Wolf Creek Wife

by Penny Richards

  “Shall I do a piece for you?”

  “I can do my own.”

  “You need to keep that bandage clean.”

  Answering him with a glower, she began to emulate his action, awkwardly using the tips of the fingers of her left hand to hold the bread.

  Will pretended not to notice what a time she was having. His pride had kicked in. He’d bent over backward to try to help her and it was clear she didn’t want anything from him. She might need it, but it didn’t look like she was willing to admit it. So much for his earlier notion that they might be headed for a better place in this blasted marriage.

  More than a little put out at her attitude, he ladled some beans onto his corn bread. He was starving, and even though they didn’t look exactly like others he’d eaten, there were plenty of them. Martha had never understood how hard he worked and how big an appetite he had. It looked like Blythe had cooked a fair amount of salt pork in them, which always made good beans.

  With his mouth watering, he took a big bite and began to chew. Stopped. Blythe glanced over at him, the expression on her face almost daring him to find fault. The beans were still hard. Not hard enough to break a tooth, but far from done. Determined not to add to the tension that was as thick as the smoke now clearing from the room, Will swallowed the mouthful and took another.

  Blythe took a bite. Her eyes grew wide and filled with tears. Without a word, she swallowed, washed down the food with some of the milk sitting at her place, stood and went to her room.

  With a heavy sigh, Will pushed back his plate. Even though he’d known it would take months, if not years, for them to reach a place of easy coexistence, he didn’t know why he was so surprised that tonight was such a disaster.

  He took a big swallow of his milk and then crumbled another big slab of corn bread that had been de-crusted into it. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had corn bread and milk for supper, and it wouldn’t be the last. When the glass was empty, he stood and gathered up their dishes, scraping the remains into the chicken scrap bowl. Then he took the big enamelware kettle from the back of the stove and poured hot water into two dishpans. It wouldn’t be the first or last time he did dishes, either.

  * * *

  Inside the gathering shadows of her bedroom, Blythe lay across her bed and cried. She’d so wanted the first meal she cooked for Will to be good, and she’d tried so hard to make it so. Instead it was a total disaster.

  She was so tired. Tired of fighting the world and for every crumb of respect. Weary of worrying about being enough. Good enough. Kind enough. Helpful enough. She was tired of people like Devon and Martha thinking she would believe everything they said. She was tired of trying and failing, and tired of being so tired all the time.

  She wished she were more accomplished. Oh, she had plenty of education and was smart enough to have done quite well in school. She had drawing and sewing talents, but what good were they when she couldn’t even prepare a decent meal for the man she’d married?

  Why had Will changed his mind about marrying her? She knew she was crazy for believing anything that came from Martha Rafferty’s lips, but Blythe couldn’t help the niggling doubt Martha had planted in her mind.

  It was that doubt that had made her so short with him when he came in, even though she’d known she was behaving like the spoiled brat he thought she was. But what else was a woman to do when they heard that kind of accusation against their husband? Was there a certain way they were supposed to react? How could she find out the truth? Could she trust that Will would be honest if she asked him? Of course, she could always ask Win.

  Never!

  It was simple. Either she believed Will was committed to their marriage bargain or she didn’t, and even though she’d been proved wrong before, something said she could trust him. By the time she finally fell into a restless sleep, she was no wiser about mankind or marriage and no closer to an answer than she’d ever been. She was pretty sure, though, that she owed her husband an apology and maybe an explanation for her behavior.

  * * *

  Blythe tossed and turned most of the night, and when she finally did fall asleep toward dawn, she slept like the dead. The sound of the front door closing woke her. Another morning and she hadn’t sent her husband off with a good breakfast. She rolled to her back and stared at the ceiling, awash in a sea of failure.

  But daylight had brought back some of her determination. She had no time for disappointment or feeling sorry for herself. There was so much to do that she wasn’t sure where to start. Washing the dishes from the night before would probably be a good place. Knowing Bess Slade would be arriving soon only added more pressure to her “settling in” process.

  Determined to make today more productive than the previous one, she went through her morning toilette, dressed in the oldest skirt and shirtwaist she owned, and left her room.

  When she stepped through the door into the combined parlor and kitchen, she was surprised at how neat things were. Will had washed their supper dishes, which only made her feel small and selfish and more inadequate. A piece of paper lay on the table and, as she approached, she saw that it was filled with a bold scrawl.

  Coffee’s on the stove. There are some biscuits left. Not the best, but not as hard as your beans, and pretty good split and fried in a little bacon grease in a skillet.

  Blythe frowned and then read what he’d added.

  The part about the beans was intended to make you smile. I put them in the crock with the lid in the springhouse. You can cook them some more this afternoon and we’ll have them for supper. Cooking on a woodstove takes time to learn. See you later. Will.

  Blythe followed his instructions about the biscuits, topped them with some jam she found in the pantry and opened a can of the store-bought peaches. She didn’t know if they were as good as they tasted, or if they tasted so delicious because she was so hungry.

