by Cat Cahill
Isaac sliced off a hunk of cheese a little too hard, the knife slamming into the wooden board. He scrounged up some bread that was more stale than fresh. Pete’s wife must’ve sent it. Once they had more of the outbuildings done, they’d build a little cabin so she could join her husband here. Isaac wrapped up enough food for both himself and Pete for the day.
On his way back to the front door, he paused by the stairs. It was silent upstairs, and he supposed Maggie still slept. He ought to leave her a note, letting her know his plans for the day. She likely didn’t much care, but it seemed the thoughtful thing to do. He found a pen and ink bottle in the parlor, along with some paper, all of which he’d purchased in Cañon City about a month ago. He scrawled out a quick note to Maggie, left it on the large table that flanked the uncomfortable sofa, and then grabbed his coat and hat before making his way out in the darkness of early morning.
The day went by quickly. He and Pete made progress on the bunkhouse. He estimated they’d have that done within the next few days. This ranch had been his dream for years, and to see it finally coming together was almost unbelievable. This place was what he needed to end the life he despised and begin one he could be proud of. He’d even come up with the perfect name for his acreage.
The sun was low in the sky when they called it a day. Pete retreated to the barn to check on the horses while Isaac took a moment to lean against one of the back porch rails. The rear of the house faced west, which made for some beautiful sunsets over the Sangre de Cristos. The oranges and pinks and purples often streaked the sky as if the sun refused to let go of its place above the mountains. It was too early for that right now, but perhaps it would be something Maggie would enjoy seeing. If she’d speak to him.
He hoped that a day alone in the house might have softened her to the idea of staying—and let him get used to the fact that she was not the gentle woman he’d sent for. He’d always imagined having a wife who was more of the demure sort, easy to smile and hard to anger. One who might’ve made a fuss about attending church services today, considering it was Sunday. Instead, he’d gotten himself a wildcat. A pretty one, for certain, but not at all what he’d expected.
And she knew what he was. She hadn’t given him a chance to tell her about how that was in the past, or how much he’d loathed every moment of it, or that his reasons for joining up with his brother in the first place had nothing to do with greed or disregard for the law. He hadn’t planned on needing to explain any of it. When he arrived home last night, he’d thought to bury that part of his life and never speak of it again. His wife never should have known.
But she did.
He sighed and pulled the back door open. Pausing just inside, he put a hand to his nose. Something smelled . . . awful. A quick glance around the empty room showed the culprit—a pot full of beans that sat on the stove.
Isaac grabbed a rag from the countertop and pulled the beans—if you could still call them that—from the stove. The charred mess inside the pot barely even resembled food.
“Maggie?” he called.
Not a second later, she came scurrying into the room. Her hair, which he’d guessed had been pulled back and looped around in some sort of style this morning, now fell halfway down her back. Her dress was spotted with something that resembled grease. Her eyes immediately landed on the pot that now sat on the wooden countertop. “My beans,” she said in a voice that almost hinted at a wail. “Oh no.”
“I found them on the stove,” Isaac said.
Maggie sighed as she examined the burnt contents of the pot, and her shoulders slumped as she turned and leaned against the counter.
“Were you making supper?” he asked, daring to hope the answer was yes. Not that there appeared to be an edible supper in sight, but the idea that she’d at least wanted to do such a thing was more than he could hope for at this point.
“I was,” she said hesitantly. “I got hungry, and I thought . . . well. I made a loaf of bread and fried up some bacon.”
Isaac decided to ignore the implication that she’d cooked only for herself, and not for him. “I’ll call for Pete. He’ll appreciate bread and bacon.”
“Oh.” Maggie’s brow wrinkled for a moment before she nodded. “Yes, do ask him.”
“When this place is up and running, we’ll—there will be a whole crew of men coming in for meals.”
“Oh,” Maggie said again. “I suppose you’ll have your hands full.”
He supposed he would. With no wife, he’d have to hire a cook much sooner than he’d anticipated. Isaac headed to the front porch to ring the bell. He and Pete had installed it in anticipation of hiring on some help. When he returned to the kitchen, Maggie had set a fresh loaf of bread on the table next to a small dish of preserves that he’d bought in Cañon City.
Maggie stood near the counter, frowning at something. “I fear the bacon may be overdone.”
Isaac peered over her shoulder. Overdone was an understatement. Still, he was compelled to reach for a slice. It fell apart in his mouth, the meat flavor barely there under the char. He forced himself to chew and swallow.
Maggie looked at him expectantly.
“It’s been a while since I’ve had bacon,” he said lamely.
But it must have been enough, because she smiled at him. It was so pure and sweet, she seemed almost an entirely different person. Then, as if she realized what she was doing, her face took on the frown she’d worn since last night.
Movement sounded from behind him, and Isaac turned to see Pete shuffling into the kitchen. “Take a seat. We’ve got supper on.”
The older man eyed the bread and preserves on the table, and Isaac hoped that at least those were edible.
