Wolf Creek Wife

by Penny Richards

  The inane comment in the midst of such a meaningful exchange caught him off guard. “What?”

  “You aren’t wearing your boots.”

  Will looked down at his sock-clad feet and back to her face. “When I heard the ruckus, I didn’t take time to put them on.”

  He looked at the fowl now contentedly scratching at the warming soil. “What did happen?”

  Will could see her gathering her thoughts and her courage. One thing about it: his wife was no coward.

  “I got the bacon from the smokehouse and went to gather the eggs.” She raised her chin a fraction. “I forgot to close the gate to the chicken yard and Banjo followed me inside the coop.”

  Hearing his name, Banjo, who was lying peacefully a few feet from them, began to beat his tail against the ground.

  “Did he attack one of them?”

  “No,” she corrected. “He was just there beside me, and I guess when the hens saw him, they assumed he would come after them and they got all flustered and started flying at me.”

  Will could picture the whole thing. He couldn’t help the smile that claimed his mouth. “And you got all flustered.”

  “I did, yes,” she said, pushing straggles of hair out of her eyes. “And it isn’t funny,” she tacked on.

  “It is to me.”

  He wasn’t expecting her playful jab at his midsection. If the startled expression on her face was any indication, she hadn’t expected it, either. His sharp reflexes enabled him to catch her wrist in a loose grasp. He hadn’t seen this lighthearted side of her. He thought he liked it.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, that fearful expression back. “I did that without thinking. I suppose it’s a spontaneous reaction from all the teasing Win and Philip dealt me while I was growing up.”

  Will was still smiling. “No offense taken. I figured as much.” His hold on her tightened and he drew her a step closer. “Blythe, you don’t have to be so afraid that I’ll be angry over every little thing you do. I’ve been surly the past couple of years, but I’ve never laid a hand on a woman in my life, and I never will. I was brought up better than that.”

  “I’m sure you were.”

  “And for the record, Banjo has been taught to leave the chickens alone. If they panicked when they saw him, it was a basic, instinctive reaction.”

  “Oh.”

  “We do have a problem, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  He glanced at the fenced pen and then around the yard. “We have chickens to put back in the pen. The coyotes and foxes aren’t nearly as tolerant of them roaming around as Banjo is. We’d better catch them and put them up.”

  Fifteen minutes later, with much running and shooing, arm waving and shrieks of dismay, all the chicken were once again captured and put back in the yard. Will had salvaged their breakfast makings and gathered the other eggs from the nests. Fortunately, the bacon was still in the basket. Only one egg had broken.

  He carried the basket as they headed back to the house. Out of habit at the door, he started to toe off his boots and realized he wasn’t wearing any. His socks were dirt-covered and twigs and pieces of dead grass clung to the soles. He and Blythe stared at each other with rueful expressions.

  They both looked a bit worse for their effort. Their faces were flushed; Blythe’s hair had suffered both from her mad dashing around the yard and from flailing around trying to fight off the fowl.

  Will reached out and plucked a white feather from her tangled hair.

  “Your socks are filthy.”

  Blast the woman! She had the most uncanny way of saying something nonsensical during the most meaningful moments. Which might be the best thing, since Will was still having trouble with the knowledge that he was liking his new wife far too much.

  “I have a wife who’ll make them look brand-new,” he quipped in a light tone.

  To his surprise, she responded in kind. “That’s a tremendous amount of pressure to put on a city girl whose only experience is washing out her stockings in the basin on the rare occasion.”

  “I’m confident she can handle it.”

  “Are you?” The seriousness was back.

  “I am.” He saw the question in her eyes fade away and the tension ebb from her small frame.

  “I’d better get cleaned up and start breakfast. I don’t want you to be late to the mill. There’s no telling what your workers would be saying.”

  Will could make a calculated guess but thought it best to keep it to himself.

  “I’ll clean up and help you.” He smiled. “‘Many hands make light work,’” he quoted. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard my mother say that when she wanted to get me and my brother up off our backsides.”

  “You have a brother?”

  “Jase. And two sisters, Lorna and Liz,” he told her, standing on one foot to peel off a dirty sock. “They’re scattered all over Arkansas. Did you think I was an only child?” he asked, shedding the other one.

  “Things have been so hectic, I don’t think I gave it any thought. What about your father?”

  “He died when I was fifteen. Mom was never the same after that. They were crazy about each other. That’s what she wants for all of her kids, so don’t be put off if she comes across a little chilly in the beginning.”

  “I didn’t really need to know that,” Blythe told him. She pulled the pins from her hair and it tumbled across her shoulders like a swathe of sable.

  She gave her head a little shake and whatever he’d meant to say to ease her misgivings fled before an image of him threading his fingers through her hair and kissing her again. Will’s heart, the one he thought was damaged beyond redemption, took a tumble. He might have gotten in over his head with this marriage of convenience. With the way and speed his feelings for Blythe were changing, he wasn’t sure how long he could keep up the pretense of civility without at least trying to take things further.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later Blythe found Will slicing the bacon. He wore clean Levi’s and another from his seemingly endless supply of plaid shirts. His hair was damp, as if he’d given it a quick wash. She knew that if she got close enough she would smell the tangy scent of the pine soap he favored.