  When she finished her breakfast, she swept all the floors and then found a bucket, some lye soap and some rags. Starting in the bedrooms, she mopped the floors on her hands and knees, which was a chore, since she could use only one hand in the mop water, and leaning on the burned palm was definitely uncomfortable.

  When she finished those rooms, she felt as if her back were breaking, and she was worn-out. She wanted nothing more than to sit with her feet propped up for a while, but there was no time. The mantel clock showed that Will would be home for lunch in less than an hour.

  She’d heard her mother say that potato soup was quick and she had watched her make it a time or two, so she stoked up the stove, put some water on to boil, peeled some potatoes and an onion and chopped them into the water. She salted and peppered the mixture and dropped in a generous spoonful of butter. It might not be a three-course meal, but it would be hot and filling, and this time, she’d be sure that she didn’t burn anything and she would taste it to see the potatoes were done.

  In a matter of minutes the mouthwatering aroma of cooking onions filled the room. Once again, she set the table and put the butter in the center. Rummaging around in the pantry, she unearthed a tin of saltines, which she arranged on a plate. She added more of the sweet pickles he’d seemed to like that first night, and sliced more of the cheese, and set the bowl of leftover peaches on the table.

  Finally she tasted the soup and found that the vegetables were done, but it was a bit too salty for her taste. She sighed and set it to the back of the stove to stay warm.

  It would have to do.

  At least this time the food was edible.

  By the time she heard Will step onto the porch, she’d tidied her hair, changed her apron and was pouring some of the deliciously cold water from the springhouse into two glasses.

  She heard the thud of his boots as he went through his ritual of taking them off before he came inside. It was a small thing to do, but thoughtful. It must be cold fo
r him to take off his boots outside in the wintertime, and what if a spider—or, God forbid, a snake—crawled inside one during the summer! She’d have to figure something out that would make things better. Maybe a rag rug just inside the door.

  When he stepped inside, he paused just for a moment. It was impossible not to realize just what a big man he was, since he filled the opening. It was also impossible not to realize just what an attractive man he was with his broad shoulders, tousled hair and a light stubble of whiskers already making an appearance on his lean cheeks. Whatever else her husband might or might not be, there was no denying that she would be the envy of several of the single ladies in town. Womanlike, she admitted that she was not at all opposed to the notion of having a handsome husband.

  His eyes met hers across the room. “Smells good.”

  “It’s just potato soup, but I got so busy mopping the floors that I lost track of the time.”

  “Potato soup is fine,” he said. Will closed the door, shrugged out of his jacket and hung it up. He crossed the room to stand in front of her. “I know you want things to be just so for my mother, but if it doesn’t all get done, it’s no problem, I promise you.”

  “It is a problem. She’ll have heard all the gossip, and I don’t want her thinking that you have a lazy wife on top of a silly one. We made a bargain and I want to do my part.”

  * * *

  Her part. Will’s heart took a little misstep. It seemed that, like him, she was taking their marriage bargain and her new marital duties seriously. He knew she’d cleaned in his room; he could smell the soap. His windows also sparkled and his furniture gleamed with a fresh rubbing of beeswax and lemon balm. The fact that she wanted to put her best foot forward for his mother was thoughtful of her. Martha had never cared one way or the other what Bess Slade thought.

  “Look, you’ve had a rough couple of days.” He offered her a sardonic smile. “Actually, you’ve had a rough few months. You passed out a couple of days ago, and you burned your hand yesterday. You don’t have to do everything today. You really shouldn’t be putting that hand in dirty water.”

  “I haven’t been. I’ve only been using my right hand in the water,” she told him, trying to state her case. “I do think maybe the blister popped, though.”

  Without stopping to think, he placed both his hands on her shoulders. To his surprise, she didn’t try to pull away. “Blythe.” His voice was soft but firm. “Burns can get infected if they aren’t taken care of properly. I need to take a look at it.”

  Seeing the seriousness in his eyes, she gave a reluctant nod.

  “Sit,” he commanded, turning the chair next to hers so that they would be face-to-face. She did as he commanded and held out her hand. Will untied the ends of the cloth she’d used to bind it and began to unwrap the injury. When he pulled the last bit away, she hissed in pain.

  He grimaced. “Sorry.” When he saw the angry wound that stretched from the area between her thumb and fingers across her hand, he whistled. “It looks like you had a doozy of a blister. And you’re right. It broke. What did you do for it when it happened?”

  “Put it in a bowl of cold water and then put butter on it.”

  “The cold water probably helped as much as anything.” He went to a small cabinet and took out a strip of clean cloth and some ointment. Her expression seemed to ask why he had medicines so readily available. “My mother sees to it I have what I need to treat wounds, since accidents happen pretty often in the woods.”

  He sat down, took her hand and began to apply the salve.

  “What kind of accidents?”

  “Someone may get caught in a chain or the tree falls the wrong way if the wind gets it just right. The occasional snake bite, and then the mill has these big saws...”

  “Stop!” The gaze that met his was filled with panic. “You’re careful, aren’t you?”

  Will looked up from his task. Her alarm was indisputable and surprising. All the resentment he’d sensed in her when he’d arrived home the previous day was gone. So was her unwillingness to engage with him in any way but a dutiful, superficial manner.

