man to one who spoke his mind. What had she unleashed?

  ***

  Hours later, the holiday celebration on the Altbusser Ranch was in full swing. Berg had helped Ivey deliver the food to the appointed tables before leaving her so he could picket his Percheron, Tier, with the other horses. Thankfully, Missus Treadwell agreed to remain at the table. With a shooing motion, she encouraged them to wander around and enjoy the activities.

  Never had he felt so proud than when strolling the pasture with Ivey’s hand tucked into his elbow. He acknowledged the men he knew with a dip of his chin and lifted his hat when Ivey made introductions to her women friends and acquaintances. But he preferred their private moments of watching the children running a race while holding an egg on a spoon or laughing together over the frenzied sloppiness of the watermelon-eating contest. Just walking at her side filled him with contentment.

  Now, they’d moved to where folks gathered to watch the horse racing.

  “Are you sure you can see?” Berg positioned himself behind Ivey and had a clear view over her head of the marked-off lanes in the open field.

  “Yes, I can. Who do you think will win the race?” Ivey turned her head from side to side to look over the crowd. “I’m sure Clari and Maisie are close by. Clari is supposed to wave the start flag. I know both Mister Driscoll and Mister MacInnes talked about entering their favorite horses. Do you see them?”

  Berg cringed inside. Ivey sounded so excited about this race that he wished he was one of the entrants. Just to know she was in the crowd rooting for him would be special. “They’re lining up now. Trevor’s riding the black and Dylan’s mount is the roan stallion he brought to town for Hawksen.”

  “Did I hear my name?” Kell Hawksen clapped a hand on Berg’s shoulder. “Spengler, good to see you here.”

  Smiling, Berg turned and extended his hand. “Glad to be here today, sheriff.” The Shady Oaks ranch owner had always been a good customer. The youngster with light brown hair and green eyes perched on Hawksen’s shoulders clamped an arm tighter around his papa’s neck. Too often that happened when Berg was around young children. Regret forced him to take a step backward.

  “Good afternoon, Kell.” Ivey smiled up at the pair and reached out a hand to tickle the little guy’s stomach. “Hey, Davin. You’re getting so big. And wearing matching red shirts. Did your mama sew those?”

  “Yup.” The two-year-old tyke grinned and nodded.

  “Wait until you see little Maeve. She’ll be walking any day, and then there’ll be no stopping her.” The ex-Texas Ranger chuckled.

  With a pang that tightened his throat and went straight to his heart, Berg realized what Kell described was exactly what he wanted—a wife and family. He yearned for a woman who sewed his clothes, cooked meals just for him, and provided him with children to dote on. With that thought, he turned his gaze toward Ivey, and he looked his fill of her flashing blue eyes and her wide smile. For the first time, he noticed her new blouse. The green stitching on the neckline looked like a replica of the design he’d stamped into her pot collar.

  “After the race, I’ll have to find Vevina and see for myself.” Ivey swung her and Davin’s clasped hands in small arcs.

  Berg studied the tot’s smiling face, seeing how such a simple act had reduced the boy’s anxiety.

  Just then a horn blew, and Parson Oswallt climbed up on a nearby tree stump. “Quiet, everyone. We’re about to begin the horse race, and we want a fair start. The race is to the tree at the far edge of the pasture, around it, and back across this rope laid in the field. Miss Rochester here will drop the flag, and may the fastest horse win.” He stepped down and held out a hand so the designated starter could climb up.

  “Ready?” A slender woman with reddish-brown hair held the red flag high. “Set.” With a last smile toward her beau, Trevor, she dropped her arm. “Go!”

  Six horses bolted forward and charged down the field, clods of dirt and grass flying behind their churning hooves. Whoops and hollers from the enthusiastic crowd urged on the riders.

  Berg admired the skill of the riders to guide their horses in a tight pack at a full gallop. Within seconds, the group stretched out and after circling the tree, Trevor and Dylan vied for the lead.

  In front of him, Ivey bounced with short hops and waved a hand in the air. “Come on, Trevor. Run, Blackie.”

  Her competitive spirit made him chuckle, but her enthusiasm was short-lived when Dylan’s fleet-footed stallion pulled ahead in the last rod to take first place. They watched as the riders walked their sweating horses past Clari to receive the prize ribbons—blue for first, red for second, and white for third. Fitting prizes for the day’s celebration of one hundred and one years of the country’s independence. He leaned close to Ivey’s ear. “Don’t let your sister know you were cheering against her beau’s horse.”

  Ivey glanced over her shoulder and crinkled her nose. “I know, that wasn’t very kind of me. But I’ve met Blackie before, and I don’t even know the name of Mister MacInnes’s horse.”

  “What’s next?” He watched as the crowd dissipated and people wandered past them, their excited voices fading to normal tones.

  She turned and looked upward, a wide smile spreading her lips. “The event I’ve been looking forward to all day.”

  He frowned but enjoyed the smile that made her blue eyes sparkle like the tips of flames
in a forge. “I thought the race was the highlight.”

  “Nope.” She shook her head and the ribbons on her bonnet danced in the air. “Next is a wood-chopping contest, and I entered you.”

  He stiffened, his usual reticence at being around strangers surfacing. “Never heard of such a thing.”

  With a girlish giggle, she grabbed his forearm and squeezed. “Hurry and grab your axe from the buggy. I had Penn stow it there right after breakfast. I’ll meet you near the woodshed over there.” She pointed toward a small structure near the Altbusser’s barn.

  As he walked across the pasture, he fell in with other townspeople headed in that direction. The weight of the axe in his hand was familiar and kept his thoughts from twirling out of control. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel strange about being close with others. The Othmanns walked ahead of him.

  “Didn’t I tell you? At the meeting, Ivey made the suggestion, and our Clari seconded it.” Missus Othmann shook her head. “Says her Trevor competed in such contests out West.”

  “Well, this I’ve got to see.” Fritz Othmann clasped a hand to his wife’s elbow. “Hurry on, Alda.”

  Their words echoed his first thought about the oddity of this type of contest. When the full impact of the words hit, Berg stopped. Ivey had suggested this strength event for him? To make him feel part of the community? When he started walking again, he couldn’t keep the swagger from his posture. He’d do his best to make a good showing—for her sake. By the time he reached the barn area, he noticed quite a crowd had gathered.

  Gerhard Altbusser, a tall wiry man with salt-and-pepper hair, stood atop one of the stumps next to the wood shed. “Folks, listen up. Competitors will have five minutes each, timed by my daddy’s stopwatch.” He waved the silver timepiece aloft. “We’re looking for the competitors to chop these biscuits—precut by my ranch hands into stove-length rounds—into eight splits each. Winner is the one with the most pieces within that timed period. No wedges are to be used, just axes and muscles. And before the contest starts, I want to extend my heartfelt thanks to all you young bucks for helping me get a head start on the winter’s woodpile.”