  She couldn’t help comparing him to Devon, who was always perfectly turned out. She could not imagine him dressed as Will was. How had she ever thought that Will’s brand of attractiveness was not the type she was drawn to? With his wide shoulders and narrow hips, he looked every inch wonderful male.

  And he’s yours.

  She stopped in her tracks, shocked at the inappropriate thought that flashed into her mind. But was it unseemly, really? Will was her husband, after all, and handsome to boot. It made sense and was perhaps even inevitable that the more time they spent together, the closer they would become. Learning to love each other could only be a good thing.

  Love! Despite everything she’d suffered because of Devon, was it possible she was learning to love Will bit by bit?

  “Everything all right?” he asked, turning toward her. A lock of damp hair fell over his furrowed brow. He looked like a little boy...how their little boy might look.

  She drew in a shaky breath. “Fine.”

  “Did you get that hand cleaned up?”

  “Yes.” She held up her hand so that he could see the rust-hued stain on her palm. “It hurt like the very dickens.”

  Another of those fleeting grins made an appearance.

  “I’m going to try to finish the house today,” she said, going to take the knife from him. As she did, their fingers brushed and Blythe felt a little tingle shoot up her arm. The expression in his eyes was disturbing in ways she couldn’t begin to describe.

  Wordlessly, Will handed her the knife and moved aside to fetch a couple of cups. He poure
d them both some coffee and sat down at the table. “Everything looks fine,” he told her again.

  “I know I won’t be able to do everything I’d like to before your mother comes, but I want to finish up a few little things and get my belongings put into their proper places.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Have you heard from your mother?”

  “No, and I probably won’t.” Will pushed back the ledger that still lay on the table and cocked back in the chair. “Bess Slade is notorious for just showing up when the mood strikes, but I’d look for her any day. She’ll want to check you out as soon as possible.”

  “You’re scaring me,” she said.

  He took a hearty swig of the fresh-brewed coffee. Blythe saw him swallow and grimace.

  “Is it okay?”

  “Uh, yeah. Fine. Wouldn’t you want to check out the woman your son married, especially knowing how he came to marry that particular woman?”

  Another picture of the little boy she’d imagined earlier slipped into Blythe’s mind. She sighed. “I suppose I would,” she said grudgingly. “But I’m not one to look for something to criticize.”

  “Neither is my mother, but she will do a lot of looking and weighing.”

  Blythe laid the bacon strips in the skillet and turned to look at him. “Like I said. A little scary.”

  “That’s the way I feel every time I’m in the room with your brother, and I definitely come up short in Win’s book.”

  “Win is really a good man,” she told him in all seriousness. “He can be a trifle stuffy and more than a little bossy at times, but at the end of the day he has a wicked, sort of sarcastic sense of humor, and he loves his family dearly.”

  “He was certainly protective of you.”

  “Well, I’m the baby of the family, so that’s to be expected. I’ve always thought that part of his problem is that he’s never recovered from losing Felicia.”

  “His wife?” Will asked, taking another sip of coffee.

  “His fiancée. She was killed in a carriage accident on her way to the church. Unfortunately, instead of dealing with his grief, he blamed God for taking her away from him. It’s been almost ten years, and he’s done everything imaginable to try to fill the void losing her left in his life. I think one reason he moved here is that he’s still running away.”

  “I get the impression he’s quite the ladies’ man.”

  “Oh, he is. It’s all a defense thing.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “If he has several girls on the string, there’s little chance of him falling for any of them.”

  “What about Ellie? Everyone seems to think there’s some spark between them.”

  “Wee-ell,” she said, drawing out the word. “Ellie is different, and it’s awfully complicated. I do think there’s an attraction, but they come from two vastly different ways of living, and she’s afraid the differences in their upbringing will be too much to overcome. You know—rich city boy, poor country girl.”

  “Like us, only in reverse.”

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes troubled. “Exactly like us. And then there’s Bethany. Taking on the parenting of a child with the mental shortcomings she has is a huge responsibility. I think Ellie worries about any husband being able to deal with it. And then there’s Jake.”

  “The husband,” Will said. “I have a vague recollection of him. Never did care for him much.”

  “I don’t think anyone else does, either. Until recently, Ellie has used Jake’s existence as a way to hold potential suitors at arm’s length so that she can’t fall for someone and run the risk of being hurt again.”

  “What happened recently?”

  “She told me on Monday that she finally took everyone’s advice and had him declared legally dead.”

  “So something could develop between her and your brother.”

  Blythe shrugged. “Who knows?”

  Will’s eyes widened at the precise moment the scent of something burning registered in her mind. “The bacon!”