  “I try to be.” He scooped some ointment onto his finger and began to smooth it over the burn. She drew in a little breath.

  “Sorry.” He glanced up from his task. “Would it matter to you if something happened to me?”

  The shock in her eyes was genuine and she sounded a little breathless. “Well, that’s a silly question. Of course it would matter. It would be horrible if anyone was hurt, but you...you’re my husband.” Her voice trailed away at the end.

  And what did that mean? Would she care because they were legally bound to one another, or would she be truly distressed at the thought of him being injured? Maybe a bit of both, he thought as he wrapped the clean bandage around her palm.

  He was beginning to see that there was much more to his bride than frills, feathers and fluff. In the short time he’d known her, he’d seen that, despite the silver spoon in her mouth, she’d been brought up with good morals and taught the worth of a hard day’s work. He was also realizing that his aunt and others in town were right. Blythe was a decent person with a tender heart.

  He tied the bandage. “All done. Once you get the cleaning done, it would probably be a good idea to take off the bandage and let some air get to it.”

  Will was afraid he sounded more abrupt than he intended, but knowing that Blythe would care if something happened to him and holding her small, soft hand in his were doing strange things to the heart he thought was so badly broken it would never love again. Battered and bruised though it was, he felt a stirring of something that he thought, but was almost afraid to believe, might be hope. To cover the bewildering reaction, he smiled at her and said, “There you go. Almost as good as new.”

  She gave him a tentative smile back. “Thank you.”

  “And you should know that my mother is not an ogre. Like any mother, she’s protective of me, but she’s reasonably nonjudgmental and fair to a fault.”

  She gave him that look that women through the ages had perfected. The one that said, “You just don’t understand.”

  “I’m sure she’s very nice, but it’s your mother,” she said. And that said it all. She stood abruptly. “I’ll get the soup.”

  End of conversation.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, when they’d finished their meal, Blythe set her water glass onto the table and said, “I’m sorry about last night. I behaved badly and immaturely, but I...had a bad day in town and took it out on you, and I was so upset about the beans. I wanted you to have a good supper when you got home.”

  The apology came out in a rush, but at least it was a beginning. “And I appreciate the effort,” Will told her, “but cooking on a wood-burning stove is tricky if you’ve never done it before. It will take you a while to learn how to make your fire just right and where it’s hottest. I can help you, but Mother can show you more when she gets here.”

  “Well, I’ve already put the beans at the very back of the stove, so they should be done by suppertime. Maybe I won’t burn them.”

  “I’m sure you won’t. Look, Blythe, we’ve said we’ll be honest with each other, and I’d like to ask you something, but I don’t want to upset you.”

  What could he possibly have to say? she wondered, feeling nervous suddenly. “All right.”

  “Why were you so angry with me yesterday? Was it just that you’d had a bad day? If I’ve done something, I need to know what it is so that I can fix it.”

  Should she tell him what had happened in town? It seemed he was intent on doing his best to maintain the even keel of their marriage. Could she do any less? Was there any hope of them succeeding as a couple if she didn’t? Instead of answering, she replied with a question of her own. “Did my brother offer you money to marry me?”

&nbs
p; “What!”

  Will’s explosive reply was almost denial enough. Almost.

  “Where on earth did you get an idea like that? We both know exactly why we went into this marriage.”

  “I saw Martha—”

  Will got to his feet. “I should have known she had something to do with it.”

  Blythe waited until he finished his tirade before she continued. “When I was in town yesterday, she told me she’d overheard my brother offer you a deal to marry me.”

  “It’s a lie. Win did not offer me money to marry you. I’ll be the first one to admit that I have more than my share of faults, but I haven’t sunk to the depths of taking bribes or payoffs yet.”

  “But she said...”

  “Look,” he told her, resting his palms on the tabletop and leaning toward her. “Everyone in town knows she’s trouble looking for a place to happen, and you and I both know she’d like nothing more than to drive a wedge between us. The old line ‘hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’ could have been written with Martha in mind.”

  Blythe looked into his dark eyes and saw nothing but sincerity. She knew that what he said was true and she believed him. At least as far as it went. A part of her longed to be more specific and ask him if Win had suggested that marrying his sister would have certain benefits, but the other part of her, the part that wanted her life to be strife-free and stable, was afraid to press the issue.

  Will had been everything a bride could ask for in a husband. Kind. Helpful. Caring. Why would she take a chance of toppling this shaky foundation of their marriage? She couldn’t. She vowed to at least try to be more mature in her response to whatever else came her way.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The beans were done that night and, to Will’s surprise, Blythe had opened a jar of the pickled beets from the pantry and made more corn bread. This batch wasn’t burned, but it had a dip in the middle, and when he cut into it, he found that the center wasn’t completely cooked. Still, it was progress.

  While they were eating, she’d made the light, offhand comment that her knees were sore and her back hurt. Will had given her a look that said without words that he wondered why. In his opinion she was doing too much all at once. She looked so exhausted, he insisted on helping with the supper dishes.