Maggie deposited the bacon onto the table, and they commenced with the meal. Isaac cut a large slice of bread, slathered it with preserves, and bit into it. He chewed once, twice—and then forced himself to continue without spitting it into the napkin Maggie had set out at his place. Something was missing from the bread. Having never baked bread himself, he couldn’t figure out what it was, but it must’ve been some necessary ingredient that gave the bread taste. The preserves made it tolerable, at least.
Maggie must have realized the same thing. Her face screwed up as she chewed. Pete seemingly didn’t notice. Isaac supposed his sense of taste was missing altogether, or he was simply happy to have a woman cooking for him again, even if she was terrible at it.
“Tell me, Maggie,” Isaac said after he’d swallowed more of the burnt bacon. “Have you kept house before?”
If her eyes could have pierced him, they would have. As it was, her glare leveled him from across the table. She folded her napkin furiously, slammed it onto the table, and then strode away toward the hall without a word.
Isaac stared after her. He hadn’t meant the words to be rude. He was simply curious. After all, it didn’t seem as if she’d done much cooking in her life.
“Boss, you’ve got a lot to learn about women,” Pete said as he heaped preserves onto another slice of bread.
Chapter Seven
Isaac Trenton was the last person Maggie cared to see when she ventured downstairs again that evening, but her stomach wouldn’t let her remain ensconced in the bedroom. As terrible as her attempt at cooking was, it was at least something to eat.
But there he was, sitting there in the kitchen as if he’d never left. He had a ledger book spread out in front of him, and he was scratching away at it with the nub of a pencil in the lamplight.
She paused for a moment, weighing an empty stomach against having to speak with him. Her stomach won out, and she walked directly to the plate of leftover food sitting on the counter.
“Maggie.” His voice was low and gentle, but it set her on edge. After lying to her and terrifying her last night, he’d then had the gall to insult her today. She’d prefer never to speak with him again.
A chair scraped against the floor. Maggie refused to turn and give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment. Instead, she f
illed a plate with bread and bacon, which she’d choke down even if it was terrible.
“Maggie, please sit.” He held out the chair.
She stood there, her plate in hand, and weighed her options. She needed to eat, and doing so in the bedroom seemed like a recipe for rodents and bugs. Reluctantly, she took the seat he offered.
“I want to apologize to you.” He’d sat next to her and was now watching her with those dark eyes.
She forced herself to hold his gaze for a brief moment. “Might I ask for what?” The second the words were out of her mouth, she turned her attention to the food on her plate.
“For asking about whether you’d kept house. I didn’t mean for it to be an insult, but I can see how it might have been.”
Maggie chewed and glanced up at him. His face had taken on a pained look, as if speaking an apology physically hurt him. It might have been true remorse making his handsome face frown, and if he were the upstanding man he’d advertised himself to be, she might have thought that the exact reason.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, this time running a hand through his hair.
Maggie took her time tearing off a piece of bread and taking a bite. “I haven’t kept house, not on my own. My mother taught me before she passed, of course, but for the last year, I’ve worked in a store and lived in a room at a boarding house. Not much was needed from me there, aside from cleaning my room. It’s been a long time since I’ve attempted to cook.” It was more information than he deserved, yet she felt the need to explain her shortcomings.
“I’m sorry. That must have been hard.”
She straightened her shoulders. “I don’t need your pity.”
“That isn’t how I meant it.”
“How did you mean it?”
He stood, shaking his head. “Just as I said it.”
Maggie turned back to her food. The man was infuriating.
A few moments passed, and he sat down beside her again. “I don’t mean any offense. I haven’t often been around women.”
That much was quite clear. Being an outlaw likely didn’t give him much time to perfect social niceties. Maggie finished her bacon, and he sat beside her in silence. The quiet began to weigh on her, pressing in like a heavy blanket in a humid Illinois summer, until she could no longer stand it.
Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at him. He was sitting forward, his hands laced together on the table, but with his eyes on her. Why did he watch her so much? What was so fascinating about her? She was a plain girl from a small town, orphaned and without means, far too quick to speak, and insistent upon leaving him. “Why do you stare at me so?” she finally asked, unable to contain her curiosity a moment longer.
He sat back, his face reddening. “Do you have everything you need to be comfortable?”
He’d ignored her question, and that made her even more curious. But instead, she nodded.
“Then I’ll bid you goodnight.” He rose abruptly and made his way to the door, presumably back to wherever he’d slept the night before.
She stared at her plate, her appetite for tasteless bread suddenly gone, and the strangest feeling of remorse settling inside her.
#
When Maggie descended the stairs the next morning, Isaac was gone. She found the remainder of her terrible bread, the preserves, and a small wedge of cheese on the kitchen table. She stood there in the doorway for a moment, contemplating the fact that Isaac had left these out for her.
After she’d eaten, Maggie wandered the house and found herself outside, on the front porch. The porch overlooked the copse of pines, behind which she knew was the entry to the ranch, and on one side of that, miles and miles of empty land, while on the other were the beginnings of the ranch’s outbuildings. The sound of hammers came from the building Mr. Hemphill had identified as the bunkhouse. They must be in there working today.