  * * *

  Will watched as she whirled to see the ruins of their breakfast. He was beside her in a second. The bacon was charred on the bottom and blisters of raw fat had bubbled up on the top.

  “I’m a total disaster as a wife!” she cried while he brushed her aside and moved the skillet.

  “It’s my fault,” Will said, guiding her toward the chair he’d just vacated. “I kept you talking.”

  “Any woman worth her salt could talk and cook at the same time,” she snapped.

  At least she was reacting with irritation and not tears. It felt as if someone was stabbing his heart with a hunting knife whenever she cried. Anger meant she was getting a little starch in her spine. When she was seated, he picked up his cup of coffee and pressed it into her hands. “Drink.”

  She hesitated for just a moment and then did as he said. Once again, their gazes met. There was an implied intimacy seeing her place her mouth where his had been just seconds before. He could almost imagine she was placing her lips against his, an exciting image.

  “This coffee is dreadful!” she cried after forcing a swallow down her throat. “Why didn’t you tell me how bad it was when I asked if it was all right?”

  “Settle down,” he said in a gentle voice.

  “How can I settle down? If a man has to marry a pig in a poke, the least he should get out of it is a decent cup of coffee.”

  “It’s just a little strong, is all.”

  “A little strong?” she retorted. “I daresay it would take the varnish off the table if it sat there long enough.”

  Will didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She was taking this far too seriously. “I’ll add some more water to the coffee and finish breakfast,” he offered, hoping the gesture would ease her consternation.

  “No, you will not,” she said, leaping to her feet. The fire of determination blazed in her eyes. “I’ll not have you doing your work and mine. I’ll cook your breakfast if it kills me. And you’ll eat it if it kills you!”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Surprised by this new side of her—a spunky side he sort of liked—Will backed away from the stove, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender, though it was all he could do to keep from laughing.

  * * *

  A little later they were sharing bacon, eggs and biscuits. There was little conversation. Blythe was already regretting her outburst, but she noticed that Will ate every bite she’d cooked, even though she’d once more overcooked the bacon slices and the yolks of the eggs were as hard as the crunchy crust around the edges. The biscuits were a little hard on top, but they were as light as a feather inside. Unfortunately they tasted like baking soda. It had not escaped her attention that Will had poured at least a third of a quart of blackstrap molasses over everything and washed it down with more of the bitter coffee.

  When he’d finished and placed his napkin on the table, he rose and said, “Thank you, Blythe.”

  “For what?”

  “The delicious breakfast.”

  Blythe saw the twinkle of amusement in his dark eyes. It only served to irritate her more. “Don’t add lying to your sins, Will Slade,” she said in a low, measured voice. “It was all I could do to choke it down.”

  “I’m not the best of cooks, either,” he told her. “A year from now we’ll be laughing about this.”

  A year from now. Even though they’d vowed to stay together, Blythe couldn’t help wondering if there would even be a marriage a year from now. She had a lot to learn during the next twelve months.

  “Will we?

  “Of course we will. Neither of us is a quitter.”

  “You’re right,” she said, lifting her chin to a determined angle.

  “That’s my girl!” he said, turning and heading for the door. Blythe’s
gasp of surprise halted him and he turned. “Sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for,” she told him in a voice that sounded slightly breathless even to her own ears. “I guess I am your girl...for better or worse.”

  “I guess you are.” The smile made another brief appearance before he reached for the doorknob.

  “See you at dinner,” she called as the door closed behind him.

  The room felt empty without him, but her heart felt full. Full of hope for the future they would build together despite the circumstances of their marriage. Full of confidence that they could weather any storm. They had made mistakes. They’d left God out of their lives while wallowing in their misery and heartbreak, but they’d turned a new page. They had decided as a couple that they would make the Lord the center of their lives. If they did that, how could they fail?

  Chapter Fifteen

  When Will came in at noon and opened the door, he was greeted with the scent of something that did not smell burned. There was no smoke in the house. No woman hiding a burned hand behind her back. In fact, Blythe was nowhere to be seen.

  She’d been busy while he was at the mill. The windows, which had developed a film over the winter from the wood smoke, gleamed in the noonday sun. There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere.

  He paused in the doorway, trying to figure out what smelled so good. Bread? Apples? Both? He padded across the floor to the stove and lifted the lid of the cast-iron Dutch oven, where some of the vegetable soup his mother had canned simmered. An apple pie sat on a folded towel on the worktable and a peek into the oven revealed browning bread.

  As Will closed the oven and straightened, he heard a sharp intake of breath from the entrance of the spare bedroom. He turned to see his wife coming through the doorway, smoothing a lock of hair behind her ear.

  “I went to tidy up and didn’t hear you,” she explained, regarding him with a frown. “Is everything all right, Will? You look a little...strange.”

  “I’m fine,” he said with a nod. “Please don’t take offense,” he said, waving his hand toward the stove, “but how did you do all...this? I mean, this is a far cry from breakfast.”