Far off in the distance, the dark Wet Mountains stood noble and proud. What was between here and there? Maggie tried to imagine, but all she’d seen from the train window was acres of scrubby, sandy land rising here and there in hills, telegraph wires, and sage and grasses. She marveled at the expansiveness of it all. Before she’d left home, she never could have imagined a place where there were so few people. Now, it felt as if she, Isaac, and Mr. Hemphill were the only people in the world. More than once yesterday, she’d wondered if there was a church nearby. It felt odd, not attending services on a Sunday, but she wasn’t about to ask Isaac about such a thing.
She shivered in the cold morning air. Back in Illinois, these late April mornings were chilly at times, but never required more than a shawl. She wondered if mornings here ever got any warmer. She wouldn’t find out, of course, since she’d be leaving as soon as she had that annulment on Saturday. Something about that thought made her feel a bit wistful, as if she were going to miss out on . . . something.
Turning to go back inside, she made up her mind on how she’d fill her day. Maybe it was a need to prove to Isaac that she wasn’t entirely worthless at domestic duties, and maybe it was a need to prove it to herself. Perhaps it was both. But Maggie was going to clean the house.
After she started fires in the kitchen and parlor to warm up the house, she searched and turned up a couple of rags, a bucket, and a hunk of soap. Further inspection found a broom and a small pan for collecting dust and dirt. She began in the parlor, surveying the room like a general about to wage a battle. She dusted the tables and shelves, brushed off the sofa and chairs, washed the windows, swept, and scrubbed the floor as best she could with the rags. She could have used a scrub brush and made a note to herself to ask Isaac to purchase one. For him—or whatever woman he could trick into marrying him again—to use after she was gone, of course.
When Maggie finished, she stood back. There were no curtains on the windows—another thing the house sorely needed—and the sunlight streamed through and illuminated her hard work. The room gleamed with cleanliness.
That should show him. She might not be the best cook, but he couldn’t find fault with her housekeeping.
But something wasn’t quite right. As soon as the floor was dry, Maggie took a turn about the room, trying to discern what was wrong. Finally, she figured it out. It wasn’t cleanliness—at least not now—but how the room was set up. It was as if someone had simply tossed in the furniture quickly and had never bothered to think about arranging it. For instance, the wing chairs sat near the door, turned away from both the sofa and the fireplace. The sofa faced the door instead of the fireplace. And the little end tables sat like islands here and there instead of being placed near the chairs. The shelving held no ornamentation, but there wasn’t much she could do about that.
However, she could make the room more pleasant for company and conversation. She didn’t much care to dwell on who might come calling to an outlaw’s home, but whoever it might be would enjoy sitting by the fire and having a table nearby on which to place a drink or some reading.
Maggie tugged and pushed the furniture across the room, pausing to catch her breath here and there, until she’d made a pleasant grouping of the chairs and sofa near the fireplace, the coffee table in front of them, and the end tables between each seat. The secretary desk she left at the far end near the dining room, separate from the conversational seating near the fireplace. When she finished, she stood back and admired her work.
It was fine furniture, clearly made in a factory back East. It looked as if it cost a fortune. Maggie’s heart sank when she realized how Isaac must have paid for it.
Stolen money, and jewelry likely sold to those who didn’t care from where it had come, had bought the impressive array of items in this room. She stepped back to the hallway and gripped the doorframe, thinking about how theft must have paid for all the furniture in the house, and likely the nails and whatever else was needed for the building of the place. Even Mr. Hemphill’s salary probably came from money Isaac had stolen.
The thought made her sick to her stomach, and she sunk dow
n onto the floor in the hall. As beautiful as the house was, and as majestic as the land around it was, she was making the right decision to leave. She couldn’t live her life on the misery of other people, and she certainly couldn’t bide her husband riding out at various intervals to inflict such a thing. Every trinket he might buy her, every scrap of fabric he might purchase so she could make a dress—it would all be laced with guilt and immorality.
Maggie might not be a perfect woman, but she considered herself a good and decent person. And under no circumstances could she be the wife of a man like Isaac Trenton.
Chapter Eight
Isaac paused before he opened the door to the house. It had been a good day. He and Pete had made progress on the bunkhouse. They’d barely stopped to eat at noon, but they were both glad to get the work done. It wouldn’t be too long before this was an operating ranch. He hoped to have cattle—and men to tend them—by next month. It could happen, too, now that he was done with his previous life and could be here all the time.
Just thinking about it brought the usual dose of shame mixed with the sense of duty he felt toward his younger brother. At twenty-two, Sebastian was five years’ Isaac’s junior. He’d been impulsive as a kid—sliding across lakes that were barely frozen and attempting to ride unbroken horses—while Isaac was the responsible one. He’d spent his entire life keeping an eye on Sebastian. Did it make him a terrible brother if he no longer chose to do that?
It was the question that was constantly in the back of his mind. He wavered between reassuring himself that Sebastian was a grown man, capable of making his own bad decisions, and fearing the worst for his impetuous brother.
